Feather in the Wind

by Madeline Baker

  Swallowing the bile that rose in her throat, she removed the bandages. Blood seeped from the ragged hole.

  “I think it needs stitching,” she remarked.

  “Do it then.”

  “I can’t. I’ll get Hester.”

  “Su-san-nah…”

  But she was already out of the barn and running for the house.

  Hester listened intently to what she had to say, gathered up her medical supplies and a fresh pot of tea, and followed Susannah to the barn.

  “This is Hester,” Susannah said. “She’s going to help you.”

  Hester smiled at Black Wind reassuringly as she examined the wound, front and back.

  “Don’t worry,” she said. “Shouldn’t take more than a half-dozen stitches to put you to rights. The entry wound’s closed up nice.”

  Quickly and efficiently, she wiped away the blood and washed the wound, disinfected his side with carbolic, threaded a slender silver needle.

  Nausea churned in Susannah’s stomach. She was thinking maybe she had better wait outside when Black Wind reached for her hand.

  “Su-san-nah, do not go.”

  She stared into his eyes, deep black eyes filled with pain, eyes that begged her to stay. With a sigh of resignation, she settled herself beside him, her back turned toward Hester, Black Wind’s hand cradled in her lap.

  “This will likely hurt a bit,” Hester told Black Wind. “Try not to move.”

  Tate Sapa nodded, his gaze fixed on Susannah’s face.

  Susannah squeezed his hand, felt his fingers tighten around hers as Hester began to stitch the ragged edges of the wound together. Sweat dotted his brow; his jaw was rigid, but he didn’t move.

  Susannah swallowed hard, certain she was going to vomit up the big breakfast she had consumed earlier. She could hear the soft whisper of the thread being drawn through his mutilated flesh. His fingers were crushing her hand. His face was scored by deep lines of pain. His gaze never left her face.

  She tried to smile reassuringly though she felt like crying. She’d had stitches once, a long time ago, but they had given her a shot to numb the pain so that she hadn’t felt anything at all. And then the nurse had given her a big red lollipop to make her smile. Knowing it was silly, she wished she had a red lollipop to give him.

  “There,” Hester said. “All done.” She dabbed at the wound, mopping up the blood, then bandaged his side once again. “It don’t seem to be infected,” she said cheerfully. She glanced at the untouched bowl of broth, then looked at Susannah. “You make sure he drinks all that broth and the tea, and you make him drink as much water as he can hold.”

  “I will. Thank you, Hester.”

  “Le mita pila,” Tate Sapa said. “My thanks also.”

  “Glad to help out. You mind what I said, young man. You eat, then get some rest,” Hester said, and gathering up her things, she left the barn.

  “Pilamaya, Su-san-nah.”

  She looked down at their linked hands, his so big and brown, hers so much smaller. “I didn’t do anything.”

  “You could have left me to die.”

  “No, I couldn’t.” She drew her hand away from his and reached for the bowl. “I want you to drink this, then get some sleep.”

  He nodded, and she uncovered the bowl and began to feed him.

  When he had eaten all he could, she held the cup for him. He started to refuse but, seeing the look of determination in her eyes, he drank it down, deciding it would be quicker to do it than to argue.

  When he was settled back on the blanket, he reached for her hand again. She could feel the tension thrumming through him as he closed his eyes, felt a wave of tenderness surge through her as he drifted off to sleep, her hand still tightly held in his.

  With a sigh, she eased her hand from his and went up to the house, drawn by the promise of a hot bath and a change of clothes.

  * * * * *

  He began to heal quickly after that. He slept most of the time. Susannah spent much of her time simply sitting beside him, watching him sleep, surprised that she felt the need to do so.

  Some afternoons she spent up at the house with Hester. She learned to make a cake from scratch, learned now to make candles and how to bake bread.

  Now, it was morning and she was standing at the stove, stirring a pot of oatmeal that she had prepared entirely on her own. She ladled some into a bowl, sprinkled it with brown sugar, then covered it with a cloth and set it on a tray next to a thick slice of bread and a cup of tea.

  Humming softly, she walked down to the barn.

  Black Wind was sitting up, scowling.

  “Are you hungry?” she asked.

  Black Wind stared up at her, thinking how pretty she looked as she sat down and spread her skirts around her. He had never known anyone who moved with such unconscious grace.

  “I thought maybe you were tired of broth, so I made you some oatmeal.” She uncovered the bowl, then dipped the spoon into the bowl, frowning when he refused to open his mouth. “What’s wrong?”

  “I am not a child. I do not need you to feed me.” He regretted the words as soon as they were spoken, but he could not call them back. It angered him that he was weak; he resented the fact that he was dependent upon her. He was a man, a warrior, not an infant. He did not want her mothering him or feeling sorry for him.

  “Oh, well, fine. Here, feed yourself then.” Susannah dropped the spoon into the bowl, then thrust the bowl into his hands. Then, her lips drawn in an angry line, she scrambled to her feet and flounced out of the barn.

  He swore as she slammed the heavy door behind her, cursed the Bluecoats who had shot him, cursed his own helplessness.

  He ate all the oatmeal, intrigued by its sweetness, ate the bread, drank the tea, made use of the chamber pot, then settled back on the blanket and closed his eyes.

  Scattered images flickered through his mind: the majestic peaks of the Paha Sapa, the vast rolling prairie awash with sunlight, quiet nights along the Tongue River, when the air was still and the earth was at peace.

  He thought of his father, crippled in the last battle against the Army, and wondered how his father had survived the winter without him.

  He thought of Wakinyela, and wondered if she was still waiting for him, or if, in his absence, she had turned to another.

  Belatedly, he wondered if the Army would come looking for him.

  But mostly he thought of Susannah, his body hardening at the memory of the morning he had awakened to find her lying beside him. Susannah, with her pale golden skin and curly brown hair; Susannah, with her expressive brown eyes and husky voice. She had plagued his thoughts since the day he saw her in vision. And now she was here. What did it mean?

  Hearing the sound of her footsteps, he struggled to sit up.

  Without knowing why, he dragged the soldier coat toward him and searched the pockets for the feather. When he found it, he slipped it under the straw behind his head.

  Susannah regarded him for a minute, then, with a grimace, she picked up the chamber pot, took it outside, and emptied it in the outhouse. Disgusting, she mused as she rinsed it out under the pump, then made her way back to the barn.

  “I’m sorry I got angry,” she said. She placed the pot in a corner of the stall.

  She waited a moment, hoping he would apologize too, and then shrugged when none was forthcoming. “How are you feeling?”

  “I have been better.”

  A faint smile tugged at the corners of her lips. “Can I get you anything else?”

  “I want to go outside.”

  “I don’t think you should get up yet.”

  “I do not care what you think, woman. I am going outside.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  She stood back, her arms crossed over her breasts, while he struggled to his feet.

  He was breathing heavily by the time he managed to stand up. Feeling lightheaded, he stood with his back against the side of the stall. Sweat dripped from his brow; his stomach felt queasy. />
  Susannah looked up at him. He towered over her, tall and broad-shouldered. Still, for all his bulk, she thought she could probably knock him over with no more than a harsh look.

  “Still want to go outside?” she asked.

  Gritting his teeth, he nodded.

  “Men,” she muttered, and stepping forward, she slipped her arm around his waist. “Lean on me then.”

  It was not a totally unwelcome idea. Stooping a little, he draped his arm around her shoulders. Side by side, they walked slowly out into the sunlight.

  Tate Sapa tilted his head back and took a deep breath, basking in the warmth of the sun on his face, the fresh clean smell of earth and wind.

  Abe was chopping wood down by the stream. Susannah saw Hester hanging clothes on the line that stretched between the back of the house and a solitary tree.

  Susannah glanced at Black Wind. “Do you want to sit down?”

  “No. I must walk.”

  “Walk? If I let go of you, you’d probably fall flat on your face.”

  He looked at her for what seemed like an eternity, his dark gaze holding her own, until she felt as if her insides were melting like chocolate left too long in the sun.

  “Then,” he said, very softly, “do not let me go.”

  Do not let me go. His words, innocent as they were, sent shivers down her spine. His skin was warm beneath her hand. She could feel his hip pressed intimately against her own, feel the weight of his arm resting on her shoulders.

  She took a step forward and his thigh brushed against hers.

  Taking slow steps, they made their way toward the narrow stream that cut behind the house.

  Susannah slid a furtive glance in Black Wind’s direction. There were fine lines of pain around his eyes, a determined set to his mouth. Men, she thought disgustedly. Always needing to prove how macho they were. She knew every step had to be causing him pain, yet he walked doggedly onward.

  He was breathing heavily by the time they reached the stream. A fine sheen of perspiration coated his brow.

  Susannah jerked her chin toward a deadfall near the water’s edge. “You’d better sit down before you fall down,” she muttered.

  This time he didn’t argue. She wanted to help him, but she had a feeling he wouldn’t have appreciated the gesture just now.

  With a shake of her head, Susannah viewed the countryside. It was peaceful here by the river. Lacy cottonwoods grew near the stream, their leaves fluttering in the breeze. Long-stemmed plants and tiny flowers in rainbow colors grew along the banks. Early morning sunlight danced over the water, sparkling like diamonds tossed by a careless hand. A chorus of birds chirped in the treetops.

  “It’s pretty here,” Susannah remarked. Sitting down, she removed her shoes and stockings and tested the water with her toes. With a yelp, she jerked her foot from the river. “Geez, it’s freezing cold!”

  “It is always cold,” Tate Sapa remarked with a grin. “The water comes from high in the mountains.”

  “Well, you could have warned me,” Susannah muttered. “It feels like it came from an iceberg.” Drying her feet, she pulled her heavy cotton stockings back on. “Where did you learn to speak English so well?”

  “From a white boy we took prisoner. I taught him to speak Lakota, and he taught me to speak his language. My friends ridiculed me for learning the wasichu tongue, but it came easy to me. My uncle encouraged me. He said it would be a good thing, for one of our people to speak the white man’s language.”

  “I would think more of your people would have wanted to learn.”

  “Why?”

  Susannah shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess I’m guilty of feeling that everyone should speak English. It’s quite a sore spot where I come from. What happened to the boy?”

  “He was killed by the Crow when they raided our village two summers ago.”

  “Oh.” She plucked a blade of grass and twirled it between her thumb and forefinger. “How long were you in jail?”

  “Since last winter.”

  Susannah pictured the grimy little cell. The idea of being locked up in such a place made her shudder. “That’s a long time.”

  Tate Sapa nodded. He had endured the lack of food, the hard work, the derision of the soldiers, the cruel beatings, without complaint.

  He was a warrior, accustomed to hardships. But he had never been forced to endure anything as loathsome, as humiliating, as being shackled and confined in the white man’s iron-barred house. Being imprisoned had stripped him of his dignity. He was Lakota, accustomed to the freedom of the plains. It had cut deep into his pride to be locked up, to have his steps curbed by a length of thick chain.

  He was a warrior, unaccustomed to taking orders, to being forcibly compelled to obey or be whipped like a dog. Among the Lakota, a man was free to travel whatever road he chose, to fight or make peace, to be a warrior or to sit with the women. The idea of one Lakota giving orders to another was unheard of.

  Head back, he drew in a deep breath. He was free now.

  Soon, he would return to his people…

  A movement caught his eye. Turning his head, he saw Susannah walking downstream, pausing now and then to pick the flowers that grew in scattered clumps along the shore.

  Her hips swayed provocatively as she walked. Her movements were graceful as she bent to pluck a bright pink bloom. Heat spiraled through him, pooling in his groin.

  His mouth went dry as she turned and started walking toward him. The sun streaked her hair with gold. There was a smile on her lips as she bent her head to smell the colorful bouquet in her hands.

  As she approached, he rose slowly to his feet, his heart pounding like a Lakota war drum.

  “Su-san-nah.”

  “Are you ready to go back?” she asked. “I think…” Her words trailed off as she saw the heat smoldering in his eyes.

  And then he was reaching for her, his movements slow and deliberate so as not to surprise or frighten her, giving her plenty of time to back away.

  “Oh,” she murmured, and knew she had been waiting, hoping, for just this moment since the day she had first seen him in the guardhouse.

  He placed his hands on her shoulders and drew her toward him, until all she could see were his eyes—deep, dark pools of liquid ebony. She swayed toward him, the flowers tumbling from her hands as she wrapped her arms around his waist, tilted her head back and closed her eyes.

  After a moment, she opened her eyes to find him staring down at her. “Kiss me,” she whispered.

  She saw the confusion in his eyes. Did Indians kiss? If not, it was time he learned. And before she could change her mind, she drew his head toward hers and pressed her lips to his.

  His lips were warm and firm and hesitant. For a man who probably had never kissed a woman before, he learned quickly. Between one breath and the next, he was pressing his lips to hers. Mindful of his injured side, she tried not to hurt him as she pressed against him, wanting to be closer. His skin was hot beneath her fingertips as she stroked his back and shoulders.

  Some small part of her brain that was still functioning told her it was madness to kiss him like this, but her body had no interest in what her mind had to say.

  Rising on tiptoe, she deepened the kiss, her tongue sliding over his lower lip. He drew back in surprise, then slanted his mouth over hers and explored her lips with his tongue.

  He gasped when her tongue met his, and then, with a low groan, his mouth devoured hers, making her heart soar and her insides turn to jelly.

  His hands moved restlessly up and down her back, then cupped her buttocks and held her tightly against him, letting her feel the hard evidence of his desire.

  Susannah moaned softly. She had been kissed many times, but none had ever affected her like this. She felt as though she were spinning out of control, as if she had no mind or will of her own, no thought save to yield her heart and soul to the man whose kiss turned her thoughts to mush and had every nerve in her body humming with pleasure. She ran her
hands over his arms, arms that were rock-hard and quivering with tension.

  “Su-san-nah?” He drew back, his dark eyes smoldering with passion.

  She stared up at him, her thoughts in turmoil as her conscience struggled to make itself known. She wanted him, she thought, wanted him desperately. But there could be no future for the two of them. The question of morality aside, she would only be asking for heartbreak if she gave herself to this man, because there was no way they could ever have a life together.

  She took a deep breath and then, slowly, shook her head. “No, I can’t.”

  He went very still, his gaze fixed on hers. “Because I am Lakota?”

  “No.”

  “Do not lie to me, Su-san-nah.” His voice was harsh, edged with anger.

  “I’m not lying! I…I just can’t.”

  He looked at her for a long moment, then he turned his back on her and began walking toward the barn.

  “Black Wind, wait.” She grabbed her shoes and stockings and hurried after him. “Let me help you.”

  “I do not need your help, white woman.”

  Feeling as though he had slapped her, she came to an abrupt halt. She hadn’t meant to hurt him. Why couldn’t he understand? Surely he must know they could have no future together. And then she frowned. He might be an Indian, but he was a man too, and like every other man, he wasn’t interested in the future, only in what he wanted now.

  She waited until he had a good lead on her, and then she followed him. He walked slowly, one hand pressed to his wounded side. It annoyed her no end to realize she wanted to run after him, to slip her arm around his waist and have him lean on her again.

  When they reached the Micklins’ place, Susannah veered off toward the house, suddenly feeling the need to be with Hester.

  “Oh there you are,” Hester remarked as Susannah stepped into the kitchen. “I sent Abe down to the barn to fetch you for dinner, but he couldn’t find you.”

  “We went for a walk.”

  “Oh,” Hester said, beaming. “Your man—what’s his name, anyway?”

  “Black Wind.”

  Hester nodded. “He must be feelin’ better.”

  “Much better,” Susannah muttered dryly.

  “Well now, that’s good. I kept a plate warm for the two of you.” She reached into the oven and removed a covered platter. “This should tide you over until suppertime.”