Feather in the Wind

by Madeline Baker

  “But I…” Her voice trailed off as she caught sight of the calendar on the colonel’s desk. The month read April, but it was the year that held her gaze and caused her stomach to drop to the floor. 1870.

  Carter saluted, then grabbed Susannah by the arm and hauled her out of the colonel’s office.

  “Let me go!”

  “You’d best do as the colonel says, ma’am.”

  “Who are the Pedersons? I don’t want to stay with someone I don’t even know, and I’m sure they don’t want me either.”

  “The Pedersons were transferred off the post three days ago. Their hut is empty.”

  That bit of information had her feeling a little better.

  Until she saw the hut. It was a small square building exactly like a half-dozen others, all sitting side by side in a neat row on the north side of the parade ground.

  Smoke was rising from all the chimneys but one.

  Carter opened the door for her, and motioned her inside.

  Hands fisted on her hips, Susannah glanced around the room. It was virtually empty save for a lumpy sofa and a straight-backed chair. White ruffled curtains hung at the window, looking incongruous against the bare wood walls.

  Grimacing, she walked into the kitchen, which was nothing more than a stove, a sink with a pump and a few crudely made shelves.

  “Lovely,” she muttered, thinking of her bright economy kitchen at home. “Just lovely.”

  The bedroom was devoid of all furniture. Limp yellow curtains hung from the single window.

  “You don’t really expect me to stay here, do you?”

  “Colonel’s orders, ma’am.”

  “Well, I don’t care what he says. I’m not staying here.”

  Carter cleared his throat. “I’d do as he says, ma’am.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes ma’am. I know this place don’t look like much, but the guardhouse is a lot worse.”

  “The guardhouse!”

  “Colonel O’Neill doesn’t tolerate disobedience, ma’am.”

  “But…the guardhouse. He’d really do that?”

  Carter nodded. “Yes ma’am. You stay here and make yourself at home,” he said with a crooked grin, “and I’ll be back as soon as I can with some clothes and some breakfast.”

  “Thank you, Lieutenant.”

  “My pleasure, ma’am.”

  “Susannah.”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  With a sigh, Susannah watched him leave, then closed the door after him.

  It was April. 1870.

  Brow furrowed in thought, she wandered through the three small rooms. Bare wood floors with wide gaps between the boards, bare wood walls, a fireplace made of rough stone. This place was beyond rustic, she thought. It was downright primitive!

  So what was she supposed to do now? If seeing was believing, then she had been transported into the past, with no recollection of how she’d gotten here, or any clue as to how to get back where she belonged.

  If she wasn’t in the past, she was having the mother of all nightmares.

  Too nervous to sit still, she paced the floor for several minutes, then went to look out the small front window, her fingers absently stroking the feather. The wavy glass didn’t reveal much of a view—a corner of the parade ground, the barracks and an open stretch of ground where two soldiers stood with their heads together while a third man chopped wood. Unlike the others, he wasn’t wearing Army blue. Indeed, he wasn’t wearing much of anything at all, just a breechclout and moccasins. Heavy iron shackles hobbled his feet. Sweat dripped down his back. His long black hair fell halfway to his waist…

  A chill slithered down Susannah’s spine as the third man turned around. With a gasp, she drew back, one hand clutching her throat. It was him! The Indian in the photograph.

  He looked up then, his gaze finding hers, holding hers, for a moment that seemed to stretch into an eternity. His image imprinted itself on her mind: high cheekbones, well-defined; a broad slash of a nose, a stubborn jaw, straight black brows above deep black eyes. Sweat dripped down his chest, glistened on a pair of well-muscled arms.

  As she watched, one of the soldiers said something, then jabbed his rifle butt into the Indian’s side, apparently ordering him to get back to work.

  The Indian continued to stare at her for several moments and then hefted the ax and went back to the task of chopping wood. He grimaced as he lifted the ax and she wondered how hard the soldier had struck him even as she wondered why such a thing was permitted.

  He turned, and she saw the spider-web of scars that crisscrossed his broad back and shoulders, overlaid with ugly red welts and half-healed lacerations. A thin trickle of blood oozed down his right side. How cruel, she thought, to make him toil in the hot sun when he was injured!

  She stayed by the window, watching the Indian work, admiring the rhythmic play of muscles in his back and shoulders. There was an unconscious grace to his movements, a sense of power tightly leashed. Even covered with dirt and sweat, his feet hobbled, there was something about him, some indefinable air of confidence, that made her think he was a man of some importance among his own people.

  She had never been one to swoon over rippling male muscles, preferring a man with brains to one with brawn, but she couldn’t seem to draw her gaze away, couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to be held in those powerful arms.

  She might have stood there all day if Lieutenant Carter hadn’t returned carrying a covered tray and a small valise.

  He smiled at her when she opened the door. “Breakfast,” he said. He dropped the valise on the floor. “Mrs. MacDougal sent you something to wear. I’m afraid you’ll have to make do with company chow.”

  “That’s all right,” Susannah said. Removing the feather from her wrist, she placed it carefully on the mantel, then sat down on the sofa.

  Carter smiled at her as he handed her the tray. Her enthusiasm quickly died away when she lifted the lid and found herself staring at a lump of beef hash, a thick slice of dry brown bread and a cup of black coffee.

  Carter shrugged “It’s been said that Army cooks have killed more soldiers than redskins,” he said apologetically. “I’ll see if I can’t rustle you up something from the officers’ mess for dinner.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Well, I’ve got to go. Remember, stay inside.”

  “Yes,” she agreed, remembering his threat of the guardhouse, “I will. Thank you, Lieutenant.”

  “I’ll bring you some wood later.”

  Susannah frowned. Wood? “Thank you.”

  He offered her a quick smile, then left the house.

  Susannah poked at the hash with her fork. It didn’t look the least bit appetizing or even palatable, for that matter. She’d seen dog food that looked more appealing. Disregarding the urge to hold her nose, she took a bite, swallowed and put her fork aside. She would make do with bread and coffee and hope for something better for lunch.

  When she finished eating, she put the tray aside and picked up the valise. Inside, she found a long-sleeved white cotton blouse, a long calico skirt, a corset, a beribboned corset cover, which she recognized thanks to her recent visit with the reenactors, white cotton drawers, three white ruffled petticoats, a blue dress with a high neck and long sleeves, a pair of black shoes and two pairs of white cotton stockings. Mrs. MacDougal had thoughtfully included a hairbrush and a bar of lavender-scented soap.

  Slipping off her nightgown, Susannah put on the drawers, the corset cover, the blouse, one petticoat, the stockings and the skirt. She was muttering under her breath by the time she tried on the shoes, which were the right size, but were hard and stiff and uncomfortable.

  She ran the brush through her hair, wishing she had a mirror so she could see how she looked dressed up like Dr. Quinn.

  And then, unable to resist the urge any longer, she went back to the window.

  The Indian was out there, currying a horse. It was, Susannah, thought, the biggest, blackest, mea
nest-looking horse she had ever seen. Cross-tied between stout wooden posts, it twitched its tail and wiggled its ears in a most irritable fashion as the Indian brushed its coat.

  They looked well together, Susannah thought, the wild-looking horse and the wilder-looking Indian.

  Again, as if sensing her presence, the Indian glanced her way, his gaze locking on hers as if magnetized. She felt a swift surge of heat, like an electrical current, flow through her as their gazes met and held.

  She had a sudden, unreasoning urge to go to him, to ask his name, to touch him and see if he was truly flesh and blood, for no other man had ever affected her so strongly. Could it be him, she wondered. Could it really be the warrior from the photograph?

  And if so, what, exactly, did it mean?

  And how in the world was she ever going to get back home?

  Chapter Four

  Tate Sapa grunted softly as one of the soldiers set to watch him lifted his rifle and struck him across the back.

  “Back to work, chief,” the wasichu said with a sneer.

  Tate Sapa forced his attention from the white woman and went back to brushing the colonel’s horse. But it was not the stallion’s sleek black coat he saw, but the woman he had seen at the window. The woman in his vision. What did it mean?

  He spent an hour brushing the stallion. Of all the tasks he was required to do, this was his favorite. The stallion was a beautiful animal, with large intelligent eyes, long legs and a deep chest. Powerful muscles quivered beneath his hand as he drew the brush over the animal’s neck and shoulder.

  He spoke softly to the horse while he worked, and all the while he thought of the white woman and wondered who she was, and if he would see her again.

  At dusk, they took him back to the iron-barred house and locked him inside. He stood in the middle of the floor, taking slow deep breaths. He hated this small closed place. Hated the fetid smell of the prisoners who had been there before him. The floor, the walls, the very air itself reeked of sweat and urine, of fear and desperation. Sometimes, late at night, when sleep would not come and he longed for home, he sensed the restless spirits of those who had died in this wretched place hovering around him.

  Fighting back a wave of hopelessness, he went to the small, iron-barred window. Hands fisted around the thick steel bars, he stared across the compound. He could see the white woman’s house from here. Why had he never seen her before?

  With a sigh, he rested his forehead against the cold iron bars and closed his eyes. Time passed so slowly in this place. He had been here since Waniyetu Wi, the moon of falling leaves, and now it was Wihakakta Wi, the moon of tender grass. The Lakota would be repairing their lodges from the ravages of a harsh winter, preparing to move to higher ground. The young men would be speaking out for war, arguing for vengeance as only the very young can, and he would not be there to dissuade them. Of all the voices in the village, his was the only one that counseled patience, that spoke for peace.

  “Wakán Tanka Tunkaschila onshimala ye,” he murmured. Grandfather Spirit, pity me so that my people may live.

  Minutes passed and still he stood there, the same prayer repeating itself in his heart over and over again, until a gentle warmth spread through him, and he knew she was nearby.

  Lifting his head, Tate Sapa peered into the darkness. And she was there, a slender figure walking in the pale light of the moon. She clutched a blanket around her shoulders to ward off the chill of the night; a long white gown fluttered around her ankles like morning mist. Moonlight silvered her hair.

  Who was she, this white woman? Was she wiyan wakán, a holy woman? She had come to him in vision, and now she was here, walking in the shadows of the night.

  As though feeling his gaze, she turned toward him. Transfixed, he stared at her, his heart pounding like a war drum, his palms sweating though the night was cold.

  His hands tightened around the bars as she moved toward him, and he fought the urge to turn away, to hide. He was a warrior, a man who had counted coup on the enemy, slain matohota, the grizzly bear. He would not cower before one tiny wasicun winyan.

  Lifting his chin and squaring his shoulders, he stood his ground, and waited.

  * * * * *

  Susannah couldn’t explain the overpowering urge that had her walking toward the guardhouse. Tired of being cooped up in the hut all day, she had decided to go out for a breath of air. And then she had felt it, a sudden warmth that had dispelled the chill of the night. She had turned toward the source and seen his face at the window.

  Of their own volition, her legs had carried her across the compound until she stood at the small, iron-barred window.

  Up close, she could see that the black-and-white photograph had not done him justice. His hair was as thick and black as midnight. His skin was the color of sun-burnished copper, but it was his eyes that held her spellbound. Black eyes, as restless as the wind, as fathomless as the ocean. The most beautiful, compelling eyes she had ever seen.

  Time ceased to have meaning as she stood there. She had an almost overpowering urge to reach out and touch his hand, to see if he was real or merely a figment of her all too active imagination.

  Mr. Sandman, send me a dream…

  “I’m Susannah,” she said, and then wondered if he spoke English.

  Clutching the blanket in one hand, she tapped her fingertips to her chest. “Susannah.”

  “Micaje Tate Sapa.”

  Susannah frowned. “Do you speak English?”

  He stared back at her, his expression blank.

  “I guess it was too much to hope for,” she muttered ruefully. “In the movies, the Indians always managed to speak English. Oh well, another Hollywood myth shattered.”

  She smiled self-consciously, unable to look away from his enigmatic gaze.

  A gust of wind blew over the parade ground. She should have been shivering, she thought, but the fire in his eyes held the cold at bay, held the world at bay. In this place, at this moment in time, there were only the two of them. Like a magician, he held her trapped in the power of his eyes and she wondered if she would stand there forever, warmed to the innermost core of her being by his presence, helpless to move, to think, to speak.

  The sound of heavy footsteps broke the spell between them. Susannah’s heart seemed to jump into her throat as she realized someone was coming. Remembering the lieutenant’s dire against venturing outside, she turned and ran for the hut.

  Tate Sapa stared after her until she was out of sight, and then, with a melancholy sigh, he stretched out on the dirty blanket that served as his bed.

  “Su-san-nah.” He whispered her name into the darkness.

  * * * * *

  Wrapped in a blanket, Susannah sat on the lumpy sofa and stared into the fire she had built in the hearth, only it wasn’t the dancing flames she saw, but a pair of ebony-colored eyes set in a ruggedly masculine, ruggedly beautiful face. If he was indeed the Black Wind in the photo, she thought he was well named, for he had looked at her and she had felt as though she were caught in the middle of a hurricane.

  She snuggled deeper into the blanket. Impossible as it seemed, she had been transported into the past. How or why she didn’t know, for how long, she didn’t know.

  She closed her eyes, and the Indian’s image sprang quickly to mind. And suddenly she didn’t feel so alone or quite so far from home.

  * * * * *

  Susannah smiled at Elliott Carter. He had come calling on her that afternoon, inquiring after her health, asking if she would care to go for a walk. She had accepted eagerly.

  They had left the fort to walk along the narrow stream that meandered through a copse of trees a short distance away.

  It was a lovely day. She couldn’t remember ever seeing a sky so big, so blue and clear. It seemed to stretch away forever. Wildflowers bloomed in colorful profusion along the banks of the stream, the trees were bright with new spring growth, the grass spread over the prairie like a carpet of plush emerald velvet. She took a deep bre
ath, inhaling the scent of crushed grass and earth and wildflowers.

  “Miss Kingston, may I ask you something?”

  “Of course, and please, call me Susannah.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Just what I said. I don’t know what I’m doing here, or how I got here.”

  Carter shook his head. “It doesn’t make sense, ma’am.”

  “Susannah.”

  “Susannah,” he repeated with a smile. “I mean, you had to come from somewhere.”

  Indeed, Susannah mused. But you’d never believe me if I told you.

  “Have you been in the Army long?” she asked.

  Carter hesitated, as though he wasn’t quite ready to change the subject, and then he said, “Almost six years.”

  “You must like it.”

  Carter shrugged. “It’s a living.”

  “A hard one, I should think.”

  “At times. I must admit that life on an Army post is monotonous, even boring, at times, but…” He shrugged again. “Being an officer has its advantages. The pay isn’t all that bad, and I feel like I’m serving my country the best way I know how.”

  “I don’t see how it can be boring,” Susannah remarked. “It seems that bugle blows almost constantly, calling the men to do this or that.”

  Carter chuckled. “Yeah, it’s a busy life.”

  “Well, it seems that way to me. Reveille’s at what, six? Breakfast at six-thirty, all those other calls. What are they anyway? Seems like your men spend all day running from one place to the next.”

  “Well, let’s see,” Carter said. “There’s fatigue call at seven-thirty, sick call at eight, assembly for guard detail at nine. Boots and saddles is called at ten of the hour, and drill is at ten. There’s recall at noon, and mess at one. Then there’s drill for target practice and stable call, dinner, and then retreat at nine, and lights out at nine-thirty.”

  “Makes me tired just to think about it,” Susannah muttered. “When do the men ever have time for themselves?”

  “They’re free to do whatever they want when they’re not on duty, so long as they stay within bugle call.”