Wild Dawn

by Cait London

  MacGregor smiled slowly, his eyes meeting Regina’s dark purple ones. He spoke quietly. “The woman is scrawny, cold in the furs. But I claim my right to keep her. There are those who would cut off her nose. But there is not much there now. In the morning she will wear the mark of my hand.”

  Jerking her head up, Regina’s steel-colored eyes slashed at him. “MacGregor, you put one finger on me, and you’ll regret—”

  Moving quickly, MacGregor snared her wrist, bent and drew her over his shoulder. His open hand smacked her bottom, and the Indians chuckled at her outraged scream.

  Black Buffalo placed his hand on Playing Wolf’s shoulder. “Two Hearts will kill for his woman. It is in his eyes. Hear me: You will let him take the woman. You see he has the worst part of the bargain, for she is not an obedient woman.”

  As MacGregor stepped out into the night, the chieftain nodded toward his wife. “Spotted Fawn, Two Hearts and his woman will sleep apart from the people tonight. Take them to the lodge prepared for our Arapaho brothers.”

  The woman smiled knowingly and followed MacGregor into the night. “You big oaf. You brainless, possessive, arrogant...” the white woman’s outraged voice cut through the night.

  Later, MacGregor touched his bruised eye and winced, lying on a thick bed of furs, Regina’s stiff back was turned toward him. She’d scratched his pride, and when he’d tossed her to the lodge’s fur mat, rounded on him like a spitting wildcat.

  Being attacked by a woman half his size didn’t leave a man much fighting room, he’d decided just after her fist caught his eye. Small and agile, Regina nearly escaped the lodge before he caught her ankle to tug her inside. Taking her down to the mat and lying over her, MacGregor had caught her hands above her head. “Simmer down,” he’d ordered roughly.

  “You have embarrassed me for the last time,” Regina whispered back, squirming beneath him. “You great, hairy, lewd, loutish beast of a man, get off me! This is exactly the reason I fled. You’re a domineering, possessive beastie of a man. Throwing me over your shoulder like so much meal in a sack. I... am... a... lady of quality and breeding,” she stated indignantly.

  “You are my wife,” MacGregor returned, fighting the need to drag up her shift and bury himself in her. “You stiff-necked little piece of baggage. Playing up to Playing Wolf...”

  “He isn’t the savage. He gave me a bundle of sweet braided grass and played a courting flute for me. You come sweeping in here as though you owned me. As though I was no more than a... a ewe strayed from your paddock.”

  “Hard to take when a man’s wife runs off,” MacGregor stated between his teeth. “Hold still unless you want me in you, ma’am. ‘Cause riding you now would take the edge off this fierce need to paddle your backside.”

  Her violet eyes widened. “You wouldn’t. You wouldn’t dare, MacGregor. How you choose your words. Riding me as though I were a yearling colt, indeed.”

  “Might remind you of where you belong. With me. Under me.”

  “Oh! Oh! How like you. So coarse.... What’s a meshivotzis? A Cheyenne woman said Playing Wolf wanted a meshivotzis with me.”

  The image of Playing Wolf’s lean body coupling with Regina’s paler one caused a lance-like pain to shoot through MacGregor’s stomach.

  “Baby. He wants a baby with you,” he explained grimly. The idea of another man’s child in her belly caused a bitter taste in his mouth.

  The purple blue eyes widened within the heavy black lashes. “Oh, my... oh, my.”

  They stared at each other, barely breathing until MacGregor asked the question that had been burning his brain. His heart pounded heavily, slowly. “Why did you run, Violet? What have I done?”

  Turning away from him, she closed her eyes. “My father tried to own me, too.”

  The single tear sliding down her cheek cut MacGregor’s heart like a knife. “Own?” His throat was raw with emotion, the word choking him.

  Running his thumb along the bluish veins throbbing beneath her inner wrists, MacGregor swallowed heavily. “Own isn’t a word I like.”

  Turning to him, her lids lifted slowly. “Nor do I.”

  The words slammed into him.

  He wanted to stroke her pale cheeks, to soften the ache in her deep purple eyes... to tell her that he cared. Fearing that he could say the wrong words and deepen the agony, MacGregor left her for the safety of the men.

  She cried in his arms that night, shuddering whimpering cries that shredded his pride.

  ~**~

  In the morning MacGregor studied Regina when she served his food, her head averted. She was too quiet, her cheeks pale. “Violet, I never wanted to own you,” MacGregor stated before he knew he’d spoken.

  “You don’t,” she returned quietly, meeting his hard stare easily. “I won’t allow it.”

  Taking a deep breath, MacGregor tugged her down to his lap and carefully arranged the paisley shawl to keep her warm. He smoothed the soft cloth over her shoulders in a light caress while she watched him intently. Cradling her jaw in his palm, he lifted her face to his. “You’re so small. Anything could have happened to you on this trip. There are renegades around who—”

  He didn’t want to explain how these men would use and mutilate her. An image of a white woman’s breast, tanned like an animal skin and used as a tobacco pouch, shot through his brain. “I worried....”

  The admission cost him a measure of pride, but then her amethyst eyes looked straight into him.

  Regina allowed him to intertwine his fingers with hers, studying the delicate lines and pale color against his larger, dark ones. “I’ve been taking care of myself for years, MacGregor.”

  “Not here. Not with white and red renegades torturing the countryside. There are soldiers who use their uniforms to cover murder and rape.”

  “Perhaps life with my father was more torture than you could imagine,” she replied softly. “There are many ways to wound.”

  He frowned, gathering her slight body closer as if to protect her. “Tell me about your father.”

  Regina’s soft mouth tightened, her eyes hardening beneath the heavy lashes. “Lord Mortimer-Hawkes? The darling of the haute ton? The man who caused my mother’s suicide and tried to bend me to his will?”

  Staring out into the mists and the campfire smoke encircling the lodge, Regina held MacGregor’s hand tightly. Her other hand rested over her heart, smoothing the vibrantly colored shawl as if to soothe the pain of long ago. “The marquess is a most unpleasant man when in his cups.”

  She toyed with the cloth, the dark red fringes twining with her fingers like rivulets of blood. Her mouth tightened as she whispered, “A cruel, cruel man. He broke my mother’s spirit with the pain of his fists and his cruel games. He’d married her for the power of her fortune, then tormented her until she leapt from a high turret window into the dry moat. Her name was....”

  Her purple eyes looked straight into his, and she shuddered slightly. “Mariah.”

  MacGregor held her tighter, his lips against her damp temple. “The woman in the catwagon. Her name reminded you of your mother. That’s why you’ve been saying the name in your sleep.”

  Nodding against his broad shoulder, Regina tucked her face against his throat. “I was only five when she died. But I remember her lying broken and bloodied at the bottom of the dry moat. My father made me look at her, kiss her torn lips before the burial in the family vault. Oh, MacGregor— She was so soft and fragile, and he destroyed her as surely as if he’d pushed her out that window.”

  Her hand snared the vivid flames of the cloth, crushing it in her fist. “He hated her dark skin, yet made her dance for him when he drank. She was beautiful.... Then he started on me, calling me Pagan and terrifying me with his games. It’s a wonder I survived until I was old enough to fight him on his terms. When Lord Covington offered the opportunity to escape my father’s tyranny, I welcomed it. I plotted my own escape. I took what he valued most, a huge ruby named the Mariah Stone.”

  Star
ing into the smoldering fire in the center of the lodge, Regina whispered brokenly, “He’ll hunt me until he dies. He feeds on the power he feels the stone—my mother’s dowry and my grandmother’s—gives him. I saw him feed... on her terror, grow wild with power. He wanted the same fear from me....”

  She shuddered and MacGregor held her tighter. “I would not give him the pleasure.”

  When she shivered as though a freezing wind had just swept over her, MacGregor lifted her fingers to his mouth. “I wanted you, Violet. I still do. Never thought much about forcing a woman to stay with me... out here having a woman is a necessity. Jack needed a mother and I... I thought we could make a go of it.”

  Her fingers floated across his hard lips, then slid away. “MacGregor, you can be a lovely man when you try,” she whispered sadly. “And at other times you are as dense as a castle wall. I must have the freedom I seek. I cannot allow you to own me, don’t you see?”

  “Maybe I know something of being owned and hurt as a child. But, Violet, I want to keep you safe, not own you. It’s different here—”

  “Not so different. Kept in one fashion or another is still a prison, MacGregor. With or without walls. Was there never a time you had to prove yourself, to yourself alone?”

  “Plenty,” he answered grimly. “A man can choose his own path. And some are dark ones. But a woman’s path—”

  “Is no different,” she whispered.

  ~**~

  In Black Buffalo’s tepee MacGregor shared the old warrior’s pipe. A blend of white man’s tobacco and the Indian’s dried leaves, the kinnikinnick smoke curled upward with the heating fire.

  “Hear me, Two Hearts. Your woman is strong. She would choose her life’s path,” Black Buffalo stated after a long time.

  MacGregor nodded, turning an ember with a sliver of wood. The sliver burst into a tiny flame. Now he knew how deeply Regina’s desire ran and it frightened him. She battled her past and it kept her from him and the life they could have. That she did not choose him over the past cut him deeply, yet he could not let her go. “She is my wife.”

  The elder man nodded solemnly, puffing on the long clay pipe. He studied the Cheyenne buffalo hide shield leaning against the side of his tepee.

  A deer filled the center of the burnt orange shield with tiny tracks decorating the outer perimeter. Four hawk feathers hung from the center, and leather thongs decorated the outside. “Young men often take a lonely path, seeking their dreams. A woman with a warrior’s heart would follow her dream. Her journey is not from you alone, but toward her future and away from her past. She seeks her strength.... You cannot take this from her.”

  “She is my woman. I would have her at my side,” MacGregor stated after accepting the ceremonial pipe and puffing on it.

  He handed it back to the chief, who nodded, studying the white smoke above MacGregor’s head. “A trapped heart will wither, leaving an empty shell, my friend. Let the woman seek her dream. Follow her, but do not keep her from her destiny. In time you will have what you seek. You wear her mark, the red stone. For now it is enough.”

  ~**~

  She’d hurt him badly, Regina decided as MacGregor sat in the meeting lodge that night. Placing a wooden trencher of roasted deer meat and pemmican in front of him as the other women tended their men, she’d caught the dark gleam of his eyes studying her before he looked away.

  Black Buffalo’s voice rose above the howling wind. “Before the whites, the people made arrows with sharp stones. Like the wolf, we hunted the buffalo, creeping up to him in the grasses. If we could, we drove him to leap to his death. Or we took him with our arrows. Our knives were made with the buffalo’s ribs, and we skinned and cut his meat, carrying it to the camp on our backs. Women cut his flesh into strips and smoked it on green striplings, smoking his hide to cover our lodges. His hide became our moccasins and winter clothing. His bones we used and thanked him with prayers. Our dogs pulled travois laden with tatanka.”

  The men nodded in agreement. MacGregor turned to look back at Regina, who sat in the shadows with the other women. “Come here,” he whispered, reaching out his hand.

  She shook her head no, and MacGregor stared at her, his expression hard. “You are my wife. Sit by me,” he ordered quietly.

  Black Buffalo continued his narrative, staring at the fire as Regina slid into the small place MacGregor had created at his side. Taking her hand in his, he listened to the ancient story of the revered buffalo.

  She glanced at the other men, whose wives sat in the shadows. MacGregor held her hand easily, linking himself with her so clearly that none could protest his claim. She’d given him the truth of her pain, the reason she could not be possessed by any man, and yet he wanted her by his side.

  MacGregor glanced at her, then turned to Black Buffalo who elegantly continued his story: “From the buffalo we make boats of his hide, covering willow striplings. We use his stomach to cook our soups. Mixed with cottonwood ashes, his blood becomes our black paint. We made saddles of the raw buffalo hides, buried his stomach in the earth, and used it for a pot to make our soups. Boats of willow striplings covered with his hide take us down the rivers. Black paint worn in our victory ceremonies is made with his blood and cottonwood ashes. Our women sew his hide into parfleche bags to store food for winter. His sinew strengthens our bowstrings and sews our tepees.”

  With a wave of his hand Black Buffalo indicated the flames in the center of the lodge. “This fire is of buffalo dung. To seek their visions, our young men hang his skulls from their chests. We give offerings of our own flesh to his skull, asking him to return with his gifts of meat and skin.”

  The men, young and old, nodded. An old man lifted his thin, scarred arm high. “This I have done many times, and the buffalo has come with his gifts.”

  Black Buffalo continued, speaking proudly. “We eat no meat of the white buffalo, for he will send away the rest.”

  “The whites kill our buffalo!” a youth shouted suddenly. “They massacre at Sand Creek and send our brothers to this dry place called a reservation. When the leaves fell, the Medicine Lodge Treaty called the people together for peace. Yet we kept our honor by staying in the lands of our fathers.”

  “Aiee!” a woman cried from the shadows. “My mother died at Sand Creek.”

  MacGregor held the small, fragile hand within his tighter, his jaw tightening. Of mixed blood he knew that bitterness could erupt into violence at any moment. In a sudden breach of formality, Regina could be hurt. He sent a warning glance down at her and she nodded, her head averted. She understood the danger.

  Black Buffalo held up his hand for silence and nodded when the people stilled. “The moon of the wolves running together is passing. For this meeting night we will honor Two Hearts and his woman by playing the hand-game—”

  A fiery youth stood, shaking his fist at MacGregor and Regina. “White blood taints in this lodge—”

  With dignity Black Buffalo stood his full height and wrapped his blanket around his aged shoulders. “Take your hatred into the cold night, Water-Too-Deep. Or stay and honor my brother, Two Hearts, as I have said.”

  He sat and nodded, saying, “Begin the hand-game prayer.”

  A minor chief named High Hat nodded and moved to sit beside three other men near a drum. High Hat began chanting. MacGregor whispered an interpretation. “A spirit came to him in a dream and taught him how to play tonight. Their rules change with the leader’s vision, and tonight they allow us to play.”

  Arranged in two lines, the players sang and moved, hiding a bone marker. One team would guess which of the other team held the marker. Regina won several rounds and laughed up at MacGregor. “It’s no more than the slight-of-hand shell games played in English fairs, MacGregor. Just a bit more players, that’s all.”

  A dance began later, and Regina stayed by his side, allowing his arm to draw her close. For the evening the people enjoyed the feast of a new buffalo kill, placing their fears beyond the lodge.

  The old
men told stories of their youth and their visions to the sound of the drum. Two women cried out their visions of happy fat children and the return of the buffalo. An old woman stood slowly and performed a shuffling dance in the manner of long ago. Swaying slightly to the drumbeat, Regina whispered, “I should like to dance, MacGregor.”

  MacGregor nodded, then leaned close to Black Buffalo. The chief nodded toward Regina and the dancers stepped back to allow her space. Taking the hand of the Indian beating the drum, she taught him a slower rhythm, watching him until he understood.

  Knotting her shawl over one shoulder and beneath her other arm, Regina whispered to MacGregor, “This is what I see in my dreams. Tell them that, please.”

  MacGregor translated while Regina slipped off her leggings and moccasins, then stepped onto a large buffalo hide in the center of the lodge. Her short bleached doeskin shift and beads caught the firelight as she ripped a long fringe free. Taking four polished flat pieces of buffalo horn, she instructed MacGregor to tie them to her fingers and palms.

  When he was done, she clicked the bits of horn together experimentally. “This will do.”

  Closing her eyes, she began swaying, moving slowly like the spring breeze sweeping through the reeds. The drum beat softly, and she hummed a song much like Indian flute music.

  Black Buffalo clapped his hands and a woman loosened Regina’s long braid and spread the blue-black rippling mass until the ends danced at her hips.

  He leaned near MacGregor. “Your woman seeks the vision that disturbs her. When she is at peace with the vision, her heart will be free.”

  Twining her arms high above her head, Regina clicked the horn pieces together slowly. Moving her hips to one side then another, she swayed, and the folds of the brilliant yellow and dark red cloth caught the firelight. The huge shawl clung to Regina’s undulating body until it blended with the dancing movements of the flames.