A Leaf in the Wind

by Velda Sherrod

  She kicked her boots into a corner and drew on the knee-high moccasins. Painstakingly, she wove a brown scarf into her hair to make the two braids appear darker than her natural color, then tied a headband around her forehead. Pocahontas couldn't have done it better.

  In the kitchen a few minutes later, she poured boiling water over tea leaves. Once it cooled, she strained out the leaves and washed her face in the brown liquid. She hurried into the hall to assess herself in the mirror. Her skin appeared several shades darker. Not dark enough, but her own fair skin was not so obvious.

  The sick feeling in the pit of her stomach persisted. She made an explosive sound of anger. Patrick would be riding one of the fastest horses in the Texas Panhandle. Drummer would have his work cut out for him. She had to get the message to Grayhawk before Patrick reached MacKenzie.

  And word to T.K! Praying he would believe her, she ran back upstairs to her bedroom and, with quick, jerky movements, drew paper from the dresser drawer. Her hands shook so she could hardly hold the pen. She scribbled the message, adding that he shouldn't worry about Toddie. Vesper had him at Bernadette's. With a heavy heart, she propped the note against Grayhawk's picture. T.K. couldn't miss it if he came looking for her.

  She thrust her arms into a wool jacket, stuffed gloves and a scarf in the pockets, and adjusted her hat. Not wasting a moment, she rolled her blanket to put behind the saddle and headed for the kitchen. Except for food, she was ready.

  A chill wind hit her when she shouldered her way through the kitchen door on her way to the corral. The next two days would be long, arduous and dangerous.

  The sun shone through a haze of high, thin clouds. T.K. and MacCucheon rode leisurely toward the ranch house. They hadn't talked much the last few miles, and T.K. had time to mull over his marriage. For the first time, he could believe that it was all coming together. They could live as married couples were supposed to, happily, trusting each other, loving each other. Would she come to him, wanting him?

  He pictured firm, round breasts molded in a calico waist, tremulous lips moist and pliant, slender hips moving in seductive invitation. Just thinking about her made him grow hard and eager. The ranch house was in sight before he actually took stock of his surroundings.

  MacCucheon noticed the absence of the Arabians at the same time he did. ''Thought the blacks were in the close pasture."

  Not waiting to answer, T.K. reined his buckskin into a gallop. What the hell had Lee gotten herself into now?

  Juan met them at the gate, his usual calm de mean or replaced by fear and strain. "Senor. He took them. Him and Slim. Damn."

  T.K. kicked his feet free of the stirrups. In one swift movement, he hit the ground and tossed Juan the reins. "You're saying Patrick and Slim took the racers."

  "Yes. I see them from the north ridge."

  "What time?"

  "Senor Pat rode out before noon. Ten o'clock, maybe."

  "What about Drummer? He was in the same pasture."

  "The senora, she rode out in the same direction."

  "Mrs, Burke followed them?" he asked, fighting the pain that gripped him.

  Without expression, Juan fixed his eyes on the horizon and shrugged. He led the buckskin into the corral and closed the gate. The matter was no longer his concern.

  His gut twisted, and once more, T.K. faced a wrenching battle. What was really going on between Pat and his wife? He had thought to be rid of his jealousy. His hands shook at what could happen to her, racing to hell and gone after Patrick.

  Mac's low voice broke the silence. "Vesper will know something."

  "We'll soon see."

  T.K. bounded toward the front door, a feeling of dread freezing his insides. Calling Vesper's name, at the same time listening for some familiar sound, he halted in the doorway. His face was set as he started up the stairs.

  He stopped one long, awful moment at the baby's door. Toddie's room had been straightened, his toys neatly arranged. The rocking chair had been pulled close to the window as though somebody had been rocking the boy or dressing him.

  Whirling, T.K. plunged into Lee's room. Prior to the fire, he had purposely stayed out of her bedroom. A glance around showed her bed had been made, but her clothes were strewn about, some on the floor, one boot in the corner, another beneath a chair. She was gone. His gaze slid to the paintings and sketches coveting a part of one wall.

  Drawn like a magnet, he walked closer to study the painting of Patrick. His first thought was that Patrick was too pretty.

  God, it was uncanny. She couldn't have spoken words any truer than the portrait she had painted. She had seen Patrick the child and given him the face of a man. With the perception of an artist, she had captured it all, the arrogant tilt of the chin, the restlessness in the green eyes, the weak, sensual mouth.

  T.K. stood like a stranger and let his gaze shift from picture to picture until it came to his own. Scarcely able to breathe, he tried to calm himself, but his heart began a steady unnerving pounding. Since she had been at the Lazy B, a transformation had taken place in him, and with fire and passion and unerring skill, she had understood the change and transmitted it to canvas.

  Always his pride and bullheadedness had stood in the way of his telling her he loved her. It hadn't mattered. She had gotten past his guard, read his heart, and painted his soul.

  Such knowledge was heady magic. Whatever doubts she might have had about their marriage, she had resolved them, and wherever she was, she knew he loved her. To hell with his past misgivings.

  Where in God's name was she?

  His glance swerved to the painting of Grayhawk. Straight and proud, the Comanche shaman-turned-warrior sat upon his spotted pony. A folded note rested against the picture frame. T.K. snatched up the paper and scanned the message quickly, his mind a confusion of incredulity and pain. Lee had gone to warn Grayhawk.

  With tension-rigid shoulders, T.K. walked out of the room. Some desperate nightmare had suddenly come to life to threaten his love, and he was faced with how best to protect her. Cursing and mumbling, he strode down the hallway, not pausing, taking the stairs three at a time.

  He soon closed the distance between the kitchen and corral. Should he try to stop Patrick? Or should he try to reach Grayhawk in time and perhaps save Lee from getting caught between MacKenzie's men and Grayhawk's braves? Either way, the distance was the same, and either way Lee's life was threatened.

  Confronted by the inevitable conflict, T.K.'s thoughts centered on getting a horse, his hand going automatically to check the gun on his hip. He needed a fast mount, one whose stride could cover the miles, too much to ask of his buckskin so late in the day.

  He need not have worried. MacCucheon had rounded up two all-day horses, not the fastest but dependable, and he waited by the corral fence. As if he could feel the same terrible stress he saw in T.K.'s face, Mac carefully kept his expression inscrutable and waited.

  "Lee's note says Patrick is heading toward MacKenzie's camp. Patrick learned where Grayhawk and his band are hiding. Lee's trying to reach Grayhawk to warn him."

  "She's on Drum." Mac swung into the saddle. "Right glad about that."

  "It will take her a long day and night. Anything can happen to her. And she can't win. The Arabians are too fast."

  Mac nodded. "Maybe. But I'll put my money on Drum."

  T.K. snarled his frustration. Dark visions clouded his mind, of what could happen to Lee, of what could have happened already. "Dammit, I want Lee and Toddie home where I can keep an eye on them. Lee attracts trouble like a jelly jar attracts flies." Too late, he realized he was revealing too much to his hired hand. "Guess I'm letting my fear get the best of me."

  "Easy to do, I reckon. You know where the Comanche camp is?"

  "Their usual wintering camp. They'll be south of the red cliffs down stream from Maman Ti's band. Old Skywalker usually gets the choice spot where the canyon widens. Easier access and exit. Red War Bonnet next, then Grayhawk farther down."

  Mac leaned over
to read the tracks. "It's good you know."

  "Grayhawk sent word a few days ago."

  For the second time that day, the two men rode out together.

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  Wearing the blanket over her shoulders Comanche style, Elise shivered against the cold. Darkness hovered like a gray omen. She rode close to the canyon rim and studied the canyon floor.

  She remembered the bend in the stream and the ghostly black rocks worn smooth by the continuous flow of water. There, Grayhawk had pulled her out of the path of the Indians dragging home their buffalo kill. They had to have entered the canyon about there, perhaps a half mile either way.

  Except for the rustling of Drum's hooves in the grass, there was no sound. Going down into that great ditch and its unnatural stillness required all her courage. She had wanted to show self-reliance. It was then or never.

  There on high ground, she could see almost straight down. The next step was to find the trail. In the fading light, the evergreens stood out stark and lonely. Below them, the path zigzagged, a faint streak winding down the cliff wall.

  The sun had become a great orange ball on the horizon by the time Drum had eased them down the steep incline to the sandy floor. Wearily, Elise slid off his back and led him to the stream.

  After making sure the big horse had access to water and grass, she tied him to a sumac bush. She washed her face and throat to rid herself of trail dust and dried with her bandanna. Then she took biscuits and bacon from a bag and ate. If she had calculated correctly, she would have to travel most of the night to arrive at the camp about dawn.

  Wearily, she huddled beneath a cottonwood, pulled the blanket closer against the loneliness and closed her eyes. She had to grab a few winks, and Drum needed a rest. Her last thought was of T.K., her one consolation was that he knew where she was.

  Startled awake by a coyote's howl, she rose quickly, irritated that every unfamiliar sound made her pulse race. Darkness was so thick she could barely see her hand in front of her face. Gradually, her breathing became easier, and she could look around without trembling.

  If her luck held, the moon would rise soon. She had to reach Grayhawk's tipi before the camp was awake. It soon became evident she couldn't count on the moon. Mist, cold as an Arctic wind, surged down the canyon.

  She leaned against her horse, seeking warmth and comfort. "Sorry, fella," she said bleakly. "We've used up our luck and our time. The only thing we can hope for now is for T.K. to show up before Patrick gets to MacKenzie or that we don't freeze to death before we can reach the camp. Meantime, daybreak is a long time away."

  She let Drum pick his way up the trail. Once she thought she heard a growl, but Drum didn't flinch, so she scrunched down farther into the blanket and pretended she'd been mistaken.

  Cold seeped into her very bones. The heavy mist stung her eyes, and numbness crept into her legs. Her hands were so cold she wasn't sure she still held the reins. She flexed her facial muscles, then leaned forward to place her face on Drum's neck to absorb his heat. By first light, her body was so stiff she was afraid she'd fall from the saddle.

  Then she saw the tipis, white in the faint flush of dawn. The village slept. Elise tried hard to concentrate. Had they posted a sentry? And if they had, where would he be? She threw furtive glances in all directions. Common sense took over. If the scout had seen her, the hew and cry would already have begun.

  Her gaze swept the tipis, lingering here and there. Which one was Grayhawk's? She tried desperately to remember if his lodge had any distinguishing drawings or colors. Blue around the entrance. Broad, slashing streaks of blue and black decorated the entire front.

  There, not far from the center of the village, but apart, as if he desired to be separate, Grayhawk's lodge stood out as she remembered it.

  After several anguished and uncertain moments, she slipped out of the saddle and walked toward the largest tipi.

  Casting about to make sure she was alone, she whispered at the entrance, "Grayhawk."

  A pause, a few muttered words, then Grayhawk's voice bade her enter, but it was his Irish brogue that comforted when she staggered. His strong arms caught her.

  "Lord, lass, 'tis lucky you are to find my home instead of another's. But I'll say this. You've done a good job hiding your fair identity." He placed her close to the fire, removed her moccasins, and chafed her hands and then her feet.

  Elsie moaned when the warmth brought feeling back to her feet and limbs. "Oh, it hurts," she whimpered.

  "And it's sorry I am for your pain, but it will not be for long. You've put yourself in danger. When you feel like it, perhaps you'll tell me why."

  Her eyes opened wide as remembrance swept into her consciousness. "Oh, my God. I came to tell you to get your people out of the canyon. MacKenzie knows you're camped here."

  Grayhawk paused and looked up from massaging her feet. "And how do you know this, lass?"

  Briefly, she told him of Patrick's treachery, of his greed, and of his theft of the horses. "You haven't much time."

  Quickly, he tilted the pot on the fire and poured broth into an earthen bowl. "Drink it. It'll warm you. 'Tis not to my liking to put you out in the cold again, but you must go before I can warn my people."

  Elise struggled to her feet, unnerved at the thought of heading back into the weather. "There's no telling how close the soldiers are. Patrick had a head start. And the Arabians are fast."

  Grayhawk wrapped hard bread in a pouch made of skin and handed it to her. "Bless you."

  She was spared his fleeting look of longing when she stepped through the flap. A single rifle shot rang out piercing the cold, soggy air. More followed, sounding like popcorn over a blazing fire. Soldiers shouted orders at the tops of their lungs, and the earth shook with the thunder of pounding hooves.

  The camp became a mass of confusion. Women and children poured from the tipis and ran wildly toward the cliffs, many making desperate attempts to climb the canyon walls. To give them time, their men threw up a defense, their guns leveled, their bows drawn.

  One brave took a powerful blow to the head and shoulders. He reeled backward, blood streaming down his face. Another suffered a shot in the leg. Old women tried to save a few necessary possessions, while young ones hid in crevices and behind boulders to avoid attention from the soldiers.

  Rooted to the spot and frozen with horror and cold, Elise watched the Indians abandon their possessions and run in all directions. The burning started with soldiers racing to set fire to the lodges. Billowing smoke and crackling flames soon erupted from collapsing lodges.

  As the soldiers raced past her, Elise looked frantically for a hiding place, but blue uniforms were everywhere, the men shooting, cursing, and shouting. A bluecoat wheeled toward her, and too late she remembered her Indian attire. Grayhawk's aim was unerring. The soldier fell from his horse and rose running, only slightly dazed from the impact of the rock.

  Grayhawk's angry gaze swept the mayhem. His guttural voice rose above the turbulence calling his braves. A number of warriors rallied behind him, but upon seeing more soldiers barreling down the canyon, they turned and fled.

  Deserted, Grayhawk had no option but to escape. He quickly unsaddled Drum, then threw himself astride. He swooped her up behind him.

  "Hold tight, lass."

  He spoke quietly but urgently to Drum, and the animal surged into long ground-eating strides. When the distance narrowed and the soldiers were gaining, Grayhawk urged the horse to an even faster speed. He spoke words of praise to the big stallion, explaining the need for escape, how his mistress knew of his great heart and how only Drum could save her. Drum responded.

  Grayhawk knew the canyon and ravines as the soldiers did not. He moved in and out of the side canyons and ravines, always out of sight. After a while their pursurers gave up the chase, and he reined Drum to a slower pace, eventually stopping to give the horse a rest.

  Elise slid over Drum's rump, rubbed her bottom, and walked stiffly a few steps to s
tretch her legs. She turned back and met Grayhawk's grim smile.

  In a voice low and controlled, he said gently. "You'll be home by tomorrow. I'm sorry T.K. won't know you're safe until he sees you there."

  "Did bringing me home . . . ?" She tried again. "If you had remained behind, could you have helped?"

  "You're asking if I chose to bring you back when I should have stayed?"

  Hating to hear his answer, she looked down at her feet. "Yes. Didn't they need you?"

  His eyes and voice betrayed his bitterness. "Sooner or later, the white-eyes will find me. If I had stayed, it would have been sooner. And yes, my people need me. The ones who escaped will face a cold winter without food, shelter, weapons or horses.

  "The children how will they take care of the children?" Tears wet her cheeks. "I wish I could have warned you earlier."

  Grayhawk examined the horizon, denying himself a lingering glance at her lovely, stricken face. "It was just a matter of time, lass." Anger and despair settled into the lines around his mouth. "We were outnumbered from the beginning."

  "What can you do?" she asked, almost in a whisper.

  He shrugged. ''The Comanche need horses to survive. We shall see."

  After resting, they rode on, the sun finally shining through the clouds. Night came, and still they traveled. When she thought she could go no farther, Grayhawk stopped. "Now we'll rest."

  Elise lay down under a tree, the only dry spot she could find. She shielded her cheek with her hand. "I wonder if I'll ever be warm again, and I'm so hungry I'd welcome rabbit stew."

  "No fire, no warmth, no rabbit stew."

  "I know," she said sleepily. "I was just wishing out loud."

  "I, too, shall wish out loud." Grayhawk knelt beside her. His words were reminiscent of an Irish blessing, but the cadence was Comanche. "May you smile in the arms of your husband, may all the children born to your breast be strong, and may your beauty ever outshine the sun."