As he approached, she prayed silently while quilting tiny stitches with her eyes squeezed shut, long years of experience guiding her nimble fingers.
Dear God, I can’t believe you brought me all the way out here to die alone and never to see my babe born on this soil. But, if this is Your Will, then let it be over with quickly. Amen.
Stoic as a stone pillar, Belle prepared to meet her Maker. She opened her eyes when she felt her thick hair being lifted from the back of her neck, allowing a light breeze to caress her skin there. She smelled the brave’s unwashed body, and he laughed a cruel laugh, still tugging at her tresses.
Powerless with no rifle, Belle felt a wave of nausea wash over her at the fear of being scalped alive. What is he waiting for? She released her tiny quilting needle, leaving it still in the fabric, and picked up a basting needle, the largest one she owned. She heard no sounds from the other Indians over the loud drumming of her heart. With hands trembling and sweating so much, she feared she might drop the big needle. At this point, she had no idea what she planned to do with it.
He spoke loud and in words unfamiliar to her. He continued to laugh, the sound grating on her frayed nerves.
Believing that death should allow some dignity, Belle found his guttural speech and crude laughter annoying. She decided to use the only weapon she had. With a quick stab, she thrust her right hand up beside her neck, ramming the long, basting needle all the way up to its eye into the tender flesh between the Indian’s fingers.
Yelping, he turned her hair loose and pranced a few steps away before he could settle down to pull out the bloody needle. The other Indians whooped and yelped with the ugly brave, taunting him.
Belle didn’t dare look at any of them. Knowing she had angered him, she realized that death was imminent and prayed that it would come swiftly. She picked up a smaller needle and continued to quilt. If I die, I’ll die doing what I love. From the corner of her eye, she saw the ugly one, scarlet trickles of blood staining his grubby fingers, advance toward her, his knife drawn. On her blind side, a horse suddenly nudged her chair with its rounded belly. Its rider intercepted the angry brave.
“No,” the mounted rider commanded. “Red-haired one has much courage. Count coup on Angry Wolf. No knife, no gun, no bow.” He had spoken in near-perfect English.
Belle turned around in her chair, looking up into dark brown eyes, soft and velvety like the eyes of a young doe. With his bronzed body bathed in the glow of the setting sun, she saw a more handsome Indian than she had ever thought possible.
“Say nothing.” He gave her a harsh, authoritative look with his verbal warning.
The others closed in. The ugly one, referred to as Angry Wolf, mounted his horse, giving Belle a cold stare that sent icy shivers up her spine before he headed back toward the timber.
The rest of the Indian party took a few minutes to show off their prowess as horsemen in the clearing nearby before they disappeared into the timber, their departure as soundless as their approach.
Belle found herself alone again in the silence of the frontier.
Chapter Six
Slivers of pale-peach sky, glistening beneath wide streaks of mauve and magenta, signaled the beginning of another lonely day for Belle. Watching the gorgeous sunrise, she sat on a flat rock along the creek bank. Lush, green moss carpeted small rocks near the clear water, creating the illusion of a small oasis in the last days of a dry, Texas summer. Savoring the coolness of the dawn and breathing in the fresh air, Belle embraced her knees as close to her chest as her advancing pregnancy allowed.
“I must decide today,” she said to a green bullfrog, lazing on a rock near her feet. He looked up at her with shiny, black eyes as though he were listening.
“I must, I must.”
The frog remained stationary except for the sides of his throat moving in and out at perfectly-timed intervals.
“I can’t really go home.” Belle gestured to the frog with her hand as if he were an audience of many. With sadness in her voice, she echoed her thoughts from many a sleepless night, “There is no home.”
After reflecting a few moments, she sighed and patted her firm and slightly-protruding abdomen, feeling the first fluttering of movement. “You little butterfly, you’re not very big yet, but you are in there, aren’t you?” she asked her unborn child. “I have to stay because of you. I have to survive for you.” She winked at the bullfrog and watched him jump into the translucent water.
Now, with the major decision reached, Belle felt the weight lifted from her shoulders. In her youthful innocence, she neglected the severity of her decision and skipped back to the dugout while golden rays spilled over the horizon.
Inside her earthen home, she grasped a berry pouch from its wooden peg and scampered off to pick berries. Afraid of wild animals and Indians, she entered a thicket with caution. “Afraid of anything that moves,” she whispered, advancing farther until the thicket engulfed her.
She spotted an abundance of berry-sized fruit and wove her way through the mass of vines and bushes. Plucking a handful of the dark morsels, she studied them.
“Oh, you’re not berries. You’re grapes.” She placed one in her mouth and lolled it around on her tongue before biting into it and tasting its tangy juice. Possum grapes. Oh, I’m so excited to find something wild to eat. I can’t wait to get my pouch full.
Conjuring up visions of iridescent grape jelly, thick grape jam, and delicious cobbler with flaky crust encouraged Belle to pick possum grapes with relish. Intent on filling her berry pouch, she stood in the natural arbor, motionless except for the gentle picking movements of her hands.
Just as the tinge of royal purple on her fingertips and a tug of the muslin strap around her neck conveyed the message to Belle to stop picking, a twig snapped. She froze, afraid to even breathe. The sound echoed in the early-morning stillness. Two black eyes, from deeper in the thicket, stared at her.
Belle peered into the haze to see if the eyes belonged to an animal or a person. Not that it matters. I’m going to run just as soon as I can make my legs move. Her entire body seemed cast in stone. Squinting and straining to see better, she discovered a small, brown face. When she blinked, it disappeared.
Belle turned away and ran toward the clearing. Vines and briars pulled at her clothes, slowing her progress, making her more frightened than ever. Her rapid heartbeat thundered in her ears, and her lungs seemed to have climbed up and lodged in her throat, but she ran as fast as she could. With the clearing in sight, she looked behind her. No one’s following. If only I can make it to the dugout.
She stumbled over a rock and screamed, the sound to her like something far away and in slow motion. She felt her body tumbling over and over in the lush grass of the clearing before everything went smoky black.
The warm, tantalizing sun of morning streamed down on Belle’s face, making her eyes squint. She started to move, but the pain in her head reminded her of the fall. She placed her hands on her firm, rounded abdomen. “Are you all right in there, little babe?”
Subtle movements within reassured her until the tiny hairs at the nape of her neck stiffened. I feel like I’m being watched. Peering about, she saw and heard no one.
“That infernal silence again,” she swore under her breath. Although she enjoyed solitude, too much silence frightened her. She sat up and glanced around, still seeing no one. When she tried to rise, excruciating pain shot through her ankle, pain so severe it took her breath away for a moment.
“Must have twisted it,” she whispered in short breaths. Trying not to cry out with pain and realizing her ankle couldn’t bear her weight, she panicked. Her whisperings became louder. “What am I to do?” She cast an anxious look toward the dugout. Unsure if she could crawl that far, she felt helpless and scared.
Belle sat at the far edge of the clearing, in pain but not alone. Someone is out here. I’m still being watched. Angry Wolf, the ugly brave, came to mind. She began to weep, hoping no one would hear her. “I’m tryin
g to be responsible and fearless,” she whispered through salty tears. “But I’m frightened out of my wits.”
Still sniffling, she noticed movement to her left and strained to see while swallowing a huge lump that welled in her throat. She stifled a scream when a human form emerged from behind a boulder. Feeling every muscle in her body constrict, Belle felt like a snake recoiling as the brown form advanced toward her. A small Indian woman, a very pretty one with eyes like onyx, came closer.
Belle shrank back, having heard stories about Indian women who were more ruthless than their men when it came to torture. Even though Belle was frightened, she clenched her fists into tight balls, the only defense she possessed.
The Indian woman pointed to Belle’s foot and displayed her hands in front of her, palms open to show she had no weapon. The tinge of royal purple on her fingertips matched Belle’s.
She must have been picking the same possum grapes as I. Belle opened her fists and looked down at her own purple fingers. She must have been the face I saw in the thicket.
Remembering how cautious the Indian woman’s approach had been, Belle had the feeling this woman may be as frightened as she. Belle winced as the woman, with care and skill, removed the footwear from the injured ankle. With gentle hands, the woman inspected and rotated the ankle area, then applied pressure on the sole, walking her thumb back and forth for a few minutes. She replaced Belle’s footwear and helped her stand.
Belle was hesitant to place any weight on the injured foot although the woman offered her shoulder for support. With the woman’s help and constant smiles of encouragement, Belle hobbled to the dugout and all but collapsed on the bed.
The woman massaged Belle’s foot and wrapped it with strips of muslin she found lying on the rocking chair, part of Belle’s quilting scraps. Then she disappeared for a few minutes but returned with Belle’s full, berry pouch.
“Thank you,” Belle said.
The woman wore a puzzled look until Belle smiled at her. She smiled in return.
Belle pointed to her chest. “My name is Belle.” She tapped her chest. “Belle,” she repeated.
The woman nodded. “Belle,” she said in a timid voice. She pointed to her own chest. “Ehawee.”
Belle didn’t understand the strange word but tried to repeat it.
The woman laughed a soft, melodious laugh, one of the sweetest sounds Belle had ever heard.
Chapter Seven
Leaves in glorious shades of lemon yellow, golden ochre, and blazing, burnt orange wafted down on autumn’s air currents. Belle watched from a small cutout in the heavy, wooden door of her dugout. Though crudely fashioned, the door was a welcome addition, replacing a tattered, buffalo hide that had been whipped by the Texas wind.
The young widow warmed herself in front of a rock fireplace while stirring a rabbit stew. As the broth bubbled in its heavy, black pot, the appetizing aroma permeated the small confines of the dugout. She appreciated the rabbit which she found beside her door when she ventured out this cool morning. He had been skinned and stowed in a deerskin bag like other wild game she found at her doorstep. Someone was providing meat for her, and it always arrived long before she would need to try her hand at hunting.
She knew in her heart that her new friend, the little Indian woman, must be the responsible party. Embarrassed that she had prejudged the tribes, Belle couldn’t believe her good fortune.
“Who would have believed that I, of all people, would have such a good friend—an Indian, no less? And after all the horror stories I’ve always heard.”
Supplied with plenty of game to eat, Belle stored some for the cold winter ahead. She had feasted on pheasant, wild turkey, rabbit, squirrel, prairie chicken, venison, and the surprisingly-good buffalo roast. During some nights, wild onions and other tuberous vegetables appeared. As had a buffalo robe, something Belle was certain she would treasure when the snows came.
She peered outside at the sky, wondering how far away winter might be. New to this part of the country, she felt like an intruder rather than a homesteader. There were so many questions she wished Michael were here to answer.
Belle sighed. “But Michael’s not here. I’ll just have to learn on my own.” She settled into the hand-carved seat of her rocking chair to wait on the stew and reflect on her blessings. The Campbell family brightened her life often, and she felt fortunate to have them only a few hours’ ride away. Ehawee proved to be a continual delight, from helping her to the dugout that first time they met while picking possum grapes until now when they could converse a little. Ehawee had learned a few English words, and Belle continued her attempts to master sign language, or maw-ta-quoip as the Comanche called it. They had been like giggling school girls, trying so desperately to learn while laughing at their mistakes.
Belle couldn’t get Ehawee to acknowledge she provided the wild game, nor could she convince When The Eagle Speaks to confirm his involvement. Ehawee was the first wife of When The Eagle Speaks, the handsome Indian who had befriended Belle during Angry Wolf’s fury. With a surprising command of the English language, When The Eagle Speaks had informed Belle that Ehawee’s name was Sioux that translated to Laughing Maiden.
Of course, it does. I heard her beautiful laugh.
When Belle had asked Laughing Maiden and When The Eagle Speaks about the game, they had shrugged and averted their eyes. Although they refused to answer Belle, she felt sure it had to be them and thanked them often, just in case.
Laughing Maiden uttered a small cry and covered her mouth when Belle unrolled a new quilt top. With the applique complete, it was ready to be padded and quilted with tiny stitches. Showing fright in her glistening, onyx eyes, Laughing Maiden started to speak in maw-ta-quoip, but she was so excited Belle couldn’t keep up.
“Wait,” Belle signed. “Go slower.”
Laughing Maiden paused for a deep breath. With her mouth set in a determined line, she signed, “This cover pretty. Flowers pretty. Red hearts pretty.”
“Thank you,” Belle said in English before returning to sign language. “But what is wrong? Go on.”
A look of terror crossed Laughing Maiden’s round face as she signed, “Bad omen.”
“How is it bad?” Belle signed.
Laughing Maiden looked to one side and then the other before she signed, “Bad Hearts.”
Belle tried to keep her patience. She wanted to talk to Laughing Maiden, not just sign, but sometimes they had to. She was frustrated that she couldn’t sign fast enough to get answers to her questions but tried again. “Osh-a-him, what is this?” Belle asked the question in English but changed to maw-ta-quoip for, “What does that mean?”
Laughing Maiden signed, “Our enemies, the Bad Hearts. They kill everyone, burn everything. No warning. They not take the war trail and then walk the peace path. They at war always. At war with all tribes.” She stopped so Belle could catch up before signing again. “They never talk peace. They are called Bad Hearts. They are no good.” She signed but emphasized no good by speaking in the words of the Comanche tribe. “No wano.”
“Calm down,” Belle signed in maw-ta-quoip and spoke in English. She always tried to do both for Laughing Maiden to understand the tiwa, or white man’s tongue. Laughing Maiden was hesitant to speak English and had conveyed her dislike of the double meaning of so many English words. When The Eagle Speaks had been instrumental in helping Belle learn to sign, but the Comanche tongue was still too complex and guttural for her to understand much of it.
Exasperated, Belle signed, “That’s nonsense. Hearts and flowers mean love. Love between a man and a woman. Love and peace go together.” She smiled, hoping Laughing Maiden would relax. “This is peaceful and pretty,” Belle signed, “not a bad omen.”
Laughing Maiden did not appear persuaded and looked like a frightened chipmunk.
She still thinks it’s a bad omen. Belle rolled the quilt top and put it away.
Chapter Eight
The first glint of silver outlining the tops of sof
t mauve and pale alizarin clouds was a welcome sight to Trader Jake. He had hoped for this change in the weather so he could sail again. The squall that hit during the night had stopped his ship dead. But now, a warm breeze tickled the lush hair on his arms, bleached almost platinum by months of exposure to the salty air and brilliant sun. Excitement coursed through his veins like liquid energy, so anxious was he to move on.
He thundered orders to his crew, instructing them to make hasty repairs and set sail for home. Home conjured up visions of money and grizzled traders, the smell of sweat mixed with rum and green eyes.
Those damnable emerald eyes again. He groaned because he hadn’t been able to think of anything else for weeks. Never had a vixen so ensnared him, so captivated his waking moments and his dreams.
“Oh, the dreams,” he murmured, savoring again his fantasies of the girl who looked so out of place in the rough, unsettled frontier. He recalled how he had experienced such conflicting emotions when near her. One minute, he wanted to comfort and protect her as if she were frail and childlike, and the next moment, he wanted to make love to her and unleash all the passion he believed smoldered under the surface of her prim and petite body—passion ready to erupt into explosive lust.
But all I’ve ever done is antagonize the poor girl. He chuckled, remembering the splinters she had to remove from her cheek on the ferry. But he felt a rush of guilt about punching her at the hotel. How badly did I bruise her lovely face when I had to silence her? She must hate me.
Jake wondered if she was as beautiful as he remembered. The Carolina lady’s first day in Texas had been spent behind him on horseback, and he recalled the excitement she generated, the closeness of her almost overpowering his moral senses. He suffered from lust that day. Complete, unabashed, unmistakable lust. How I wanted to take her and make her mine.
Somehow, he had made it through that difficult day. A couple of bottles of cheap whiskey and an obese saloon tramp had finally brought him a drugged and exhausted sleep. But when morning arrived, all he could think of was the green-eyed girl all alone in the next room. The memory of her delicate white shoulders and partially-exposed breasts tormented him then.
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