Chieftain (Historical Romance)

by Nan Ryan

  “Oh, hush, you wouldn’t like it,” she told him. He didn’t believe her. He barked his disagreement. “Very well, you may have a taste,” she said.

  She took a ladle down off the wall, scooped up a tiny bit of the salty broth, sank down to her heels and poured the steaming liquid into Pistol’s bowl. He anxiously lapped at the broth, raised his head, gave her a questioning look, turned and walked away.

  “I told you!” she said.

  Maggie put tea in the kettle, ready for boiling. She laid out snowy-white bandages, a tincture of iodine and a tin of pain tablets. Then she filled a pan with warm water and placed a half-dozen clean washcloths and a couple of large towels beside it.

  Everything at the ready, she paced impatiently, waiting for the middle of the cold winter night.

  Finally the time had come.

  Maggie drew a dark cape around her shoulders, raised the hood up over her flaming hair and, bending down on her heels, took the curious wolfhound’s great head between her hands.

  She said, “Pistol, we are going after Shanaco. You must be very, very quiet when we step outside. You are not to make a sound. Do you hear me?” Panting, Pistol shook his head excitedly.

  Maggie rose to her feet. She looked around for the baseball bat her Indian students used. The large wooden bat rested against the door frame. Maggie picked it up and carefully concealed it inside her long, flowing cape. She drew several anxious breaths and opened the door.

  Woman and dog slipped through the winter darkness. They went directly toward the fort’s deserted parade ground as the first few flakes of snow began to fly. Warning the dog again, Maggie peeked around the corner of a darkened barracks and sighed with relief.

  The one sleepy sentry was slouched against a barrack’s wall.

  Firmly gripping the baseball bat with both hands now, Maggie motioned for Pistol to stay put. He obeyed. She stole silently forward, praying the guard would not stir and see her.

  He didn’t.

  Head falling onto his chest, he was half dozing. Maggie lifted her eyes heavenward, said a little prayer, stepped up and beaned the unsuspecting guard soundly with the baseball bat. He slumped to the ground, having no idea what had hit him.

  Twenty-Six

  Maggie turned and softly called to Pistol. The wolf-hound silently flashed forward, then waited his turn as Maggie, laying the bat aside, swiftly untied the unconscious Shanaco’s hands and feet from the flag-pole. He fell forward, despite her best efforts to support him with her body. Maggie winced, hoping she hadn’t hurt him further. She sank to her knees beside him and struggled to turn him over onto his back. Pistol sniffed at the unmoving man, his pale amber eyes riveted on Shanaco.

  “Old friend, you must help me get him to the cottage,” Maggie told the silver-furred creature.

  Pistol was so excited he started to bark, but Maggie quickly put her hands to his jaws, silencing him. Thinking fast, she shoved the narrow handle of the bat through Shanaco’s belt loop and twisted the bat around, securing it. She then rose and gripped the large end of the bat. By now Pistol had Shanaco’s shirt collar firmly between his sharp canine teeth.

  “Okay, let’s move,” Maggie whispered.

  Together she and Pistol dragged the unconscious man across the silent quadrangle as the midnight sky opened up and began to furiously spit huge flakes of snow. A heavy snowfall that would mercifully conceal any tracks and leave Shanaco’s escape a mystery.

  “Thank God,” Maggie silently murmured as the snow fluttered down and wet her cheeks.

  Out of breath, heart throbbing painfully, Maggie, with Pistol’s help, dragged Shanaco across the darkened parade ground. But just when she had almost gotten Shanaco to safety, the silence of the still night was shattered by a drunken baritone she recognized as that of Sergeant Merlin Sparks.

  “The rose is red,

  The grass is green,

  The day is past,

  That we have seen.”

  “Damnation!” Maggie muttered under her breath. Just when she thought she’d pulled it off, the big, drunken Sergeant Merlin Sparks was weaving around the corner of the quartermaster’s office and onto the quad not twenty-five feet from them. Quickly lowering Shanaco to the ground, Maggie unhooked the bat from his belt loop, raised it and stood ready to face the approaching Sergeant Sparks.

  The excited wolfhound raced away, shot around the quad in the shadows and rushed Sparks from the rear, fangs bared. Pistol pounced with the full force of his two hundred pounds onto the unsuspecting man’s back, knocking the drunken brute to the bricked sally port. His forehead striking the brick with a thud, Sparks lay sprawled there facedown, out cold.

  Maggie released her breath and lowered the bat. Leaving two unconscious troopers behind, she and Pistol finally got the heavy Shanaco to her cabin and inside. Managing to kick the door shut behind them, she and the wolfhound tugged Shanaco directly to the warming fire and the clean sheet spread out on the floor.

  Maggie hurriedly threw off her cape, fell to her knees and drew a labored breath. She put a hand on her hurting chest, sucked her bottom lip behind her teeth and stared at the prostrate Shanaco. Panting rapidly, Pistol sank down onto his haunches and looked from one to the other.

  Compassion swept through Maggie as she gazed at this poor, helpless man who had been severely beaten. He was badly hurt. Had been brutally pummeled. All over. Maggie knew that she had to undress him. That presented no problem. No affront to her modesty. She had, after all, on more than one occasion assisted with the infirm and wounded since her arrival at the fort.

  Shanaco would not be the first male she had seen sans clothing. Maggie eased the baseball bat out Shanaco’s belt loop and thrust it at Pistol. The dog leapt up, took the bat handle in his mouth and raced across the room. He dropped the bat at the door frame and hurried back.

  Maggie rolled up her sleeves and went to work. From her sewing box she took a pair of embroidery scissors and began cutting away Shanaco’s tattered clothes. With Pistol’s help, she managed to swiftly strip Shanaco bare.

  Maggie felt her face immediately grow hot. She swallowed hard, sank back on her heels and guiltily examined him.

  Battered, bruised and bloody, he remained a beautiful human being. In the prime of his vigor. Physically perfect. Handsomer than any man she’d ever seen, even badly beaten as he was.

  The bronzed skin, the broad shoulders, the slim hips, the long legs. The steely muscles in his powerful thighs. The broad, hairless chest rising and falling with his shallow breathing. The washboard stomach. The flat belly and the…the…

  Maggie scolded herself and swirled a clean white towel over Shanaco’s groin. Tossing his ruined clothing aside, she sprang to her feet and went for the pan of water and washcloths. She threw a couple more logs on the fire. The flames blazed up, snapping and crackling.

  Gently, taking great care not to hurt him further, Maggie bathed Shanaco’s many fresh abrasions and bruises. She started on his battered face. Using denatured alcohol and boiled water, she cleaned away the dried blood from his temple, his ear, his jaw, his chin. When she applied a clean swab to his mouth, cautiously tracing his cut bottom lip, he moaned softly and she yanked her hand away. Her heart beating in her ears, she waited several long seconds to see if he was waking.

  He wasn’t.

  He lay there unconscious, his eyes closed, his lean, naked body stretched out before her. Maggie tossed aside a blood-streaked cloth and reached for a fresh one. She worked her way down his battered body, sponging his broad, coppery chest with the tender care with which one would bathe a helpless infant.

  As she worked, she thoroughly inspected him. There were, marring the perfection of his magnificent body, battle scars from his warrior days. Just below his rib cage on his right side a white slashing scar looked to have been made by a soldier’s slicing bayonet. A long-healed bullet wound had left a telltale scar on his muscular left thigh. Many other smaller scars were a testament to his many battles.

  No doubt
some of the fresh wounds he had suffered at the hands of the troopers would leave their marks, as well. Maggie frowned suddenly. She picked up Shanaco’s right hand and stared at it. Fresh teeth marks on his thumb. Had one of the troopers bitten him? Or had Lois Harkins bitten him in the throes of passion?

  Frowning, Maggie placed his hand back at his side. She continued with her compassionate ministering, tossing aside soiled cloths, dipping clean ones into freshly poured water. At last she had bathed every part of his body.

  Except one.

  Hand beginning to shake now, she eased the covering sheet off, pushed it aside. She caught herself holding her breath as she began to bathe the smooth flesh of Shanaco’s drum-tight belly. She tried, without success, to keep her eyes off that most male part of him. The soft flesh lay at rest amid a swirl of dense raven curls.

  But apparently it hadn’t been that way in Lois’s presence.

  Maggie closed her eyes against the hurtful vision of Shanaco and Lois making love—not rape—love. The two of them writhing naked in Shanaco’s bed. Then Lois lying to cover her tracks.

  Maggie opened her eyes and sighed heavily.

  “How could you?” she asked the unconscious man. “Didn’t I tell you she would get you in trouble! Now look what you’ve done!”

  Gritting her teeth so hard her jaws ached, Maggie finished the healing bath and placed bandages where they were most needed. She then rose to her feet, went for a cup of water and came back to him. She attempted to give Shanaco a sip of the water. He did not swallow, so she spread the water over his lips. And shivered involuntarily when his mouth opened slightly and he licked at his gleaming bottom lip.

  “Pistol,” she said, snapping her fingers, “we have to get him to bed now.”

  Using the sheet beneath him, Maggie and Pistol dragged Shanaco across the floor to the bed. Once there, Maggie turned about and sat down on the edge of the mattress. She raised her skirts, threw her leg over him and clamped his wide shoulders between her knees. Then groaning, she began lifting him. It took everything she had, but she finally managed to get Shanaco up onto the bed. Only trouble was, she was under him.

  Her arms around him, wrists locked across his stomach, she had tugged so hard she had fallen over onto the mattress, bringing him with her. His long, loose hair was in her face and his back was pressing heavily on her breasts. She lay there a minute to renew her strength and allow her heartbeat to slow.

  Pistol was now barking his protest and jumping up on the unconscious man, supposing that Shanaco was a threat to his mistress.

  As she lay there panting for breath, Maggie suddenly found the situation humorous. She began laughing uncontrollably. Here she was, flat on her back, pinned to the bed by a big, unconscious man who was totally naked. Maggie quickly sobered.

  Shanaco was badly hurt and this was no laughing matter.

  Straining, she unclasped her hands from around his body, braced them against his upper back, shoved him up a little and scrambled out from under him. Gasping for breath she turned him about on the bed. She scooted off the mattress and lifted his legs from the floor. When finally he was fully stretched out in the bed, she shoved him to the bed’s center, lifted his head and put a pillow beneath it. Then she gave a great whoop of joy at a task well done.

  Maggie carefully spread the sheet and blanket up over him, tucking both in around his bare, bronzed shoulders. Exhaling with relief, she knelt beside the bed, tilted her head to one side and gazed at him. His long raven hair was fanned out on the pillow, his handsome face in repose, eyes closed, thick dark lashes resting on the high cheekbones, full lips parted slightly. Despite all the cuts and bruises, he looked so young and peaceful he might have been a mere boy who’d been in his first fight.

  But Shanaco was no boy. And this was not the first time he’d been in serious trouble.

  “You’re safe now, Shanaco,” Maggie whispered to the sleeping man.

  Twenty-Seven

  Throughout the cold, snowy night Maggie kept a watchful vigil at Shanaco’s bedside. He did not regain consciousness. Did not move. Lay there deathly still and silent.

  Worried sick, Maggie was torn between seeking out the regimental surgeon and maintaining her silence. She could be endangering Shanaco’s life by eschewing medical aid. But she would certainly be endangering his life if the troopers learned where he was.

  After much soul-searching, Maggie decided that she would wait. At least for the night. If Shanaco hadn’t awakened by sunrise she would have no choice but to reveal his whereabouts. She couldn’t let him die from lack of care.

  Her concern for his welfare intensified when, during the night, Shanaco developed a fever. Maggie pressed a hand to his bruised cheek and found him hot to the touch. Within minutes his teeth began to chatter violently and his lean body shook uncontrollably.

  “Oh, dear Lord,” Maggie murmured. “No, no.”

  She shot up from the chair, crossed the room and tossed more wood on the fire, poking at it, watching it blaze up. She hurried back to the bed to unfold the extra blanket and spread it up over him.

  Still he shook.

  Maggie got down every quilt she owned and laid them over him. “There,” she said, and sat down on the edge of the bed facing him, bracing an arm across his shuddering body. “You’ll warm up now.” She cupped his burning cheek in her hand. “You’ll be fine, just fine. Any minute now you’ll stop shaking.”

  Shanaco’s furious shivering continued. His fever was rising. Maggie was beside herself. She had to do something. She had to get him warm. She considered it for only a moment, then took off her shoes and stockings, lifted one side of the heavy covers and crawled into bed with him.

  She draped an arm over his chest, warily edged a knee atop his thigh and pressed herself close against him in an all-out attempt to transfer her body heat to him. Lying close beside him was like hugging a blazing furnace. Yet his teeth were chattering and she knew he was freezing.

  “I’ll get you warm, Shanaco,” she murmured, pressing her lips to his ear. “I will, I promise. I won’t let you die.”

  For the next two hours Maggie lay holding Shanaco tightly as he shivered and quaked. In his troubled sleep he turned more fully to her, snuggling close, seeking warmth, wrapping his arms around her. Maggie felt as if she were being smothered, but she didn’t pull away.

  The first sign that his fever was beginning to break was when her hand, pressed against his beating heart, grew slightly damp. Then wet. Shanaco was perspiring. Heavily. And he was no longer trembling.

  Maggie sighed with relief. She could get up now. She looked at his sleeping face and a faint smile touched her lips. She pressed her cheek to his. His skin was no longer scorching hot, but cool.

  “Thank God,” she murmured, and reaching a hand up, she smoothed his damp raven hair back off his shiny forehead and temples. She studied him for a long moment, put her lips close to his and whispered softly, “Ah, Shanaco, Shanaco. You bad, beautiful boy. Why did you do it? Didn’t I warn you? No matter. I’ve got you now and it’s going to be all right.” She smiled and added, “Since you no longer need me, I will get up and leave you to rest.”

  But Maggie didn’t move right away. She yawned sleepily. Then sighed deeply. She decided she’d lie there for a minute before she got off the nice warm bed. That was her last waking thought.

  Exhausted, she fell asleep.

  Outside the snow continued to fall, covering the ground with several inches of glistening white crystals and creating drifts against the cottage door and beneath the windows.

  Inside the man and woman slept peacefully together in the soft warm bed while the wolfhound dozed before the dying fire. Near dawn, the sleeping Maggie snuggled more deeply into the mattress.

  Somewhere in her deep subconscious, she became hazily aware that she was pressed against something much warmer than a blanket. Struggling to open her eyes, she finally managed. Slowly she awakened, her lashes leisurely lifting.

  And found a pair of sick
silver eyes fixed on her. For an instant she was confused, then it all came flooding back. She was, she sleepily realized, in bed with the naked Shanaco.

  Suddenly the sound of drumming hoofbeats just outside brought her fully alert. She jumped out of bed, dashed across the room and anxiously wedged a straight-back chair under the doorknob. Shanaco saw what she was doing and asked why it was necessary.

  Maggie said, “First I’ll get you a drink of water, then I’ll tell you everything.”

  In seconds she was helping him hold his head up while he sipped thirstily. “Want another cup?” she asked.

  “No, thanks,” Shanaco replied, his voice raspy.

  Maggie set the cup aside, drew up a chair and said, “You must be wondering what you’re doing here in my cottage and how you got here.” Shanaco gave no response, just looked at her. “You’re in trouble, Shanaco. Bad trouble. The troopers beat you for what you supposedly did to…to…” She shrugged slender shoulders and hurried on, “You were beaten and tied to the flagpole for punishment of your alleged crime. The troopers fully intended to leave you out there all night in the bitter cold. I couldn’t let that happen, so I waited until well past midnight. Then Pistol and I crept out into the darkness and hurried to the parade ground. Once there I….I…well, all right, I admit it, I did a terrible thing,” she said.

  Shanaco’s eyes were riveted on her.

  She continued, “I hit the patrolling night guard on the head with a baseball bat, knocked him out cold. But he never saw me, has no idea what happened.” Shanaco’s cut lips stretched into a hint of a grin. “I clobbered him and then I managed to untie you. Pistol and I had almost gotten you to safety when who shows up but that big brute, Sergeant Sparks, drunk and singing loudly. Before I could make a move, Pistol rushed Sparks from behind, leapt up onto his back and knocked him down. The sergeant hit his head on the brick walk and never moved afterward.” She frowned and said, “That’s why I wedged the chair under the doorknob. I’m worried. We may not get away with this. The sentry didn’t see me, but Sparks might have—”