Night Wind's Woman

by tiffy

  ʺAt least the rascal helps warm her body,ʺ the cook said sourly as she took the untouched broth back to the kitchen.

  ʺDid my husband eat? Is he all right?ʺ Orlena called after the shambling Mexicana.

  Lupeʹs blackened teeth showed as she smiled broadly. ʺThe patron ate a hearty meal at the kitchen table. Warmed and fed, he will be fine. Do not worry about that one. He is strong as a stallion.ʺ

  Relieved that Joaquín was unhurt, but embarrassed by Lupeʹs obvious sexual innuendo, Orlena returned her attention to the girl.

  A short while later, Joaquín came into the small, warm room to check on Ana. He had dark circles beneath sleet‐reddened eyes and looked ready to drop from exhaustion. ʺHow is she?ʺ

  ʺI do not know. She is too tired to eat and I know she needs strength after her ordeal. I fear lung congestion and fever. She is so small . . .ʺ Her voice faded.

  ʹʹDo not work yourself into an illness. Lupe and I can help with her. You have the babe to think of, too,ʺ he said sternly.

  She whirled in anguish. ʺYou are a fine one to talk, weaving on your feet after twenty‐four hours on horseback out in the hellish cold. Go to bed! I will not overtax myself with one little girl.ʺ

  He nodded bleakly. ʺI will rest a while, then check on you.ʺ

  As the day wore on, Orlenaʹs fears grew. A rattling cough began in the childʹs throat and spread lower to her lungs. By evening she was ablaze with fever. She instructed Lupe to bring icy water and lots of clean rags to bathe Ana. They would try to bring down the heat burning her small body. The night would be a long vigil of cooling rub‐downs combined with nourishing broth.

  Hours passed as Orlena wrung out cloths again and again, her fingers now stiff with the cold as she persisted in her treatment. If only She Who Dreams were here to give me guidance! Suddenly Orlena remembered the time Joaquín had nearly died in the Lipan camp when Quick Slayerʹs knife made the evil scar on his side. She called for Lupe.

  When the old woman appeared in the door, Orlena asked about the cherry trees in the orchard. She described the pieces of bark She Who Dreams used for her fever infusion and sent the cook off to gather the necessary materials.

  Joaquín came in about the dinner hour, obviously the better for a dayʹs rest. He watched Orlena sponging the child and spooning the cherry bark infusion between her parched lips. The scales finally dropped from his eyes. This was the real woman, his Lioness, who had saved his life in the same manner in the Lipan camp. She had worked as hard at Bartolomeʹs school and hospital, but he had been so blinded by jealousy and his own guilt that he had refused to see what everyone else did.

  Oh, my golden Lioness, what have I done? He looked down at her haggard face, her shoulders slumped by weariness, her belly heavy with the child of their passion.

  He had abducted her in revenge, not once but twice, and now she was chained to him by the child and Ana. She loved Ana; he admitted that now. But could she love him? Could she ever forgive him?

  Sensing his presence, Orlena looked up. He had rested and changed clothes, but still he looked like a brigand with a stout growth of beard and his long straight hair loose about his face. For all that, she thought him the most heart‐stoppingly splendid man she had ever seen. But the scowl on his face looked forbidding.

  What went on behind those glacial green eyes?

  ʺYou will harm yourself and your child. Go to bed and rest. I will care for Ana,ʺ

  he said softly.

  She stood up angrily, her hand going at once to the stiffened ache in the small of her back. Rubbing it, she glared at his arrogant face. ʺYou will never believe I care for Ana or that I cared for our childthe one who died in that awful desert!

  Can you not see that Ana is that daughter I lost? I love her, I love her, damn you!ʺ

  She began to sob, pounding furiously on his chest with hard little fists as he tried to calm her. He was unable to say anything, for pain squeezed the breath from him. Finally she subsided into exhausted hiccuping and he scooped her up into his arms and carried her down the hall to their bedroom. Calling for Lupe, he instructed her to see to her mistress. Then he returned to Anaʹs side.

  I love her! The words echoed in his mind as he spooned broth into the feverish childʹs mouth and bathed her with cold rags. Orlena loved Ana and blamed him for the terrible death of their daughter. Now he had put her at risk again, here in the wilderness, overworked and carrying another Apache baby. All of her life she had been forced by men to do things against her will. First by her father, then Ignacio and Conal, but most of all by him. He had been the cruelest betrayer of all, using her as a pawn in his twisted vengeance. No matter that he had enslaved her senses as he had boasted to Conal. She would never have chosen a bastard half‐caste renegade to husband.

  ʺAh, Ana,ʺ he sighed to the tossing, feverish child, ʺwhen she is recovered from the birth, I must let her go back to Santiago in the capital. She may choose to take you and my babe with her . . . or not . . . I do not know. Only this I do know . . . if I offer her freedom, I will lose her.ʺ

  He steeled himself for the emptiness ahead. The best, the only way to survive, was to avoid her. He must no longer claim her body in passion. He would sleep apart from her. Given how near it was to her time, that should not be unreasonable anyway.

  When in the middle of the night, she appeared to spell him with Ana, he said quietly, ʺHer fever is broken. She will live, Lioness. You may sit with her. I have matters to which I must attend.ʺ

  He cleared his belongings from their room and moved them into another one down the hall. Then he went into his library and sat down at the large oak table to compose a letter to Bartolome. Given time for it to reach him and for him to summon Santiago, Orlena should be able to travel when they arrived here to collect her.

  ʺIf I do not touch her or look at my child, I shall bear it better,ʺ he vowed to himself. It was time to go raiding again. Perhaps a quick, clean death might mercifully claim him.

  Chapter 27

  You will harm yourself and your child. The words haunted her. He would never forgive her foolish deception. The adobe shack stood like a bleak, ugly symbol of that night of betrayal, of the death of his love. From then on, it had become only vengeance. Had not the past monthʹs agony proven this to her? Joaquín had deserted her bed, coldly announcing that she was near her time and he would not harm the child by lying with her.

  ʺI am fat and ugly to you,ʺ she had accused him, throwing up to him his involvement with the beautiful Morena. He doubtlessly blamed her for his mistressʹs death.

  Orlena stared at the adobe hut, walking toward it without watching the overgrown path. Her foot caught on a vine and she jerked it free, intent on her misery as she reached out to touch the rough walls, now warmed by the spring sun. She had tried to tell him she loved him and chose to live her life with him, but he had quickly cut her off, saying her speeches could wait until the child was born. Then she might well see things differently. The coldness in those green eyes erected a barrier she could not breach.

  She came to herself, realizing she was pounding on the rough wall. Her hands were scraped raw and bloody, and she was sobbing uncontrollably. Suddenly a warm gush of water ran down her legs, and a dull throbbing ache spiraled from her lower back around her pelvis to clutch at her abdomen. The baby! But it was nearly a month too soon! Terrified of losing yet another child, she huddled down by the wall and hugged herself in misery. She was alone, with no one to help her in this desolate wilderness but Lupe and a flighty young casta serving girl named Rita.

  Joaquín was gone on one of his dangerous missions. He had seemed to court death these past months, even more than he had when Conal was alive. He might never come back. She forced that terrible thought from her mind. But it would be days or weeks before he returned. Would his child be alive or dead?

  She began to pray, squatting in a huddled heap, feeling the warm rays of the spring sun soothing her as the pain dissipated. At least this was not the ragged waves o
f agony that she had endured when she lost the first child.

  Orlena squeezed her tear‐stained eyes tightly closed, then opened them suddenly, sensing a presence in spite of the soundless calm of morning. She Who Dreams stood before her. Blinking her eyes, Orlena refocused, and still the mirage was before her. ʺI am having a dream,ʺ she whispered to herself.

  The vision smiled. ʺThat is a good sign,ʺ the old woman said in Lipan. ʺI always hoped you would be so blessed.ʺ

  Orlena felt the tight constriction about her belly ease. Taking a deep breath, she stood up and reached out to touch the very solid body of the old woman. ʺIt is truly you! You are here!ʺ Tears ran down her cheeks again, but this time they were joyous as she hugged She Who Dreams fiercely.

  The old woman returned her embrace and then began to walk with her, slowly retracing their steps toward the house. The twisting creek flowed rapidly, filled with spring rains that almost overflowed the narrow log bridge. As they traversed it, She Who Dreams carefully guided Orlenaʹs awkward footsteps lest she trip and fall into the rushing icy waters. When they reached the other side of the stream, Orlena faltered and stiffened again as another contraction hit her.

  ʺWalk slowly,ʺ She Who Dreams said. ʺIt is good for you and the baby.ʺ The calmness of her voice seemed to infuse Orlena with a sense of relaxation and security. She was no longer alone.

  ʺHow did you find me? Is White Crane with you?ʺ she asked eagerly.

  She Who Dreams smiled mysteriously and her round face looked beautiful for a moment. ʺI have always known you would one day need me. The vision I had guided me here when the time was right. Your father remains with our band, for he must keep hotheads from foolish raids that might bring the Comanche or the Spanish to find us. One day you will come to see White Crane and all your friends. Little Otter asks of you often,ʺ the old woman said with a smile. ʺHer baby grows fat and walks now.ʺ

  Recalling the birth of Little Otterʹs baby, Orlena knew that what was happening to her was different. But before she could even ask the question, the wise old woman answered. ʺThis young warrior is eager to see the world. He kicks much, eh?ʺ At Orlenaʹs affirmative nod, she continued, ʺThat is why the waters have left your body. He has begun his descent early. The laboring will be difficult but quick. He will be smallbut lusty and of good health,ʺ she added to reassure Orlena. ʺA worthy son for Night Wind and Sun in Splendor.ʺ

  Smiling ruefully, Orlena realized how good it was to hear the Apache tongue and to hear her Lipan name. ʺSo, you know this is a manchild. I had hoped it would be so.ʺ

  ʺBecause you have lost a daughter and then regained one in Desert Flower, the one you call Ana,ʺ She Who Dreams said sagely.

  ʺYou are amazing, my mother,ʺ Orlena replied. ʺAna never told any of us her Lipan name. Desert Flower. It is as lovely as she is herself. She has filled the void left in my heart by my daughterʹs death,ʺ Orlena added quietly.

  They continued to walk, toward the gardens behind the big ranch house. Spring had given new vitality to the neatly tended rows of melon vines, squashes, and peppers. Seeds burst into life to bear fruit, even as Joaquínʹs seed planted many months ago in her was doing.

  ʺYou hope this child will heal the breach between you and Night Wind. That part of your heart has remained empty. I saw that he would turn from you in pain, but I would know all of the reasons this has happened,ʺ She Who Dreams said as she supported Orlena through another, more intense contraction. In a moment they resumed walking again.

  Orlena took a deep breath and then began her tale of all that had befallen her since she left their camp to meet her husband in this valley. It seemed so long ago now. She Who Dreams took in every detail, nodding and grunting from time to time, seeming to be fitting together in her mind many pieces of an intricate design. By the time Orlena had finished her tale of death, betrayal, and misunderstanding, the old woman seemed to reach a decision.

  Before she could speak, Lupe came running from the house, across the garden toward her mistress. Looking askance at the old Lipan woman, she said in Spanish, ʺDon Pablo says these are Don Joaquínʹs family fromʺ She gasped as she took in Orlenaʹs water‐logged skirts and the way she held her belly as she walked. ʺThe child is coming, patrona! You must come in the house and lie down at once.ʺ

  Orlena smiled as the contractions again eased. ʺNo, Lupe. Not just yet. I am doing fine. This is my foster mother, She Who Dreams. She has birthed many babies and knows well what to do. You must make those who traveled with her welcome and prepare food. Have Ana help you and keep her occupied. My mother will tell you and Rita what must be done for me when the time comes.ʺ

  As another, even more intense contraction began to build, Orlena muttered beneath her breath, ʺI pray the Blessed Virgin and White Painted Lady it will be soon!ʺ

  In her broken but serviceable Spanish, She Who Dreams issued some simple instructions to Lupe. With one look at Orlena who nodded her confirmation, the cook departed for the house, muttering to herself, ʺNever have I heard of such a way for a lady to have a child! If only Don Joaquín was here.ʺ

  If only Don Joaquín was here. The cookʹs words echoed in Orlenaʹs mind over and over during the next two hours as she gave birth. As She Who Dreams had said, the process was swift, but the final few moments of the delivery were fraught with intense pain. Also as the medicine woman predicted, the child was small, a lustily bawling baby boy.

  When she took the little bundle, all bathed and swaddled from She Who Dreamsʹ

  hands, Orlena felt the vital life in him as he cried. His little face was dark, like his fatherʹs, with the same inky hair, but the dark locks had a faint curl to them, as her golden ones did. All babies had pale eyes, but she suspected his would likely turn green or amber in a few months. Her breath caught in her throat as she rocked him and let his greedy little mouth pull on her breast. ʺHe is strong and beautiful, just like his father,ʺ she whispered as she drifted into an exhausted sleep, propped up with the nursing infant held between a mound of pillows in the big bed.

  She Who Dreams smiled at Lupe, who was forced to return the courtesy. At first shocked at the barbaric way of birthing a baby by squatting like a paisana in a field, the cook had to admit that the birth went faster and less painfully than the usual method of letting the mother lie in a soft bed for hours, sometimes days of laboring.

  ʺShe must rest now. Prepare hot food and fresh goatʹs milk for her when my daughter awakens. I will watch her.ʺ

  Lupe nodded and retreated, already knowing better than to argue with this intimidating woman who seemed to know what she was thinking before she even uttered a word!

  The raid into Chihuahua netted them a fine cache of gold and freed several dozen Apache captives. The Night Wind rode at the head of his men, but as they neared the small rich valley, he felt no sense of triumph. He had sent Hoarse Bark to Bartolomeʹs mission with the gold and the Indian children. The adults traveled with him. Several of the Jicarilla had kin among those bands roaming northern New Mexico. Others wanted to work at his ranch. A few of the young men were eager to join his raiders. He saw a life of emptiness stretching before him without Orlena and their child. He had been robbed of the driving force of his hate. It had died with Conal Quinn. Love could not replace it now.

  He thought constantly of Orlena, her golden beauty haunting his dreams as he tossed restlessly on the hard, rocky earth each night. Her time was near now. He had been gone for nearly a month. Perhaps Santiago would arrive soon to take her away. He sat rigidly on Warpaintʹs back and tried not to think of it. When the long, low outline of the house lay before him, he swung down from the stallion and handed the reins to a beaming Pablo, who ran from the corral to greet him.

  ʹʹWelcome home, Don Joaquín!ʺ Bursting with the news of the patronʹs splendid son, he restrained his overwhelming desire to blurt it out. Such was not his place.

  His lady should show him his son. How surprised he would be!

  With a faint look of annoyance at his employeeʹs ex
uberance, he walked toward the ranch house, feeling lonely and out of humor. When he entered the front hall, She Who Dreams walked from the sala, as at home in the big house as she would have been in her summer wickiup. His eyes first widened in amazement and pleasure, then narrowed in suspicion and fear. ʺWhy are you here? Orlena?ʺ His heart squeezed with dread.

  ʺYour wife is fine. I am here because she had need of me,ʺ she replied cryptically.

  ʺCome with me.ʺ Without a backward glance the old woman turned and walked down the hall with her charge following warily.

  When she quietly opened the door to the master bedroom, Joaquín stood rooted in the hall, staring at Orlena, who sat in a large cane chair facing the courtyard window, nursing a baby. He could see the thick black hair and coppery skin so dark against the paleness of her milk‐engorged breast. Every fiber of his body ached to rush to her side and touch her, to hold his own flesh and blood, the babe he had sworn not to look upon, the child he must give up.

  ʺIs he not splendid?ʺ She Who Dreams asked proudly.

  Hearing the sound of her voice, Orlena raised her head from the dreamy reverie in which she had been drifting. Her mouth formed a small ʺohʺ of surprise as she cradled her sonʹs head against her breast. The look of shock and anguish on her husbandʹs face choked off her joyous words of welcome. Embarrassed at her nakedness, she covered her breasts and stood up stiffly. ʺHere is your son, Joaquín. Would you not examine him?ʺ Still he stood frozen in the doorway, his face shuttered and unreadable.

  ʺHe is healthy and strong, even if born early,ʺ Orlena said to him as he tried to divide his attention between two irresistible sightshis wife and his son.

  He wanted to betray none of the longing he felt for either. ʺHave you chosen a name, Lioness?ʺ he asked neutrally.

  Cut to the quick by his coldness and lack of interest, she replied levelly, ʺThat is for you to do, both by Spanish and Apache custom.ʺ

  He nodded. ʺThen he shall be called Bartolome. Perhaps he will grow to be a man of peace. That should please you.ʺ With that, he turned sharply on his heel and walked down the hall to the room he had been using, calling out to Lupe for a bath and some food.