In the Shadow of the Hills

by Madeline Baker

  “Don’t you ever look in the mirror, John McKenna? Why, you’re positively the most handsome man in the whole city.”

  “Flatterer,” I growled, but that night when I got home, I took a good look at myself in the mirror, and realized I wasn’t all that bad. I was taller than most of the boys my age, my hair, a little longer now, was thick and black. My shoulders were broad, my legs long and well-muscled. As for my face, well, I’d never win any prizes for being good-looking, but I wasn’t ugly either.

  Until I met Clarissa, I didn’t really give a damn what other people thought of me. I did and said pretty much as I pleased and if my mother was ashamed of me, or if people were shocked by my actions, I really didn’t give a damn.

  But after I met Clarissa, all that changed. I made an honest effort to be pleasant and polite, not because I cared what people thought of me, but because I didn’t want to say or do anything that would cause Clarissa the slightest embarrassment.

  My mother had shown me the sights of the city when we had first arrived, and I had been bored and disinterested. What did I care for the white man’s art or literature? But now, with Clarissa as my guide and her hand in mine, New York was suddenly an exciting place to be.

  We went to the theatre and the opera. Some nights we dined at expensive restaurants where we ate steaks an inch thick and washed them down with champagne. Other nights we huddled in a dark sidewalk cafe and drank beer. Sometimes we went to the waterfront and walked along the shore.

  Clarissa introduced me to strange foods like escargot and caviar, which turned out to be snails and fish eggs. I never acquired a taste for either, but I quickly developed a taste for lobster and crab and Napoleon brandy.

  We went for long walks in the park, usually early in the morning when the dew sparkled on the grass and everything was fresh and new, like the love growing ever stronger between us.

  As time went on, I noticed Clarissa looking at me with a strange, expectant expression.

  Finally, one golden Sunday morning, she asked bluntly, “Aren’t you ever going to kiss me?”

  “Kiss you?”

  “You know, kiss? Like this,” she whispered, and standing on her tiptoes, she held on to my shoulders and pressed her warm pink lips to mine.

  For a moment, I could only stand there, stunned by the warm softness of her lips, by the sudden heat that engulfed me from head to foot, by the growing heaviness in my groin.

  Clarissa drew back, gazing up at me through the dark fringe of her lashes. “Oh, Johnny,” she murmured breathlessly.

  “Did I do it wrong?”

  “No. You did everything just right.”

  “Have you kissed many boys?”

  “A few,” she admitted, “but it was never like this.”

  I felt an irrational surge of hatred for all the young men she had kissed before me, but she was here now, in my arms, and I never wanted to let her go.

  Slowly, I lowered my head toward hers. Her eyes glowed like emeralds lit by the sun as my mouth slanted over hers, and then she was clinging to me, her soft sweet body pressed intimately against mine. Desire shot through me, burning away every thought but the need to hold her, to possess her, to make her mine.

  I was breathing hard when we drew apart.

  “And to think, I thought you needed lessons!” Clarissa exclaimed softly.

  “Clarissa...”

  She grinned up at me as she took a step backward. “No more lessons for you today, Mister John McKenna,” she declared, and spun away, her merry laughter echoing behind her like the tinkling of tiny silver bells.

  I stared after her, feeling like a bull buffalo stuck in the mud.

  I felt the touch of her honeyed lips all that day and far into the night. I had never had a woman. Not that I hadn’t wanted one, but the only women available to me in the Dakotas had been the captive women used as prostitutes by the Cheyenne, and I had never had the desire to lie with one of them, just as I had never felt the inclination to seek out any of the street girls here in the city. I wanted a girl of my own, not a whore who had known and forgotten countless men. I’d spent a lot of time thinking about the intimate relationship between men and women before, but never had I thought about it as fervently, or as often, as I was thinking about it now.

  Absurd as it was, I was jealous of every other man she had ever known, ever kissed, ever thought of kissing.

  Things changed between us after that. I had always been aware of Clarissa as a woman, but never as acutely as I was now. I kissed her at every opportunity, endured the sweet torture of having her body pressed to mine. Our kisses grew longer, more intimate, until just kissing wasn’t enough. We stopped walking in the park. Instead, we found a secluded thicket and spent our time touching, exploring, gently caressing, until I knew the hidden curves and clefts of Clarissa’s softly rounded body as well as I knew my own.

  She was equally curious, and equally bold. It was torture of the sweetest kind to feel her hands drift over my back and shoulders, to feel her fingertips lightly trace the muscles in my arms and thighs. She rained kisses on my face, my neck, my chest, and each one was like a burning ember, searing me to my soul.

  Came the day, however, when just touching was not enough, when the fire that burned between us refused to be ignored. How clearly I remember that warm, sunlit spring morning when I first made Clarissa mine.

  The grass beneath us was as soft as green velvet, the sky above like a canopy of bright blue, but I had eyes only for Clarissa. My blood was fever hot as I took off her shoes and stockings, my fingertips lingering on the curve of her calf before I began to undress her, amazed at the amount of undergarments white women wore.

  It was like peeling an onion, I thought, frowning as I removed her dress, only to find my way blocked by an underskirt, three voluminous petticoats, a corset cover, a corset, and beribboned pantalets.

  Clarissa laughed softly, self-consciously, as I flung the last of her undergarments aside.

  My breath caught in my throat as I looked at her, marveling at the beauty and perfection of the slim body that trembled at my touch.

  “Afraid?” I asked.

  “A little.”

  “It’s not too late to change your mind,” I said gallantly. A part of me wondered if I’d be able to let her go if she had indeed changed her mind, while the other part hoped she had changed her mind because, even though I would have died before I would have admitted it, I was a little afraid myself.

  Slowly, she shook her head, and I began to undress, conscious of her great green eyes watching my every move.

  We had never seen each other completely undressed before. I felt Clarissa’s gaze slide over my chest as I removed my shirt, and it was like the touch of her hand, fueling my desire. I heard the sharp intake of her breath as I started to remove my trousers and then I stood naked before her, a little embarrassed by the blatant evidence of my desire.

  She came willingly into my arms, her eyes aflame, her flesh warm and yielding. Drawing her close, I buried my face in the silken mass of her hair, breathing in the fresh clean scent.

  My voice was husky with desire as I whispered her name, reveling in the touch of her hands as she kneaded the muscles in my back and shoulders. Her skin was like damp satin beneath my hands.

  Neither of us had any real experience, but we had no trouble consummating the growing passion that sparked between us as burning flesh met burning flesh.

  Our bodies came together with a knowledge all their own, carrying us along on a rolling, mounting tide of desire that erupted with all the force of a volcano, leaving us to lie spent in each other’s arms.

  Later, her head pillowed on my shoulder, Clarissa traced meaningless patterns across my chest. Eyes closed, I basked in the warmth of the sun, and in the touch of her hand. She was mine now, I thought, truly mine, as I was hers.

  “You’re so brown,” she remarked after a while. “All over, I mean, and not just where the sun has touched you.”

  “I am half-Indian
, you know,” I retorted irritably, feeling the old anger and insecurity rise up hot and quick with me.

  “John...”

  “I’m sorry,” I said gruffly. “I didn’t mean to snap at you like that.”

  “Why are you always so defensive about your heritage? You should be proud. It’s part of what makes you so special. Part of what makes me love you.”

  “Clare...”

  “You are special, Johnny,” she whispered.

  “No.”

  “Yes! You’re special to me. No one has ever treated me as tenderly as you do.”

  She placed my hand over her breast. “Feel my heart beat,” she whispered. “It beats for you, only you.”

  “Clarissa.” I gasped her name as the passion that ever burned between us quickly sparked to life again. We made love slowly this time, savoring each touch, each caress, and I knew I would love her forever.

  * * *

  We made love often after that. When our passion cooled, we spent long hours talking about everything from Clarissa’s piano lessons, which she loathed, to my life with the Cheyenne.

  Clarissa was the only person who didn’t care that I was a half-breed, the only one who didn’t look at me as if I belonged in a cage. Other girls, and women, too, found me attractive, but they were always a little wary of me. But not Clarissa.

  McKenna had forbidden me to discuss Indians, but Clarissa asked endless questions about the Cheyenne way of life. Questions about my father and Quiet Antelope, about our customs and religious beliefs.

  She listened, wide-eyed, when I told her about the Sun Dance, and how I had participated in it the summer I turned fifteen.

  “You must be very brave,” she had murmured, fingering the scars on my chest.

  I shrugged, embarrassed and pleased by the look of admiration in her eyes. “It was nothing,” I lied, remembering all too well the white-hot pain that had skittered through me when the wooden skewers had been embedded in my flesh. “Nothing at all.”

  And so the days passed, and if I was not completely happy with my new life, at least I was no longer miserable.

  Chapter 8

  The days passed by swiftly, and suddenly the end of the year was upon us.

  I was somewhat dazzled by all the fuss that accompanied the Christmas holiday, the decorations, the carolers, the life size Nativity scene on the front lawn, the pine tree aglitter with colored balls and strings of popcorn. Everyone seemed to smile more as the big day drew near, even old man McKenna seemed less grim, and there were lots of whispers and secrets and mysterious goings-on in the mansion.

  And, of course, there were more parties and these were even more elaborate than usual. Houses were decorated inside and out, children were all atremble with excitement, and presents and packages could be seen everywhere.

  Christmas morning dawned clear and cold. There were gifts for everyone in the house, even the stable boy, and the parlor was soon covered with gaily-colored ribbons and paper. Once the fuss was over, my mother took me outside and gave me the best gift of all - a six-month old Thoroughbred colt.

  “His name is Dark Star,” Katherine said. “Do you like him?”

  “Oh, yeah,” I replied, stroking the colt’s silky black mane. “I like him.”

  “He comes from good stock,” my mother remarked, giving the colt a pat on the shoulder. “He’ll make a race horse when he’s older.”

  Dark Star was the best thing my mother ever gave me. I spent hours grooming him, brushing his sleek black coat until it was as soft and smooth as silk. Sometimes I just sat on the fence rail of the corral, watching him run. Dark Star was fast, and I doubted if even old Heyoka could have beaten him. It was with a sense of real pride that I watched my colt grow from a lanky-long legged foal into a powerful young stallion.

  Somehow, another year slipped by. 1866 was a long and bloody year for the Indians. Red Cloud and his Sioux cut a bloody swath across the plains, killing more than one hundred and fifty whites along the Bozeman Trail.

  In December of that year, Captain William Fetterman, who was said to have boasted he could ride through the whole Sioux nation with eighty men, got a chance to do just that when several warriors attacked a small wood-cutting party outside of Fort Phil Kearny. The attack was a ruse, a ply to draw reinforcements to the scene, and it worked like a charm. Flags flying, Fetterman rode out of the fort and into the rifles of the Indians waiting in ambush. All the soldiers were killed.

  I couldn’t help but cheer when I read of the Sioux victory. Outwardly, I had become a white man, but deep inside I was still Cheyenne. And though I knew the Indians would lose their fight in the end, I silently applauded their unflagging courage in the face of superior numbers and firepower, their indomitable spirit that would not let them go down without a fight.

  * * *

  Christmas came again, and with it the usual rash of holiday parties. One, especially, stands out in my mind. It was an engagement part for Clarissa’s best friend, Mary Arnette.

  I hadn’t planned to go to the party. For the most part, Clarissa and I did not travel in the same circle of friends. Hers were a little too high-class for me, a little too refined and polite, while the crowd I ran with tended to be a little wild, preferring billiard parlors and poker tables to fancy cotillions and formal banquets.

  There were a dozen men in my crowd, and though we never got into any serious trouble, we played a good many pranks, like the night we dismantled the Reverent Harmon’s shiny new black carriage and hid the pieces in the church choir loft. And then there was the time we kidnapped Jimmy Barlow an hour before his wedding, causing him to be an hour late for the ceremony. He eventually forgave us, but his wife’s family never did.

  At the last minute, I decided to attend Mary’s engagement party because I knew it would please Clarissa. In the two years I had known her, she had grown even more beautiful, and she looked indescribably lovely that night. Her gown was green watered silk, cut so that it revealed her creamy white shoulders and slender neck to perfection, accentuating her tiny waist.

  As I took her in my arms and waltzed her around the dance floor, I knew I could face anything life threw at me so long as I had Clarissa by my side.

  The faint fragrance of flowers clung to her hair and skin, her sweet mouth was curved into a smile that was mine alone. My blood ran hot in my veins and I suddenly wished we were in the park, alone, or out walking under the stars, anywhere but here, in a room full of people who would never forget or forgive me for being a half-breed. I longed to feel Clarissa’s body trembling beneath mine, to see her eyes glowing with desire as she surrendered herself to me.

  Clarissa laughed softly as she read the longing in my eyes. For a brief moment, she pressed her delectable body wantonly against mine, and then she pulled away, smiling provocatively.

  “Witch,” I murmured huskily. “Do you know what you’re doing to me?”

  “Oh, yes,” she answered, obviously quite pleased with herself. “Yes, indeed.”

  “And does it give you pleasure to torment me?”

  “What do you think?”

  “I think if you keep it up, I shall take you here, on the dance floor.”

  “Really, John?” she teased. “Right here in front of your mother and mine?”

  “We savages are an unpredictable lot, you know,” I warned. “Best behave yourself, or I’ll have that golden scalp of yours hanging from my belt.”

  Clarissa swayed against me again, the mischief gone from her eyes.

  “I’m not afraid of you,” she murmured quietly. “I’ve never been afraid.”

  I was speechless before the love and trust shining in her eyes, and only the crush of people around us kept me from kissing her, right there, in the middle of the dance floor. When the music stopped, she took my hand and gave it a squeeze. At that moment, I would have followed her anywhere.

  Sometime later, we were standing in a corner of the room, drinking champagne, when a couple of Clarissa’s fancy friends led by a bragg
art named Harvey something-or-other started riding me pretty hard, calling me a “blanket-back papoose” and yelling for me to do a rain dance or something to liven up the party. Harvey and his cronies had been nipping at a hidden flask all night long, and they were feeling mighty high.

  Conscious of the girl standing at my side, I ignored Harvey’s taunts. But Harvey was spoiling for a fight. Grabbing me by the shoulders, he swung me around to face him.

  “Come, come, dear boy,” he said in a patronizing tone. “Don’t be shy.”

  “Let it go, Harvey,” I said, though I wanted nothing so much as to bury my fist in his ill-bred mouth.

  “Not until you’ve entertained us,” Harvey insisted. “You really should dance for us, you know. We’d love to see how your savage ancestors behave out there in the wild, Wild West.”

  “Why don’t you just go sober up,” I suggested, sweet as you please, “before I show you how my savage ancestors beat the living hell out of their enemies.”

  “What a typical, low-class reply,” Harvey said with a sneer. “But then, what can you expect from a dirty, half-breed bastard?”

  There was a gasp from some of the girls standing nearby, followed by a taut silence, as what had started out as a harmless bit of fun suddenly turned ugly.

  “I’ll show you what to expect!” I growled. And shaking Clarissa’s hand from my arm, I drove my fist into Harvey’s flaccid gut.

  It really wasn’t much of a fight. Harvey was a big boy, and he outweighed my by about twenty pounds. He was a formidable fighter when he wasn’t drinking, and I guess if he’d been sober, he probably would have knocked me flat. As it was, he was pretty drunk and I was pretty mad, and I flattened him with a couple of good solid punches, experiencing a near-forgotten thrill of excitement as I felt his nose break beneath my fist. His blood was warm and immensely satisfying on my hand.