by Cindy Nord
Tears burned her eyes as she struggled to accept her mind’s roiling.
Without a word, she collapsed the sunshade, and drew closed her parasol. A quick release on the handle’s center slide, bent the ivory shaft in half. She tucked the piece before her across the saddle.
Frustrated, exhausted, since she’d first met Dillon, her carefully crafted world had been thrown upside down and stripped away piece by piece. Slowly, Alma’s eyes drifted closed and she listened to the plodding rustle of horse through plumajillo. Eventually, her breathing matched the scout’s.
Steady and relaxed.
In and out…
In and out…
In and out…
And then somewhere in the murky churning of her brain, she succumbed to sleep.
***
An hour later, Dillon’s voice penetrated her dreams. “Don’t be alarmed,” he whispered, “but we’ve got company.”
Company?
The words blurred in her sleep-hazed mind, jangled, and then became clear. Alma pried her eyelids open as her meager survival instincts kicked in. She stiffened and sat up, glancing at him. “What do you mean?”
With unsettling intensity, Dillon’s gaze penetrated hers. “Three riders. They’ve been following us for the past twenty minutes or so.”
“Wher–”
“On the ridgeline to our right. Do not look over.”
With her heart beating double time, she searched his eyes. “Who are they?”
“Utes.” His gaze shifted to the trail.
“Utes.” The single word hissed out. Her right hand gripped the parasol’s now-folded handle while her left tightened on his upper thigh. “A-Are they going to attack us?”
“Probably not. They’re a small, foraging group. Most likely stumbled across us. Just stay calm. ”
“Stay calm?” she rasped. “Dillon, they’re…Indians!” As she twisted forward, a wisp of hair loosened from her chignon snagged in his stubble, then released. Her scalp tingled from the slight pull. She tightened her lips against emotions swirling through her – anger that he could be so nonchalant about such real danger, frantic that she might actually come face to face with red-skinned savages after all, and relief that he was here to protect her.
“They’re curious, no doubt wondering what the hell we’re up to.”
She glared at him again. “Well, do something,” she whispered. “Make them go away.”
“Doesn’t work that way.” His gaze sharpened on hers and he let out a long breath, his brows scrunching down in that don’t argue with me look she knew all too well. “And if they approach us,” he warned, his words now frigid with authority, “you just keep your damned trap shut, you got it? I’ll do all the talking.”
“Y-You speak their language?”
He shrugged. “Some.”
On edge, she turned forward, her lower lip quivering. Of course he did…this man knew everything. He was the superior survivor and she was just an out-of-her-element shipping heiress he was saddled with protecting.
“That ice you’ve built up around your so-called heart,” she hissed, “Well, I strongly suggest you melt that. It’s ungentlemanly.” Her eyes burned with the ludicrous urge to cry. “I cannot wait for the moment I’m well rid of you and this unending horror.”
In a hot rush, his breathe scoured the back of her neck, “I’m not a gentlemen, I don’t have a heart, and, trust me, I can’t wait for that moment’s arrival either.”
Indignation blistered her cheeks as her breath caught in her chest. Regardless what she had snapped at him, Alma wasn’t sure whether she was angry at his clipped response…or hurt.
But, he kissed me. And held my hand last night.
She scrunched her eyes closed, mortification flooding her. What a fool I am. A heavy sigh slipped out, ebbing into the late-afternoon breeze.
As they continued to travel, her anxiety built. Despite the tangled mess her world had become, vicious redskins still followed them somewhere nearby. Danger mounted from all sides, and even after everything they’d been through, this brute not only had the audacity to assure her he was more than ready to have her out of his life, but also made her feel as she had when she first met him…lost, terrified, and all alone.
Despite her previous musings about his past, he was the most insufferable man ever to breathe air, yet…she was completely dependent upon the chisel-jawed beast.
May he burn in perdition!
As the horse rounded a bend in the trail, Dillon’s body tensed. He drew the gelding to a halt. Surprised, Alma lifted her head.
Her eyes went wide as she sucked a frazzled breath. In the middle of the trail, not more than twenty feet away, a dozen, dark-skinned heathens astride horses stared back at her.
Chapter Nineteen
The Indians remained still, unmoving.
Loose-fitting, shirt-like garments covered the half-naked savages, and she gaped at the long rectangular pieces of deerskin that covered their…private parts. The negligible scraps of hide were looped over some kind of belt knotted around their waists. A shudder raced up Alma’s spine and she swallowed, her cheeks burning. Several of them wore beaver pelt head-coverings, and tattoos etched in swirls across at least half of the sun-stained faces.
Heart pounding, Alma scraped her gaze over the closest savage. Two long plaits of braided, raven-black hair fell over thin shoulders. Tube-like, footless buckskins covered his legs, secured onto the same belt that held his deerskin flap. Brightly-colored beaded moccasins covered his feet.
Fear gripped her and she pressed harder against the scout’s chest.
Dillon directed guttural words toward the Indian. “Att-um-bar, Neh-tig-a-gand. Maiku.”
Several redskins chuckled.
“And greetings back to you, my good friend,” the closest Indian replied in broken English.
On a hard swallow, Alma widened her eyes and peered up at Dillon. With an unsteady breath, she stammered, “H-He knows you?”
Dillon seared her with a glare, a jaw muscle tightening. “Yes.” Exasperation in his voice further deepened the tone. “Now, be still.” He scraped his attention back to the obvious leader, the scowl in his voice softening. “I see you’ve improved on your use of my language since last we met.”
“It’s good to know the tongue of those who make our unkept treaties.” The Indian’s gaze slid to hers. “And yes, I know Eyes of the Army many seasons.” She swallowed, hoping her lifted chin hid her escalating fear at this newest turn of events. The redskin laughed, his attention resettling on Dillon. “Tooeg-I-ah…very pretty, your white woman. And brave. This union is new?”
Dillon nodded, his hold ever-so-slowly tightening around her mid-section. “Yes. I’ve claimed her as my woman, and will fight to the death to protect her.” She swerved her head, staring up at him. He ignored her, his no-nonsense stare sliding over every man, before reconnecting with their leader. “But, tog'oiak'…thank you, I am honored you approve.”
A clop of hooves sounded, then several mounted warriors ambled around a thicket to join the group. They were young. Boys, in fact, no older than twelve or so.
Dillon angled a thumb their way. “Couldn’t help but notice they’ve been trailing alongside us on the ridgeline for several miles.”
“They are still young and foolish,” the Indian said.
“I disagree. You are training them well. Others unfamiliar with your people would not have spotted them.”
The leader pointed at the deer carcasses draping a few of the horses’ rumps. “We are teaching them the ways of Nuu-ci, The People. How to hunt. How to survive.” He then spoke over his shoulder in clipped, garbled sentences, before turning back to face Dillon. “You have come at good time. Senawahv, The Creator, blesses all Nuu-ci. Tonight begins Mack-onsee-pi.”
Dillon nodded, stacking his hands atop the saddle’s swell. “The Bear Dance is a revered tradition for your tribe.”
“You and your woman will join us.”
Join
them? The urge to insist that Dillon beg off the invitation screamed through Alma’s mind.
Instead, he sealed their fate. “We would be honored to attend your celebration of life.”
“We go now. To village.” As the Indians turned their mounts, the leader motioned Dillon to follow behind them, adding, “Morning Bird is making special food for tonight. She will be happy to see you again.”
Morning Bird? Alma stiffened as jealousy sputtered through her. The image of the tiny, cobalt-blue bottle inside Dillon’s saddlebags returned. Had he bought the scent for this woman? The thought of his attentiveness focused on any female other than her further tightened Alma’s nerves. With a huff, she swished open the miniscule parasol and blocked the late-afternoon sun. Unable to stop herself, she glanced once more at Dillon.
His dark-eyed gaze pierced hers.
Alma shifted an eyebrow, an extra helping of hauteur underscoring her tone. “Morning Bird?”
His smile was slow in coming, but no less unsettling as lines of amusement bracketed his mouth. “Relax, Princess,” he said, his voice as smooth as watered silk. “Morning Bird is his woman.” Patting her stomach, he leaned lower, his breath brushing warm against her eye. Where he pressed, her muscles tightened. “I’ve already got mine right here.”
Alma flushed, her pulse ratcheting up another notch. Her glare landed upon the rump of the closest horse as heat climbed her neck.
This man drove her crazy with inexplicable…what?
“First wolves. Now bears,” she muttered on a tattered whisper. “Lord help me survive Dillon Reed.”
Behind her, much to her chagrin, her protector issued a low chuckle.
***
Alma scoured the land scruffy with brush, wide stands of evergreens, and chiseled mountains that speared upward from the ground. Earlier, Dillon had shared that the Ute nation inhabiting the plateaus of the southern Rockies now grouped together in large bands upon lands deemed, for the moment, unsuitable for the white man. But, every day the tide of miners and new settlers grew in spite of the government’s Treaty of Peace which set aside land for the redskins.
The tenuous ride over the foothills to the isolated Indian camp took nearly an hour, and with each mile, the aches in her body screamed. If only she could have a drink of water, anything to stem the growing restlessness inside her.
Their horse crested a knoll and walked into an open meadow.
Alma gasped as a mishmash of structures shimmered into view. She stared in wonderment, studying the objects. Of various sizes, they had broad circular bases created by wooden poles strapped together. Animal hides or white canvas covered every edifice, and the excess timber at the top of each structure remained uncovered, resembling interlocking fingers against the sky. Are these their homes?
“Teepees,” Dillon said as if reading her thought. “A large one houses thirty people comfortably.” He chuckled. “Women rule the inside, while the men rule everything else.”
“Queen of her castle,” Alma said on a laugh. “They’re fascinating.”
He nodded. “And they’re portable, too. In less than an hour, the whole village can be dismantled. Utes are nomadic and follow their resources.”
As they rode closer to the camp, Alma collapsed her parasol and narrowed her gaze. The Indian village lined both sides of a shallow creek for nearly a quarter of a mile. Prime location. Water always available.
Moments later, they entered the strangely remarkable village. Dozens of half-naked children raced alongside them, their laughter rising in gleeful waves. Mongrel dogs barked, loping in black and brown and white furry blurs beside the youngsters. With feathers ruffling, chickens darted in madcap melee, their loud squawking accentuating displeasure at this newest disturbance into their lives.
Movement everywhere fought for Alma’s attention. She spied women dressed in all manner of colorful cloth and fringed animal hides spilling from the assorted dwellings. In a garbled tongue, they called for the youngsters, sweeping the smallest ones into their arms.
The scent of cooking meat filled the air as the horse galloped past. Though crude, the domesticity of the village unfolded around her. Fieldstone fire rings haphazardly dotted the ground between the dwellings. Animal furs draped over boulders and boxes creating cushioned seating. Elderly women occupied several of the makeshift chairs, overseeing the cooking preparations. Near their feet, brown-skinned infants strapped inside cradleboards leaned against the boulders, gourd-shaped water bottles within their caretakers’ easy reach. And everywhere Alma looked she saw baskets of potatoes, drying corn, and bars that glistened with strips of drying meat.
She narrowed her gaze on wooden tripods angled over the many fires. Iron or clay pots suspended from every one. Curlicues of steam rose from the vessels, wafting the incredible aromas into the air.
Ignoring her stomach’s rumbling, she turned. Near the creek on her right, young boys practiced with their bows, shooting arrows into reed mat targets. Further downstream, several Indian boys perched atop wooden railings, watching over dozens of horses and sheep eating inside a handful of corrals.
The group rode deeper into the compound. At the gate to the closest corral, the Indians halted their horses and then dismounted. Dillon rode on toward the largest teepee at the end of the long row. He pulled back on the gelding’s reins and stopped.
Standing before the canvas dwelling, a broad-shouldered man smiled up at them. With a large, well-shaped head and regular features, he exuded an air of dignified authority. Like the others, he wore his hair in two long plaits. Brightly-stained deerskins clothed his stocky frame, and a setting sun splashed golden across the trade beads that ornamented his garment. His left hand, blue-veined and bony, clutched an ebony cane.
A large, gleaming brass medallion suspended from a bright blue ribbon around his neck drew Alma’s attention. Even from where she sat atop the horse, she easily read the words President A. Lincoln’s Peace Medal.
Without any words of explanation or direction to her, Dillon dismounted. His spurs chinked as he hit the ground. In two strides he stood before the Indian. His palm slid against the man’s, and they shook hands. “Chief Ouray,” he said, his words laced with respect. “I am honored to see you again.”
Chapter Twenty
Firelight rippled across the walls of the teepees as women clad in fringed deerskin and brightly colored beads moved to the beat of drums and melodic chants. In accompaniment, dozens of men rubbed long sticks with smaller ones, producing an unusual swishing sound that lent another layer to the hypnotic experience.
Intrigued by the events unfolding before her, Alma sat near the teepee she and Dillon were given to share this night. Never had she witnessed such bizarre steps or heard the creation of such warbling chants. Still, she found herself tapping her fingers against the thick buffalo pelt spread beneath her, keeping beat with the mesmerizing cadence.
“The Bear Dance honors the season of strength and renewal for them,” Dillon explained from her right, his attention remaining on the dancers.
She pointed to the notched instruments the men held. “What are those sticks?”
“They’re called moraches, growlers. Most are made from deer spines. When they’re rubbed up and down with a stick, the sound mimics that of a bear emerging from its den in the spring.”
Fascinating. “How long do they dance?”
“Until only one squaw is left standing.”
He took a swig from a bottle handed to him earlier, then passed the leather-wrapped container to her. “It’s called Shrub. Try it.”
She stared at him, blinking. “I-Is it…safe?” Though earlier they’d eaten a meal of succulent elk, roasted-in-the-fire sweet potatoes, and ears of corn which had tasted wonderful, Alma held reservations about the drink.
Dillon speared her a warning glance. “They take offense if visitors refuse their hospitality. Have a sip.”
She hesitated, then brought the bottle to her lips and swallowed. An explosion of flavors, some sou
r, others sweet, passed over her tongue. “It’s delicious.”
Satisfaction filled his gaze. “That’s the crushed berries you’re tasting.”
With the tingle of the drink still on her tongue, she took a big gulp.
“Go easy on that, Princess. It may taste good, but it’s full of whiskey.”
“Is this called fire-water?”
He chuckled. “Some like to call it that, too.”
Shimmers of warmth danced in her head, and more relaxed, Alma shot him back a smile. “Well, this tastes better than any of that vile liquor you men like to consume.” Lifting the vessel in a mock toast, she took another swig.
“Do you need a reminder that you tend to get tipsy? Now give it back.” He reached over, but laughing, she held the bottle out of his reach. “No. No. I mustn’t be inhospitable.”
With a snicker, he shook his head. “Suit yourself, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
As the music heightened Alma’s senses of the star-filled night, the soft warmth of the alcohol lulling her, they talked and shared the ceremonial drink. All the while, half-naked children darted around the festivities, tending to the many fire pits scattered alongside the creek. With the added logs, sparks shot heavenward and the flames licked high, washing an enchanting glow across the encampment.
Alma sighed and relaxed even more. This night contrasted sharply against all she’d ever dreamed of doing, and the fashionable soirees and balls she’d attended back east put this savage event to shame. And yet…no words could explain the enthralling appeal of everything unfolding around her. As the moon edged from behind wispy clouds, the Indian who’d led them into camp earlier walked toward them. At his side, Morning Bird, a woman Alma had met earlier at dinner, wore a beautifully fringed doeskin dress, complimented by a bright red blanket draping her shoulders.