Feather in the Wind

by Madeline Baker

  “Can I help you with that?” Susannah asked.

  “No, you just rest. You look all done in.”

  In no time at all, Hester served up a bowl of soup, a thick slice of fresh baked bread and a cup of hot tea.

  “I’ll fix a bowl of broth for your man,” Hester said, bustling around the kitchen. “I’ve got some willow bark tea here too. You make him drink all he can hold.”

  The soup was hot and delicious, the bread sweeter than manna from Heaven. Susannah ate ravenously, nodded when Hester asked if she wanted seconds.

  With a sigh, Susannah sat back in her chair, feeling as content as a kitten after lapping up a bowl of cream. “Thank you, Hester. That was wonderful.”

  The other woman waved off her thanks. “Bah, it was just a bowl of soup.”

  “Well, it was the best I’ve ever tasted. The bread too.”

  Hester’s plump cheeks flushed with pleasure, and Susannah had the feeling Abe probably didn’t hand out too many compliments in the course of a day, or a year.

  “Here,” Hester said, placing a tray on the table. “There’s a bowl of soup and a pot of tea. You make sure he eats. Fever’s bound to set in if it hasn’t already.”

  “He’s burning up,” Susannah said.

  Hester nodded. “Well, then, you need to make sure he drinks plenty of that willow bark tea. It’s good for fever.”

  “Thank you,” Susannah said. Rising, she took up the tray and left the house.

  This was a fine turn of events, she thought crossly. The Indian had stolen a horse and kidnapped her, and now she was playing nursemaid when what she ought to do is have Abe throw Black Wind’s butt into the wagon and haul him back to the fort.

  Stepping into the stall, she placed the tray on the overturned milk pail, wondering how she was supposed to get him to eat or drink anything when he seemed to be unconscious.

  Kneeling beside him, she placed her hand to his brow. It was still much too hot. A fine sheen of sweat covered his face and chest.

  “Black Wind? Wake up.”

  He mumbled something incoherent under his breath.

  “Black Wind? Tate Sapa, wake up.”

  His eyelids opened and he stared at her for a long moment before recognition flickered in his eyes. “Su-san-nah?”

  She poured a cup of tea, then slid her arm behind his neck and lifted his head. “Here, drink this.”

  She’d been afraid he would refuse, but he drank greedily.

  “Sanpa.”

  “What?”

  “More.”

  “Oh.” She poured another cup and held it for him. “I’ve got some broth for you.”

  He shook his head, too weary to eat.

  “You’ve got to eat something,” Susannah said. She uncovered the bowl, picked up the spoon, and dipped it into the broth.

  Sitting beside him, she slid her arm under his head again. “Come on, open your mouth.”

  He stared up at her, his black eyes dull with pain.

  “Just a little,” she urged.

  “Not…hungry.”

  “I know, but you need to eat to keep your strength up.”

  Slowly, he opened his mouth and let her feed him. One bite, two, three, and then his eyelids fluttered down and he was asleep. It frightened her, how hot he was. She could feel the heat rising off his body.

  She covered him with a blanket, then sat beside him, wishing that she could do more.

  His fever worsened during the night. Wracked with pain, he tossed and turned, murmuring words she could not understand. She sponged him with cool water, offered him a drink when he was coherent, held him down when he started to thrash about. Chills followed the fever. She covered him with more blankets, but he continued to shiver uncontrollably.

  She thought of all the movies she had seen where the hero and heroine huddled together, sharing their body warmth.

  Muttering, “What the heck,” she slid under the covers and pressed against him. After a moment, he turned toward her, his arms wrapping around her, drawing her close, until she could hardly breathe. Gradually, the shivers that wracked his body quieted and his breathing grew less labored.

  With each minute that passed, she became more aware of the body pressed so intimately against her own. His skin was warm and smooth. She could feel his hard-muscled thighs entwined with hers. His hair was thick and soft. She put her hands on his arms, intending to push him away. Instead, she let her fingertips slide over his biceps. She knew men who worked out every day who would kill to have arms like these, she mused, to have a hard, flat stomach ridged with muscle.

  She closed her eyes, her nostrils filling with the scent of sweat and man, hay and straw, the pungent scent of horses and cows and manure.

  She was aware of his every movement, the featherlight touch of his breath on her cheek, his long bare leg that had somehow found its way beneath her skirts to nestle against her own. She noticed that her heart seemed to be beating in time with his, that his chest was solid and unyielding against her breasts.

  Swallowing hard, she opened her eyes. Light from the lamp bathed his face in a warm golden glow and she thought again how handsome he was. He moaned softly, his face contorting with pain. His arms tightened around her as a tremor shook him from head to foot.

  The fever returned with a vengeance. He pushed her away, threw the blankets aside.

  “Stop it,” she said. “Black Wind, stop thrashing about like that.”

  He stilled at the sound of her voice, and then he was staring at her from fever-bright eyes. “Mni.”

  “What?”

  “Woyatke.”

  “I don’t understand. Speak English.”

  He frowned, as though trying to recall the word in her language. “Woyatke.”

  “You want a drink?” she guessed.

  He nodded weakly.

  Scrambling out from under the blankets, she poured him a cup of tea, held his head up while he gulped it down.

  “Sanpa.”

  It didn’t sound like the word he used for “thank you”, so she made her best guess. “More?”

  He nodded, and she refilled the cup. He drank more slowly this time, then, with a sigh, he closed his eyes, apparently falling asleep between one breath and the next.

  Gently, she lowered his head, drew the covers up to his chin. And then, because she was exhausted and she was too tired to make up another bed, she crawled under the covers, but sleep eluded her. Thoughts buzzed around her mind like bees around a honeycomb. How was she going to get back home? Was it the magic in the eagle feather that had brought her here? What if she could never go back to her own time? What had Lyle thought when he showed up for their date and she wasn’t there? Her friends would be worried by now, her parents in a panic. What if the Army was following them?

  Black Wind tossed restlessly beside her, scattering her thoughts.

  “This is all your fault,” she muttered irritably. “I don’t know how or why, but it is. I just know it.”

  It would be so much easier to hate him if he was old and ugly, she mused, or if he was mean-spirited and obnoxious. Instead, he was just the kind of man she liked to write about—tall, dark and handsome, strong yet tender. The kind of man she had always hoped to marry…

  With a sigh, she closed her eyes. Maybe tomorrow she would wake up in her own bed and find out she had dreamed the whole thing. She wouldn’t miss this place one bit, she thought, but if she could remember it when she woke up, it would make a hell of a story…

  Chapter Eight

  Tate Sapa woke abruptly, plagued by a terrible thirst. His body felt as though it were on fire, his mouth was dry, it was hard to breathe, to think. He brushed a hand across his face, his fingers tangling in long silken strands.

  Frowning, he opened his eyes to find Susannah cuddled up against him, her head resting on his uninjured shoulder, her arm lying across his chest. He wrapped a lock of her hair around his finger, marveling at how soft it was. His own hair was thick and coarse; hers was like da
ndelion down.

  She stirred in her sleep. Though she slept fully clothed, he could feel the warmth, the softness, of her feminine curves brush against his bare skin. The pain in his back and shoulder receded as a new ache made itself known. He did not want to admit that he cared for her, did not want to acknowledge that her nearness had the power to affect him in such a way. He was a Lakota warrior. She was his enemy.

  His enemy…if that were true, why had she appeared to him in his vision? What did it mean?

  He groaned deep in his throat as her hand slid down his chest and over his belly, coming to rest just above the waistband of his clout.

  He took a deep, steadying breath, and his nostrils filled with the warm, sleepy scent of her. He resisted the urge to caress her cheek, to trail his finger over the fullness of her lower lip.

  With an effort, he dragged his thoughts from her lush flesh and tried to concentrate on going home. His people would be leaving their winter camp, bound for higher ground. The women would be repairing tipis ravaged by a harsh winter, the men would be readying their weapons for the hunt.

  And he was lying here, helpless as a newborn foal, his body hard and aching for the woman sleeping at his side.

  Wakán Tanka, unshimalam ye oyate. Great Spirit, have mercy on me…

  She stirred at his side again and he found himself gazing into her eyes, warm brown eyes hazy with sleep. A wave of color washed into her cheeks when she realized how intimately she was pressed against him.

  Overcome with embarrassment, Susannah scrambled out from under the covers. Murmuring something about getting breakfast, she hurried out of the barn. Outside, she took several deep breaths while the crisp morning air cooled her flushed cheeks.

  She had been having one of the most erotic dreams of her life moments before she woke to find herself pressed up against the very man she had been dreaming about.

  She took another deep breath, willing her heart to stop racing, but she couldn’t shake off the memory of that dream. She had been alone in a hide lodge with Black Wind, lying with him on a pile of soft furs while they took turns exploring each other from head to heel. Her palms tingled with the memory of touching his bare flesh, of running her hands over his well-muscled arms, over his chest and belly. How much had been a dream, she wondered, and how much had been reality? And how would she ever face him again?

  With a shake of her head, she walked swiftly up the path to the house. Hoping she looked calmer than she felt, she knocked on the door.

  Hester opened the door, a smile of welcome spreading over her ruddy face.

  “No need to knock,” Hester said, “just come on in whenever you’ve a mind to.” She stepped back so Susannah could enter, then headed toward the kitchen. “Breakfast is almost ready,” she called over her shoulder.

  Susannah followed Hester into the kitchen, wondering if the woman was always so cheerful. Clad in a yellow gingham dress and a huge white apron, with her hair piled on top of her head, Hester Micklin reminded Susannah of a daisy.

  “Sit down, dearie,” Hester invited, waving a hand in the direction of the table. “Here you go.” She pushed a steaming cup of coffee in front of Susannah. “This will take the chill out of your bones right quick.”

  “Thank you. I’m sorry to be so much trouble.”

  “Landsakes, child, you’re no trouble at all. It’s nice having another woman on the place for a change. How’s that man of yours doing this morning?”

  “He’s better,” Susannah murmured, and felt her cheeks flush at the memory of waking up practically lying on top of him.

  Hester nodded. “I’ll have to find you another dress. That one’s powerful wrinkled. Must have been uncomfortable, sleeping in your clothes. I’ll see if I can’t find you a nightgown too.”

  Susannah sighed with regret as she thought of her beautiful Victorian nightgown. It wasn’t good for anything but rags now.

  She sipped the hot bitter brew that passed for coffee on the frontier. She had always heard Western coffee was strong enough to float a horseshoe; now, she believed it. Only a generous helping of sugar and cream made the stuff palatable.

  She had passed Abe on her way to the house. He had scowled at her as she walked by, then went back to forking hay into a corral. She wondered if the man ever smiled, and why Hester, who seemed always cheerful, had married such a grouch.

  “Here you go,” Hester said.

  Susannah stared at the plate that Hester set in front of her. It was piled with scrambled eggs, several thick slices of ham, a mountain of fried potatoes, biscuits and gravy. It was more food than she usually ate in a day.

  “Go on, dig in. I heated some beef broth for your man, although, if he’s anything like my Abe, he won’t put up with broth and weak tea for long.”

  Susannah had barely made a dent in her breakfast when Abe stomped into the kitchen.

  “Sit down, love,” Hester said, smiling at him. “Breakfast is ready.”

  With a grunt, Abe dropped into the chair across from Susannah. A few minutes later, Hester handed him a plate, then joined them at the table.

  Abe ate in silence, all his energy apparently focused on his breakfast, which disappeared at an alarming rate.

  Hester filled up the silence, talking about her garden, the possibility of planting fruit trees, their nearest neighbor who lived over the rise.

  “Well,” Hester said, sitting back and regarding Susannah with a smile. “You look like you could use a bath, a clean dress and a hairbrush. Abe, bring the tub in for me before you go back outside, will you? Oh, and a bucket of water too. That’s a dear.”

  With a scowl, Abe pushed away from the table. “You don’t see me taking no bath in the middle of the week,” he muttered as he stomped out the door.

  “Hester, I don’t want to be a bother.”

  “Landsakes, child, it’s no bother.”

  “But…”

  “Oh don’t you pay Abe no mind. He just likes to complain.” Hester stood up and began clearing the table.

  “Here,” Susannah said, rising to her feet, “let me do that.”

  “Why, thank you, dearie.”

  “It’s the least I can do.”

  “It’s mighty nice, having another woman in the house,” Hester said.

  The backdoor slammed open as Abe came in carrying a bucket of water.

  “Thanks, love,” Hester said. “Don’t forget the tub.”

  With a grunt, Abe left the room.

  Hester fetched a large pan out of a cupboard and filled it with water, then put it on the stove to heat.

  “Uh, Hester?”

  “Something wrong?”

  “I…that is…” Susannah fidgeted. “I need…”

  “Landsakes, the necessary’s out behind the house. I plum forgot to tell you that last night, didn’t I?”

  Susannah nodded, then hurried outside. As she made her way to the outhouse, she quietly cursed the Fates that had sent her to this place, this time. Last night, she had squatted behind a bush, thinking she would write her next book for free in exchange for a roll of toilet paper.

  When she returned to the kitchen, Hester was washing the dishes. Another pan of water was heating on the stove. A large round wooden tub sat in one corner of the room.

  Susannah picked up a cotton dish cloth and began drying the dishes.

  “I’ll take care of the dishes,” Hester said. “Why don’t you go give your man some breakfast? By the time he’s taken care of, your bath should be ready.”

  With a nod, Susannah dropped the towel over the back of a chair.

  “Oh I found an old chamber pot too. It’s there, by the backdoor.”

  “A chamber pot?”

  “For your man, so’s he don’t have to go outside.”

  “Oh.” Susannah stared at the chamber pot. It was round, with a handle on one side. A sudden rush of color heated her cheeks as she imagined offering Black Wind the pot.

  Holding the pot gingerly by the handle, she picked up the bowl
of soup and the spoon, and left the house, thinking that Hester Micklin was one of the nicest women she had ever met.

  * * * * *

  He heard her footsteps long before she entered the stall.

  The scent of cooked beef filled the air, but he had no appetite for food, only an agonizing thirst. He watched her place a bowl on the overturned bucket. Her dress was badly wrinkled, her hair mussed, and there was a flush on her cheeks.

  Susannah took a deep breath. “Do you have to…?” Her gaze slid away from his as she plopped the chamber pot down beside him. “That’s in case you have to…you know.”

  He looked at her quizzically for a moment, then stifled a grin as recognition dawned. He did, indeed, have to.

  Muttering under her breath, she left the barn.

  He could hear her pacing just outside the door while he relieved himself.

  Her cheeks were redder than the wildflowers that grew in the valley of the Little Big Horn when she returned to take the pot away.

  She wouldn’t meet his gaze when she returned to the barn. “How are you feeling this morning?”

  He shrugged, then winced as the movement sent a sharp pain through his injured shoulder.

  The hand she placed on his brow felt cool.

  “You’ve still got a fever,” she remarked. She picked up the bowl of soup and removed the cloth that covered it. “Do you want me to feed you?”

  “No.”

  She handed him the bowl, but he shook his head. “I do not want it.”

  “You’ve got to eat.”

  “No.”

  With a sigh of exasperation, she covered the bowl and set it down on the bucket. “Fine, starve, see if I care.” She glared at him a moment. “I guess I’d better check your wounds.”

  When he didn’t protest, she removed the bandage from his shoulder. To her untrained eyes, it appeared to be healing. In the movies, people always looked for red streaks, but she didn’t see anything that looked ominous. She applied a fresh dressing and rewrapped his shoulder, then drew back the blanket to check the wound in his side. There were fresh bloodstains on the cloth swathed around his middle.