Night Wind's Woman

by tiffy

  Orlena felt certain Sweet Rainʹs dislike of her had little to do with her cousinʹs death and far more to do with her desire for the man who had killed him. The comely Lipan woman wanted Night Wind for husband and Orlena, even as a lowly captive, stood in her way. Knowing how he despised her Spanish blood, she was certain he would choose another Apache wife. Perhaps it would be Sweet Rain.

  That dismal thought caused her to reach carelessly into the coals for one of the sotol bread ash cakes and burn her fingers. With a hiss of pain, she drew her fingers out and sucked them. Blessed Virgin, the first time she had ever tried to cook alone at her own campfire she could not even perform the simplest tasks without injuring herself!

  Suddenly she felt a cold draft and the skin flap of the tepee door opened. Tall and forbidding, dressed in buckskin leggings and weighed down with weapons, Night Wind stepped inside.

  He looked down at her, sitting by the fire, holding her fingers in her mouth, looking more beautiful than any woman he had ever seen. As she scrambled to her feet his eyes swept the tepee, noting how neatly it had been arranged. When his gaze rested on the large single pallet piled high with skins, she colored, but remained silent.

  ʺI am hungry. She Who Dreams will give you some of the rabbit stew she was cooking when I rode in,ʺ he said as he sat down and began to strip off his knives, pistols, and a quiver of arrows.

  Just as simple as that! Not a word of greeting or explanation after a weekʹs absence!

  ʺI have prepared my own meal,ʺ she said smugly.

  His mouth twitched a bit as he looked down at the burning sotol bread in the coals. ʺI do not think it is any longer edible.ʺ

  ʺOh, Blessed Virgin!ʺ Orlena swore as she reached a small knife and her fingers into the coals to retrieve the blackened cakes, which were now sending billows of smoke up the opening at the lodgeʹs apex. She burned her fingers once more and abandoned the ash cakes, which were now truly ashes.

  Mutinous golden eyes flashed at amused green ones. Then Night Windʹs expression sobered. ʺI have missed you, Lioness.ʺ He reached out and took her burned fingers in his hand, kissing the reddened tips softly, then pulled her into his arms before she could protest. He held her in a tight embrace, seeming to study her face for a moment suspended in time.

  Orlena inhaled the scent of her lover, reveling in its heady effect on her senses.

  He smelled of horse and leather, faintly of tobacco, but most of all, the male musk excited her, making her heart race in her breast. Wordlessly she raised her face to his and opened her mouth for his kiss.

  Her spontaneity pleased him and the honest longing in her eyes revealed the depths of her feelings. I have done what I promised Conal I would do, he thought as he kissed her with fierce passion. Then why did the taste of her raise such a bittersweet ache in his heart?

  When he finally broke off the long, ardent kiss, Orlena breathlessly asked, ʺAre you yet hungry? I will go to She Who Dreams for that rabbit.ʺ

  He laughed and looked down at the sleeping pallet. ʺYes, I am hungry. Very hungry. Very hungry,ʺ he said. Kneeling on the furs, he whispered, ʺTake off your clothes.ʺ

  Santa Fe, November 1787

  Blaise Pascal sat in the small cantina and took a deep drink of the potent mescal.

  It was foul stuff, but anything would be acceptable if it cleansed the grit from between his teeth. Sacred Blood, he was sick of cold and wind and sand! He had planned to spend the winter back east in the balmy gulf climate of New Orleans, but when he arrived in San Antonio he had read the poster of the New Mexico governor: five thousand pesos for the capture of the Lipan raider Night Wind!

  That was more than a yearʹs pay for a provincial governor. That golden‐haired woman Night Wind had kidnapped must mean much to Conal Quinn if he would offer such a fortune for her rescue, for surely that was what prompted the reward.

  Pascal debated little on the ethics of betraying his companion, but long over the danger of doing so. If Night Wind ever found out who gave Quinn the information, it would be most unhealthy for him in all of New Spain. He spat on the earthen floor in disgust. He did not give a fig for all of New Spain. With that much money he could return to civilization, where French was spokento New Orleans. Damn this wind‐cursed, scorpion‐ridden desert. Let the stupid Spaniards have it! He signaled the barkeep for one more drink.

  The governorʹs palace was impressive by New Mexican standards, the Frenchman thought as he paced the polished adobe brick floor of the antechamber where he had cooled his heels awaiting Don Conalʹs pleasure for several hours. The walls were whitewashed over smooth plaster and hung with several passable paintings. He was wondering idly if the governorʹs stepdaughter had done any of the decorating, when a cold‐faced soldier called his name.

  He limped on his peg leg into Quinnʹs receiving hall, remaining passively unimpressed with the Spanish trappings of authority. He and Quinn had known each other nearly thirty years ago when the Irishman was naught but a young mercenary whose star had not yet risen.

  Giving the tall, red‐haired man a thorough inspection, Pascal said, ʺYou have changed little. A bit of gray, some wrinkles. But one thing has changedyour purse is grown fatter.ʺ

  Conalʹs eyes narrowed as he stared at the fat, oily little man. He sniffed in repugnance. ʺI see you, too, have changed little, still preferring to sell soap rather than use it.ʺ

  Pascal ignored the jibe and came straight to the heart of the matter. ʺYes, I still trade with Indians . . . and renegades.ʺ When Conalʹs hands tightened on the back of his heavy oak chair, the Frenchman laughed. ʺI see you are still quick of mind. That is a quality I always admired in you. It is doubtless why you are now governor.ʺ

  ʺAnd commandant general as well. I can have you thrown in that cesspool on the hill until you tell me where Orlena is.ʺ

  ʺAh, but you will not do that. You will take the information I can give you and pay me. No white, not even one with my formidable contacts with the Apache, knows how to find Night Windʹs mountain strongholds. I think your chasing after shadows these past months has proven that.ʺ

  ʺIs Orlena alive?ʺ Conalʹs eyes glittered with a cold, unholy light. He would stick the fat pig until he squealed in agony if he did not tell the truth.

  ʺWhen last I saw her she was quite unharmed. Of course, that was two months ago.ʺ He paused, knowing how dangerous the Irishman was, gauging his anger and his desire for the woman.

  ʺIf you were involved in her abduction, you know what I will do with you, Pascal.ʺ

  ʺI would never have been so foolish as to come here if I was involved. I met Night Wind and his raiders in the mountains and rode with them a short while.

  He had a blonde woman with him. When I read your reward notice in San Antonio, I knew she was your woman. I, too, am very quick, Don Conal. But, alas, I am not grown rich . . . at least not yet.ʺ

  ʺWhat can you tell me of Orlena if you do not know where Night Windʹs stronghold is?ʺ Conal asked with tightly reined anger.

  ʺThere are many things about the mysterious renegade half‐caste that I have learned over the years of traveling from Nueva Vizcaya to Texasthings which would enable you to bring him to heel. He, like you, has a vulnerable spot.ʺ

  Conalʹs face hardened. ʺAll his Lipan family are dead,ʺ he said flatly.

  ʺAh, yes, but there is another family,ʺ Pascal said, watching the startled shift of Quinnʹs eyes. ʺI do not mean blood kin, but rather the man who raised him, educated him. For Fray Bartolome Moraga, the renegade Night Wind would give his life.ʺ The fat manʹs eyes glistened with anticipation. He could feel the soft gulf breezes and smell the sweet scent of gardenias. ʺFor five thousand pesos, I will tell you where to find this priest.ʺ

  Long shadows played over the big audience hall as Conal paced. He must plan this with utmost care. If only so much time would not be lost! And if only he could be as certain as Pascal that the priest meant enough to Night Wind to trade Orlena for him. Quinn shuddered, thinking of how she might return, s
oiled by that filth, all the fire and laughter of his Butterfly snuffed out.

  Then again he considered. Her marriageability was now destroyed, along with her reputation. Might she not consider

  ʺPapa, Sergeant Ruiz said you have word of Orlena!ʺ Santiago burst into the room, his face ablaze with joy. After all the weeks of feckless searching through the bitter onset of winter in the mountains, at last the boy saw some hope.

  Conal motioned for his son to sit on one of the tall, straight‐backed oak chairs.

  ʺWhat I have learned may or may not bode well for your sister,ʺ he began very carefully. ʺShe is held deep in the Apache strongholds to the south. We cannot find her, but must draw that bastard who took her away from his lair. Tomorrow we ride to a Franciscan mission in Chihuahua City.ʺ

  Chapter 12

  Guadalupe Mountains, January 1788

  Orlena sank down onto the thick pelts piled carelessly near the big cookfire in She Who Dreamsʹ tepee. Although it was early afternoon, she felt bone weary and exhausted. Carefully scrutinizing the wood she had gathered for the fire, she began to sort the drier pieces from those dampened by exposure to the snow outside.

  ʺYou cold. Here drink.ʺ She Who Dreams offered Orlena a crude gourd cup filled with a hot spicy brew made of water boiled with an assortment of herbs and juniper berries.

  Orlena sipped as She Who Dreams fed the fire with the dry kindling. The younger woman grimaced at the bitter taste of the drink, but it was warming on such a cold, windy day. Blessed Virgin, what would I give for a cup of hot chocolate!

  She looked up when she felt the kindly older womanʹs eyes on her.

  ʺGo to your tepee and rest. I will bring stew for the evening meal,ʺ She Who Dreams said in Lipan. Over the past months, Orlena had proven an apt pupil, as she spent hours working at She Who Dreamsʹ side. They conversed in both languages now, although Orlena could speak the Apache dialect with far less fluency than She Who Dreams spoke Spanish.

  ʺI do not need to rest. There is much work to be done,ʺ Orlena said peevishly.

  She did not add that several of the younger women, incited by Sweet Rain, had already derided her for her weakness and lack of skill in performing camp chores.

  ʺFood cooks. You have gathered firewood enough for the night. I think there is a more important thing you must do.ʺ She Who Dreams looked at Orlena with shrewd, assessing eyes, waiting.

  ʺI have sewing to do, yes, and a great deal of dried corn to grind,ʺ Orlena said as she began to rise.

  She Who Dreamsʹ leathery hand stayed her. ʺSit back. We must talk.ʺ Then she switched to Spanish. What she had to discuss was better spoken in Orlenaʹs native tongue. ʺFor two moons you use no bloody rushes.ʺ

  Orlenaʹs face crimsoned. When her first monthly time came upon her in the wilderness, she had no menstrual cloths and had to ask She Who Dreams what the Apache women did. Matter of factly, the old woman had explained the practice of using soft, absorbent cattail fiber, which was then disposed of very carefully, for such blood was considered taboo among the Apache.

  ʺNo. I have had no courses for . . .ʺ Orlena paused to remember. Only two times since she had been a captive had she bled. ʺIt has been nearly three months, I think.ʺ She Who Dreams was not making idle conversation just to embarrass the girl, for that was not her way. ʹʹWhy do you ask me this?ʺ Orlena questioned forthrightly.

  ʺYou hungry all time . . . and tired much.ʺ She was stating the obvious, but the foolish Spanish must not tell their girl children the simplest facts of life. Already she had learned from Orlena that they had no puberty rite for daughters at the onset of their menses. Rather than a natural cycle heralding the beginning of fertility, it seemed to be viewed by the whites as a stigma to be ashamed of and hidden. Shaking her head at the foolishness of Orlenaʹs people, she sat down beside the girl. ʺNight Wind take you to blankets for two, three moons?ʺ

  A sudden surge of heat tinted Orlenaʹs cheeks, but she stared defiantly back at She Who Dreams. ʺI am his captive. He does with me as he wills.ʺ

  ʺHe force you?ʺ She Who Dreams already knew the answer, but she needed to gain Orlenaʹs honest admission before she could put forth her plan.

  Hanging her head, the younger woman whispered, ʺNo. He did not force me.

  He . . . enticed me. I came to him, after weeks of refusing.ʺ She raised her head. ʺI will never be free of him now. He has taken my innocence and holds me prisoner while he goes off to raid and kill among my people.ʺ She blinked back tears, having grown unduly emotional of late.

  ʺYou love Night Wind?ʺ Again, She Who Dreams asked a question to which she already knew the answer.

  ʺIt does not signify what I feel. I am only his slave,ʺ Orlena replied bitterly. Night Wind had been gone for nearly two weeks. Always when he left her, she feared for his life, even knowing that he was revenging himself against the Spanish. She loved him and he despised her for her white blood. ʺBetter you marry. Before baby comes. I think you love Night Wind. Baby will help two foolish young people.ʺ

  Orlena dropped the gourd, spilling the now cool drink on the earthen floor. Her amber eyes dilated until the pupils were black with fear. ʺBaby! I am with child?ʺ

  She felt her numb fingers clasping her swollen breasts. Although she had never had the symptoms of pregnancy explained to her, she had come to understand the ultimate consequences of lying with a man. How stupid, how blind not to realize this would happen! She had vowed never to fall into the trap of marriage and childbirth after what had happened to her mother. A hysterical bubble of laughter escaped her lips. She was pregnant by a half‐caste who did not care a fig for her! She would bear an Apache child without even the blessing of the church!

  She Who Dreams watched Orlenaʹs face. ʺNothing to fear. Night Wind will marry you. Good provider for children.ʺ

  ʺI am a slave, not a wife. One of the hated Spanish. He will not marry me. It is against your laws anyway. Because I am not Lipan, he cannot wed with me.ʺ

  Orlena stood up, unable to staunch the flow of tears any longer.

  Before she could flee, the old woman restrained her, holding her gently. ʺYou will be Lipan. I have no daughter. Night Wind have no wife. White Crane speak with other leaders. You beʺshe searched for the Spanish wordʺadopted, made our daughter. Then Night Wind will marry you.ʺ She nodded at Orlena, having settled that issue.

  ʺButʺ Orlenaʹs words died on her lips. Over the months she had come to love the old woman and her husband, White Crane. To be adopted by them would be an honor. ʺI would be proud to be the daughter of She Who Dreams and White Crane, but that will not make Night Wind wish to marry me,ʺ she added very carefully.

  She Who Dreams snorted. ʺHate make him blind. Baby change that. You see.ʺ

  She watched Orlena, knowing the girl did not believe Night Wind could care for her yet. But there was something else troubling Orlena. ʺWhy you fear baby?ʺ

  she asked bluntly. Whites had such strange customs that even someone of her sagacity could not fathom them.

  Orlenaʹs hands touched her belly gingerly as she turned from the searching black eyes waiting for her answer. ʺI never wanted a babythat is, I never wanted to become pregnant and endure the birthing.ʺ

  She Who Dreams shrugged philosophically. ʺSome pain, but great joy at new life.ʺ Watching Orlenaʹs face she knew that there was much the girl had not told her. ʺTell me why you have this fear of baby.ʺ She urged Orlena to sit once more and then recline on a pile of skins, while she poured another steaming gourd of amber liquid.

  Gradually, as the soothing herbal drink relaxed her, Orlena told the story of her motherʹs frightening ill health during her pregnancy and the horrifying day‐long labor that nearly cost her life. By the time she finished the narration, Orlena was trembling with the vividness of her memories, locked away inside her since she was a six‐year‐old child.

  She Who Dreams understood now. She ran her hand gently over Orlenaʹs golden head, again marveling at the gleaming color of the fat plait of
hair. ʺYou not like mother. You strong. Work hard, breathe free.ʺ She indicated the soft doeskin clothing the girl wore. Once, long ago, several Spanish ladies were captured and brought to their summer camp on the plains. Dressed in hot, tight clothing, they could scarcely walk and could not take a deep breath of air or perform the simplest chores. ʺYou young. Mother old when brother bornnot strong like Lioness.ʺ

  At the mention of Night Windʹs pet name for her, Orlena flushed. She had been lonely for him, eager for his return to her bed! How foolish such a wish was. Of course now it was too late to undo what their coming together had already wrought. I can never return to my family, she thought bleakly, but said nothing to She Who Dreams.

  Several nights later, as she tossed fitfully beneath the warm covers, Orlena considered the flurry of activity the chiefʹs wife had set in motion. The tribal leaders had conferred and agreed that Orlena would be considered from that day the daughter of White Crane and She Who Dreams. As soon as Night Wind returned from his raid, he would marry her, as this was the wish of his father and mother‐in‐law. That he might refuse was never consideredby anyone but Orlena.

  Hearing the pounding of hoofbeats, Orlena huddled deeper beneath her fur covers. Her heart raced as she heard voices. The raiders had returned by the light of the full moon. A sudden gust of icy air filled the warm lodge as the flap was pulled back and Night Wind stepped inside. Had anyone told him of her change in status? Of their impending marriage? She rolled up and blinked, focusing her eyes in the dim light from the smoldering coals in the fire pit.

  Night Wind stirred them up and tossed on more wood, then warmed his frozen hands over the rising heat. When he turned to Orlena, he felt the old familiar wrench in his heart. It was the same each time he returned after an absence from her. What witchery was her hold on him? Angry with himself and his bodyʹs surging needs, he began to strip off his heavy winter clothing in the warm tepee.