by tiffy
ʺBe still. Not move, no matter what,ʺ she said quietly in Spanish.
The two young women held Orlenaʹs arms and one pulled on her hair, stretching her over the boulder until her throat was bared and arched, vulnerable to the knife. At least it would be quick and clean, no slow torture, she thought as she lay frozen, staring at the incredibly azure sky overhead.
Everyone in the village, from the oldest woman to the smallest child, gathered in a large circle around the boulder. Except for the yips of dogs and an occasional nicker from a horse, the assembly was deadly silent.
She Who Dreams stood to the right of Orlena and lay the razor‐sharp edge of the knife against her throat. Its blade caught the sun and gleamed with silver fire as she withdrew it from Orlenaʹs throat and raised it in an arc, then again lowered it to slide it across the taut white skin.
If I swallow, she will slice my throat open! Orlena fought to breathe as the knife slid across her throat for a third, and yet a fourth time.
Night Wind watched Orlenaʹs ordeal with seeming detachment, glad now that on the long journey from Santa Fe she had learned to curb her fierce, spoiled temper.
After four passes had been made, She Who Dreams withdrew the knife and the women raised Orlena up. Dazed and sun‐blinded, she blinked and tried to orient herself, glad she had the boulder to lean against for support, lest her knees give way. She had passed some kind of test apparently, for the whole crowd buzzed in what seemed like approval, even the cynical Cloth Fox. Only one face looked angrily at herthe tall, menacing man who had apparently initiated the confrontation.
Quick Slayer glowered at the girl, then shifted his anger to Night Wind. ʺYou have won, for now. When you tire of her puny white body, I will buy itfor one pony!ʺ With that he turned and left.
ʺShe has great courage, and if what Vision Seer says is true, a good heart as well,ʺ
White Crane said.
Night Wind scoffed. ʺShe has a stiff Spanish spine.ʺ
A voice interrupted them, saying, ʺThat may be, but she still possessed the compassion to save these men and Old Shoe.ʺ ʹʹHoarse BarkMescalero brother!
It is good that you have found your way safely here with the freed prisoners.ʺ
Night Wind embraced his old friend, now his chief lieutenant when he raided Spanish mines and garrisons.
Night Wind looked from the Mescalero to the golden‐haired woman, who was being led toward them. She walked as regally as a queen, although he suspected the terror she kept at bay inside her. Knowing such buried fear intimately, he grudgingly felt his respect for her grow.
ʺHer future is linked with yours. I would speak with her, Husband of My Daughter,ʺ She Who Dreams said, standing well back from Night Wind.
ʺDo this and tell White Crane what you learn,ʺ he replied with a formal bow.
Night Wind watched as his mother‐in‐law escorted Orlena into a wickiup across the clearing.
ʺI, too, would learn more of this golden woman,ʺ White Crane said. ʺFrom you.ʺ
Seeing the tension between White Crane and Night Wind, Hoarse Bark quickly excused himself. He was burning with curiosity but knew he would have to wait to learn what had gone awry in Santa Fe.
They sat in silence for several moments as White Crane prepared a pipe and inhaled from it, then handed it to his son‐in‐law.
ʺSo, she is beloved of Colorado Quinn. You stole her in vengeance?ʺ His black eyes were shrewd and measuring as he waited for Night Wind to reply.
ʺNothat is, not at first.ʺ He swore silently and gathered his scattered thoughts. ʺI sent my men to steal the Quinnʹs sona youth. He would make a fine Lipan warrior one day.ʺ
A look of puzzlement crossed the old manʹs face. ʺBut they stole a woman in his stead.ʺ ʺShe was dressed in her brotherʹs clothes, out for a lark in the crowds, watching the caravan leave. My men dropped a blanket over her in a dark alley. . . .ʺ
The old man understood. ʺAnd when you found their error, you decided to exact another form of vengeance against the Quinn?ʺ
ʺI will not harm her. She will come to me,ʺ Night Wind said defensively, hearing the reproach in White Craneʹs voice.
ʺShe aided Vision Seer and the other prisoners. That is a debt which the Lipan must honor,ʺ he said gravely.
ʺOrlena Valdéz is my captive. She has passed the test of the knife. I may keep her as my slave.ʺ His intense eyes now met White Craneʹs squarely.
ʺShe has courage,ʺ he nodded, ʺand beside Spanish pride, also a good heart. Only beware, my son, that you do not fall victim to your own revenge.ʺ
Chapter 9
ʺStir and put in bowls,ʺ She Who Dreams instructed Orlena, handing her a crude wooden spoon that she had withdrawn from the iron kettle over the fire. A savory stew of buffalo, freshly killed from the fall hunts, simmered with wild onions, celery, and dried sage.
Even as the angry protest formed on her lips, Orlena felt her stomach growl.
How many times had she gone without food because she refused to serve her savage captors first? Biting back her retort, she took the spoon and stirred the stew. After days of dry spitted rabbits and cold tortillas, this was heaven! She served it into the dishes, which she and the older woman then carried to Night Wind and White Crane. Of course the women would eat their menʹs leavings!
This was her first opportunity to observe savage Apaches in their own environment. She had never seen their women before and was somewhat taken aback by the way they looked and behaved. She had expected beaten, cowed creatures who slaved while the men sat idly about drinking mescal and lording it over them. If this woman, who spoke passable Spanish and smiled freely with her husband and Night Wind, was typical, their lot was not horridfor savages.
The women she had seen around the scattered campfires were clean, as well dressed and adorned as the men and seemed cheerful and well fed. Certainly She Who Dreams was not wasting away, even if she did have to serve the men first!
Still, Orlena, who had been raised with servants to wait on her every whim, was furious that she must become one in this detested place.
Night Wind watched Orlena dish up the food and then bring it to him. Smiling slightly, he reached to take the bowl from her hands. When she looked about to drop it on his head, he flashed her a quelling look and she handed it to him.
ʺShe is not used to our ways,ʺ White Crane said as he blew on the steaming chunks of meat and vegetables before spearing them with his knife.
ʺDo not let her get behind your back with a grinding stone or a knife,ʺ Night Wind replied sourly.
White Crane only chuckled as he watched the Golden One cross the clearing.
ʺCome. We eat now,ʺ She Who Dreams said to Orlena, as she squatted comfortably beside the fire. The women were just out of earshot of the men, who were seated on the grass beside the stream.
Taking a bowl and filling it, Orlena looked about for a spoon but found nothing.
Pascal had crude utensils with him when he cooked for them on the trail. After he left them, they had existed on dry foods such as spited game and corn cakes.
She watched the old woman pick carefully through the chunks of stew and extract a fat onion, popping it into her mouth. She followed suit with a piece of meat, then some other unidentifiable vegetable, probably a wild potato. The men used their knives and Orlena knew the old woman had one, too, but did not deign to use it. Perhaps it was a form of courtesy, since no one in the camp would ever turn her loose with a knife! Her stomach knotted with hunger. She reached into the bowl with her fingers and ate.
ʺHow are you called?ʺ She Who Dreams asked between bites.
ʺOrlena Valdéz.ʺ
ʺI am She Who Dreams, Lipan Medicine Woman. I know Night Wind brings white woman. Have dream.ʺ She allowed the girl to digest that fact along with her food, then asked, ʺWhat means Orlena Valdéz?ʺ
ʺGolden One is a literal translation from the Latin for Orlena.ʺ
She Who Dreams nodded approvingly and waited.
ʺVa
ldéz is my family name. We are of a noble house in Spain.ʺ At the Apacheʹs puzzled look, she considered how to explain, but it seemed hopelessly complex.
She settled for a sop to her own badly battered pride. ʺI am related to the great king of all the Spanish, who lives far away and yet rules here.ʺ
She Who Dreams smiled. ʺNot rule here.ʺ She swept her hand across the vast magnificence of the mountains that surrounded them.
Unable to argue the point, Orlena changed the subject. ʺWhere did you learn to speak Spanish?ʺ
ʺNight Wind teach wife. She teach me.ʺ
Orlenaʹs chest inexplicably tightened for an instant. Then the surprise and hurt were replaced by an onrush of anger. So, he was married. ʺHow many women does he have? Do they all speak Spanish?ʺ She Who Dreamʹs eyes shrewdly watched the flashes of jealousy and anger in the Golden One. ʺLipan men have only one wife. She who was my daughter dead now. Night Wind has no womanexcept you.ʺ She looked speculatively at Orlena, who reddened beneath the scrutiny.
ʺI am his captive, not his . . . his woman.ʺ After she said the hated words, Orlena remembered Night Windʹs warning about others in his band who might take her by force. If only she understood his motive, who he was, why he kept her without violating her.
When She Who Dreams returned with the menʹs bowls, Orlena walked with her to the stream to clean them. All around her, up and down the twisting creek, women washed crude cooking utensils, even bathed small children. Everyone spoke the Lipan dialect. She wondered how many of them understood her language. ʺDoes anyone here but you speak Spanish?ʺ
ʺA fewyoung warriors who ride with Night Wind. He teach them.ʺ
ʺHow did he learn himself? Did his Spanish father teach him?ʺ Orlena pretended casual indifference as she scoured the bowls with sand from the creek.
She Who Dreamʹs face became shuttered. ʺNight Wind tell you of white fatherif he choose. Blue Robes teach him speak . . . and speak silent messages.ʺ She made a few signs to indicate writing.
ʺHe can read and write as well as speak perfect Castilian! Where are these FranciscansBlue Robes? Did they raise him?ʺ
She Who Dreams shrugged. ʺPart of his life with Blue Robes in south. Part with Lipan. Night Windʹs band all dead, killed on plains. Blue Robes teach him white way. Then he find this band.ʺ
Orlena felt as if she were looking at a half‐woven tapestry. Parts of Night Windʹs life were revealed; many were obscured in the unfinished weave. Why should I want to know about him? an angry voice asked. ʺKnow your enemy,ʺ she muttered beneath her breath as he approached.
ʺUntil She Who Dreams can teach you how to build a temporary shelter, we will sleep in my blankets. I have found a place with privacy. Come.ʺ
ʺEveryone bids me come and go as if I were a burro,ʺ she said angrily as she stood to face him.
He laughed. ʺYour temperament does present marked similarities.ʺ Before she could make an angry retort, he reached out and grabbed her hand, pulling her with him. When she tried to resist, he turned and hauled her up, slinging her across his shoulder with effortless ease.
Seeing the looks of amusement on the faces of many observers, Orlena subsided.
Blessed Virgin, I will not put on a spectacle to entertain them!
He carried her across the stream, splashing through the shallow, icy water until he located a copse of low growing Texas madrones. Within their shelter lay a stand of tall grasses and a small pool of water.
ʺIt is not part of the rushing stream. The sun has warmed it a bit. If we hurry, we can bathe before the cool of evening.ʺ His eyes glowed like a catʹs in the gathering darkness as he placed her on her feet before him.
ʺI do not wish to act as your body servant again,ʺ she said with as much hauteur as she could manage while moving away from him.
He backed her against the trunk of a tree and stood with scarcely an inch between their bodies. ʺYou smell of burro and wood smoke.ʺ
She wrinkled her nose. ʺAnd you simply stink.ʺ she spat, trying to slip past him.
ʺWe both need to bathe, I will not deny it.ʺ Deftly unfastening the drawstring at her neckline he slipped one shoulder of her blouse down to reveal a proudly uptilted breast. Quickly he pulled the other side of the blouse down, baring her other breast and imprisoning her arms at her sides. She could feel his hot gaze on her breasts as he leaned nearer, lightly brushing her nipples with his crisp chest hair until they hardened into tight points. Something warm and drugging, like mulled wine, stole over her, erasing the chill of the twilight air. She stood very still, afraid to breathe as he held her in thrall.
Then, without touching her further, he turned and kicked off his moccasins and removed his breechclout. ʺEither undress, Lioness, or be thrown in the pool with your clothes on. I will not share my bedor my bodyʹs warmthwith an unwashed woman.ʺ
She gasped in outrage and before she could think, kicked with all her strength at his backside. He was bent over, tossing his scant clothes on top of his moccasins.
Her blow sent him headlong into the pool with a resounding splash. With lightning speed he surfaced, shaking droplets of water from his shoulder‐length hair, which clung like spilled ink to his head. ʺIf you run, one of my men will catch you,ʺ he said softly. ʺI do not think they would care if you were as filthy as a pig.ʺ With that warning, he emerged casually from the water and walked over to his saddlebag to extract a bar of soap, totally ignoring her and his own nakedness.
Orlena watched the last of the setting sunʹs rays play on his rippling, lean muscles. He was hard and rangy, yet elegantly proportioned and taller than the other Apache men. Again she wondered about the finely crisscrossed scars that marred the perfection of his back and shoulders. Were they some sort of test of manhood that half‐castes had to endure? None of the full‐blooded Lipan men were so scarred, only Night Wind and the Mescalero, Hoarse Bark.
Slowly, hating herself, but knowing he would let her freeze or worse if she did not follow his orders, Orlena finished undressing and slipped into the cool water.
After he had sudsed himself, he tossed her the soap with supreme indifference.
ʺJust like the food. Apache women must always take their menʹs leavings,ʺ she muttered.
He laughed. ʺThere is plenty to go around, Lioness. Only wait and observe the Lipan way. You will have ample opportunity in the days that follow.ʺ
Again that night he held her in the thick soft furs he had heaped together as their sleeping pallet. Again he caressed her lightly, experimentally, then fell sound asleep with his arm draped possessively around her. Orlena choked back acid tears of humiliation as he slept peacefully. Earlier by the pool, when he had bared her breasts and teased them, she had responded wantonly, feeling them tingle and harden, sending a surge of heat and desire coiling lower in her body.
Beneath the furs, he again touched them, cupping them with his hands and running his fingers lightly down her belly, as if he knew what she felt. She was losing control of her own body, her own feelings, her moralsto a lowly half‐caste, a savage!
Dawn came all too soon. Orlena awakened when something soft and heavy was flung on top of the thick beaver pelts that served as a blanket. She sat up in a daze, then realized she was naked beneath the warm pelts and grabbed them up to cover her breasts.
Night Wind smiled at her disarrayed beauty. ʺI have brought you presents. They should fit.ʺ He held a pair of womenʹs laced boots in one hand and gestured to the skirt and shirt of buttersoft deerhide that lay atop the furs. ʺThe days grow too chill for your paisanaʹs garb, and such a costume is impractical anyway.ʺ
She touched the soft garments gingerly. ʺWho did they belong to?ʺ she asked, dreading the possibility that they were his dead wifeʹs.
ʺShe Who Dreams has a niece named Sweet Rain who is about your size.ʺ Then he added quietly, ʺWhen a Lipan dies, all her possessions are buried or burned with her.ʺ He turned and walked through the trees toward the camp without another word.
ʺWhy is it always as
if he can read my very thoughts?ʺ she whispered furiously to herself, not wanting to dwell on how much he may have cared for his Lipan wife.
The clothes fit her perfectly, and Orlena had to admit that they were warm and comfortable. The laced boots were snug and provided her sore feet far more protection than the peasantʹs sandals had. She used the small bone comb the Frenchman had given her to detangle her hair and braided it in one fat plait. If not for her fair coloring, she could be an Apache squaw, she thought unhappily, wondering what the day would hold for her.
As she walked across the clearing toward their campfire, Orlena observed the Lipan women at work preparing and serving food. ʺWhy do the younger women take food from the cookpots of the older ones and carry it to other shelters?ʺ she asked She Who Dreams as the old woman deftly shoved sotol bread from the ashes onto a wooden plank.
ʺThey are daughters of family. Each shares motherʹs cookfire. Takes food from it to own husband and children.ʺ
ʺDo the daughters always marry men living so nearby?ʺ In spite of herself, Orlena found the Apache customs fascinating. She Who Dreams smiled. ʹʹNot like Spanish. Lipan not send daughters away. Man come to live with wifeʹs family. Night Wind come to us when he married she who was my daughter,ʺ she said with both pride and sadness in her voice.
Orlena did not want to hear more about Night Windʹs lost love, so she asked no more questions and fell to helping She Who Dreams with the morning cooking.
Over the next few days she learned much about Lipan life and acquired new skills so menial they would once have appalled her. Yet all the Lipan, except the very young and the very old, contributed to camp life. As Night Windʹs slave, she had to do the bidding of his mother‐in‐law. In truth, Orlena was coming to a grudging liking of the insightful older woman, whom all of the band seemed to revere as a seer and a healer.