Native Gold

by Glynnis Campbell

  But he couldn’t play courting games with her. It wasn’t right. She hadn’t asked for his touch. And Sakote wasn’t like her willa husband, to force himself upon a woman. No, he was Konkow, and this was one of those dangerous ways from which he must turn.

  With a grunt of regret, he surrendered the drawing to her unharmed. His only consolation was her startled squeak as he stood newly revealed before her, no longer shrunken with cold, but like a warrior roused for battle. Scowling, he turned and trudged down the embankment to find his breechcloth before that determined warrior could betray him completely.

  The Indian was halfway down the slope before Mattie could suck air back into her lungs. Even then, she couldn’t breathe properly. His naked backside gleamed tan and taut as he scaled the hill, and the thought of what graced his front side, the proud member that had loomed inches away just a moment before, left her jaw lax and her body boneless.

  For a time, obsessing over her sketch, she’d almost believed he was a god—distant, perfect, untouchable. But when she’d seen him on the embankment, dripping from the stream, his brow furrowed, his eyes snapping, all flesh and blood and muscle, the truth struck her like a thunderbolt.

  He wasn’t a god. He was a man. And he was far from untouchable.

  In fact, if he’d remained before her one more moment, she feared she might have proven that without a doubt. Wicked thoughts had run through her head and did still, thoughts of running her fingertips along the smooth bands of his stomach, of lapping up the drops of water that trickled down his chest, of hurling herself into his savage embrace to seal her passion with a breathless kiss.

  But he’d escaped. Now he donned his breechcloth and tied it up with a decisive jerk of the thong. Mattie struggled to her feet, slipping on the leaves. He paid her no mind, but pulled his moccasins up over his heels. She glanced at the drawing still clutched in her hand. It was beautiful. He was beautiful—savage, proud, and pure. And he was fast eluding her.

  "Sakote!"

  He raised his head, but wouldn’t look at her.

  If he left, she thought in inexplicable panic, she might never see him again. "Please, Mr. Sakote," she called softly, "allow me to draw you again."

  He lifted cool black eyes to her.

  "However you want," she added, worrying the edge of the paper between her fingers. "With your horse or...or in your teepee, with your peace pipe, anything."

  A small frown crossed his brow.

  "Please." She glanced at the drawing again, then placed it diplomatically behind her back. "I don’t wish you to leave with anger between us."

  After a long while, the Indian finally nodded.

  Mattie felt a breath of relief rush out of her. She resisted the urge to clap her hands together in glee.

  "Come after the sun rises tomorrow," he told her.

  "I won’t be late," she promised.

  Before she could utter another word, he vanished into the wood.

  Mattie studied the sketch of him one last time. It was perfect, except for the small tear at the top of the page. And upon closer inspection, she decided even that was perfect, for beside the tear was the muddy imprint of the man’s thumb. Sakote had signed his portrait. She ran her own thumb across the mark like a caress. She could hardly wait till tomorrow.

  At sunrise, Sakote took care to make no noise as he combed and tied his hair neatly back with a thong. But when he shouldered his bow and slung his rabbit fur quiver across his back, Hintsuli attacked him with so many questions that he feared the boy would wake the whole village.

  "Where are you going?" the boy wanted to know. "What are you hunting? I want to go, too."

  "No," Sakote whispered. "Our mother only wishes me to get woodpecker feathers."

  Hintsuli knew better. He eyed Sakote’s punda, the bow and arrows, weapons too large for shooting woodpeckers. Sakote could see the boy preparing to launch a loud, long protest. He held up his hand to halt it.

  "All right, little brother," he muttered. "I’ll make a trade with you. If you say nothing of my hunt today, I’ll take you to the valley tomorrow to visit Towani and Noa."

  Hintsuli’s eyes lit up. The boy would keep silent.

  Sakote managed to leave unnoticed, which was fortunate, since it wasn’t even the right season for hunting deer. It would have been difficult to explain to the tribe that he was taking his bow and arrows to have his picture drawn.

  At least, that was the reason he gave himself for why he was going to see the white woman again. He wanted a picture, a decent picture—Sakote the Hunter with his bow—to show at the Kaminehaitsen dance, a drawing to impress the Konkows from the other villages. And perhaps gain him a woman.

  That last thought filled his mouth with a bitter taste like unleached acorns. He didn’t really want a woman, at least not the women he knew from the neighboring villages. They were sweet and adoring, some of them, and some of them could stir his loins with a look. Many of them were pretty, and most of them were willing. But they didn’t speak to his heart.

  The truth was his blood warmed only at the thought of seeing Mati. But why was he so attracted to her? What was it about the white woman that made him feel powerful and alive?

  He asked himself those questions as he hiked through the wood, scaling granite walls, crossing deer trails, all the way to the waterfall. His only answer was his heart’s leap of joy when he saw that Mati was already there, sketching something at the water’s edge.

  Squatting by the pool in a beige dress that puffed out around her, she looked like a succulent yo meningwa—mushroom. One hand braced the sketchbook while the other covered the page with confident strokes. Her hair was pulled back again into a tight knot at the back of her head, exposing the slim pillar of her neck, as delicate as a doe’s. As he came up behind her, he battled the desire to press his lips to the hollow at the back of her neck. Instead, he peered over her shoulder.

  "Salamanders," he said.

  She gasped and nearly toppled into the water. He made a grab for her elbow to keep her from falling.

  "Oh!" she cried, clapping one hand to her throat. "I didn’t hear you."

  A wave of fragrance wafted off her hair. She smelled good, almost like blackberries, but lighter, warmer.

  “Stealth makes a good hunter,” he said.

  "You must be an excellent hunter then,” she said with a smile. She showed him her drawing. “I was just sketching these...what did you call them?"

  "Salamanders. It’s the white man’s word."

  "Do they bite?"

  He laughed softly. Hintsuli had once asked the same question. "The females are harmless," he told her, just as he had his little brother. Then, with a straight face, he added, "But the males have long, sharp teeth that can bite through deerhide."

  He took the sketchbook from her, setting it aside, and turned her hand palm up, cupping it slightly. He scooped a small amount of water into her hand, and then reached gently down to capture one of the slippery black creatures. Her mouth grew round in amazement as he lowered his clasped hand atop hers, slowly opening it to let the animal settle onto her palm. For a moment he kept his hand there, forming a dark cave, and he was astounded by how small her hand looked beneath his, small and pale and helpless. Then he slowly lifted his hand to reveal the treasure beneath.

  Mati took a closer look. "Oh, aren’t you lovely? Such sweet eyes, and look at your delicate little toes."

  Sakote shook his head. Why did women always fuss over small creatures?

  "And look,” she said, showing him, “under her belly, she’s as bright as a poppy." She lifted trusting eyes to him. "She’s absolutely lovely."

  He fought to keep his face solemn as Mati fell neatly into his trap. "She?"

  Mati froze. Then her eyes widened, and she opened her mouth in a silent gasp. Sakote grinned and grabbed her wrist before she could fling the poor salamander halfway across the pool in terror.

  "You!" she accused when she discovered his jest. The corners of her mouth twitc
hed with amusement. "This isn’t a male!"

  He shrugged.

  Her brow furrowed in wonder. "They don’t bite at all, do they?"

  His grin widened, and he shook his head.

  She lowered the salamander back into the water. "Well, swim along home now, darling," she sang sweetly. Then she turned to Sakote with a mischievous look in her eye and gave him a shove that almost knocked him off his haunches. "Bite through deerhide indeed," she said smugly. "Mr. Sakote, I believe you have a bit of the devil in you."

  He chuckled. If she could read his thoughts, she’d know he had more than just a bit of the devil in him. He wanted her to push him again, harder, to lay him out flat on his back. He wanted her to sit astride him with her bare flesh to his. And he wanted her to make that kiss with him again. And again.

  Mattie hoped the Indian couldn’t read minds. He’d be appalled at the unladylike thoughts whirling through her brain. As if his sly, charming grin and eyes that twinkled like the night sky weren’t enough to send her pulse racing, now he’d exposed flashing white teeth and revealed a charismatic laugh that was nothing short of contagious.

  She wanted to play, to wrestle with him as if they were a pair of frolicsome puppies. She wanted to spread her hands across the massive chest she’d just shoved, to feel the heat and strength of him, to tickle his ribs until he gave her the gift of laughter again. And as he giggled, she wanted to press her lips to his and catch his delight in her own mouth.

  "Are you ready?" he asked.

  His words caught her off guard. She stared at him blankly.

  "The sketch?" he prompted.

  She could feel the color rise in her cheeks, and she gave her head a mental shake. It was time to be professional. "Yes." She gathered up the sketchbook and pencils and tried to focus on finding a good location for the portrait. “I see you’ve brought your bow. Could you, that is, would you show me how you stand when you shoot it?"

  With alarming grace and speed, he whipped an arrow from the quiver, nocked it to his bow and knelt on one knee.

  "That’s...that’s perfect." It was. And so was he. His hair, sleekly caught in back, revealed the swell of his shoulder as he drew back the arrow. His back was straight, a good contrast for the bend of the bow, and the way his legs were positioned exposed the impressive muscle of his flank. She swallowed hard.

  "If you could pose just like that in the patch of sunlight on the far bank," she breathed, "then I’ll sketch you from this side."

  He crossed over the narrow part of the creek opposite the fall and knelt in the grass on the other side. Calling out over the water, she guided him to the angle she wanted, not an exact profile, but faced slightly toward her, enough to capture both his dramatic silhouette and the expression on his face.

  "Yes, there. Stay there. I’ll tell you when you can move."

  He was an impressive model. He didn’t move a muscle, though his arm must ache from holding the drawn bow. In fact, he was so still, Mattie worried about him.

  "Are you still breathing, Mr. Sakote?" she yelled over the fall.

  "You sketch," he called back. "I’ll breathe."

  She smiled. He was one of her most patient subjects, if not her most eloquent.

  In fact, he remained completely still for at least ten minutes as she penciled in each strand of hair, every tendon, the blades of reeds bent beneath his knee. Only then did his eyes begin to shift occasionally, to glance along the bank where she worked, as if gauging how much longer she would take. She looked up for reference less frequently now. The drawing was almost finished. She had only to add a few overhanging branches, a bit of shadow to the rocks.

  So when all at once he pivoted toward her, her heart did a quick flip.

  Dear God! His arrow was pointed straight at her. She fumbled her pencil, dropping it, and then froze in shock.

  His face grew hard as granite, and cold murder crystallized his narrowed black eyes into chips of flint. The corners of his mouth drew down into the same grim curve as the bow, and his arm flexed back an inch more.

  Mattie screamed.

  The bowstring snapped, and the arrow sped toward her.

  Chapter 14

  Swede rapped his knuckles on the door frame for the third time. “Miss Mattie, are you home?”

  He and Zeke had come to tell her that new supplies had arrived in camp by mule. If she wanted to special order anything, she had to do it now. He was also supposed to invite her to the fandango later this evening, a little Saturday night diversion some of the boys had gone whole hog putting together.

  Zeke spit a stream of tobacco off the porch. "Maybe she’s gone prospectin’," he volunteered.

  Swede rocked back his hat and scratched his forehead. "Aw, she’s probably off doin’ some of them pitchers for the boys. Have you seen the one she made of Jasper?" He chuckled. "Ugly as mud. True to life, but ugly as mud."

  "At least she found somethin’ to bring in a little chicken feed. Lord knows old Doc couldn’t pan shit outta that claim of his."

  Swede shook his head. "Well now, Zeke, we both know there ain’t a body in Paradise Bar that’d let a purty little thing like Miss Mattie go narry cent. Hell, half the camp’s gone a-courtin’ the lady."

  Zeke spat again, wiping a dribble from his chin with the back of his tobacco-stained sleeve. "She take up with any of ‘em?"

  Swede crossed his arms over his chest and raised a brow at his partner. "Why? You interested?"

  "Me?" he squeaked. "Hell, no." He straightened his coat and gazed off dreamily across the meadow. "You know Granny’s kinda sweet on me."

  Swede laughed so heartily his arms came unfolded. "Granny? Sweet on you? Shit! She’s sweet on you like vinegar’s sweet on pickles."

  Zeke hooked his thumbs under his suspenders, none the worse for wear for the insult. In fact, there was a twinkle in his eye. "I reckon I’m an acquired taste."

  Swede clapped him on the back, and they both had a good laugh over that. But the day was moving on, and the man with the mule wouldn’t wait all morning. They had to find Miss Mattie.

  Swede squinted into the fried egg sun and scratched at his ear. "You don’t reckon the little miss got herself into trouble, do you?"

  "What kind o’ trouble?"

  Swede shrugged. "Any kind o’ trouble."

  They stared at each other a minute.

  Then Zeke cussed. Now that Swede had planted the seed, of course, they were obliged to make sure Mattie was all right. "There goes my payroll for the day."

  "We’ll check the crick first."

  Swede hoped they’d find her fast. The boys would never forgive him if he didn’t bring her to the fancy party they’d been slaving over. And he’d never forgive himself if something bad happened to the little lady.

  Mattie’s scream was swallowed in a bloodcurdling yowl as she fell backward in a tumble of skirts, landing hard on her elbows. The arrow had missed her, but where had it gone? And what had made that sound?

  She whipped her head around, and what she saw made her heart lurch. The shaft had lodged in a rotting stump behind her. And snarling in anger top the stump, baring a mouth full of sharp, curved teeth, was the biggest cat she’d ever seen.

  Mattie froze, afraid to move a muscle. The beast looked like a lion—nearly as large as a man, with a sleek, muscular body and paws big enough to fill a pie tin. Its teeth were long and pointed, clearly designed for tearing...meat. Dear God, was it going to kill her?

  Sakote barked something at the animal, and the cat, flattening its ears, reluctantly hopped down to slink off through the brush. Mattie let out the breath she’d been holding.

  A splash alerted her to Sakote’s approach. He crossed the stream, concern etching his features. He dropped his bow and hunkered down beside her.

  "Are you all right?"

  “I...I think so. What was that?”

  “The miners call it a mountain lion.”

  She gulped. She’d been right then. She’d almost been its dinner. “If you hadn�
��t… If I’d been… Oh, Sakote.” She lunged into his arms, falling into his embrace as naturally as a fearful child burrowing into a mother’s skirts. “Thank God. Thank you.”

  “Shh.”

  With the lion gone and Sakote’s heart beating strong and steady against her ear, soothing her, it wasn’t long before her thoughts began to drift to the hero who’d come to her rescue. His bare chest was as solid and smooth as a mahogany cabinet, and his sun-kissed flesh felt warm against her cheek. The scent of spice and rawhide and the stream that clung to him wreathed her head. And when his arms tentatively enfolded her, his hands coming to rest gently at the small of her back and the crown of her head, she closed her eyes to revel in the sensation. It was so forbidden, this embrace, and yet so natural, so protective, so comforting.

  Sakote knew he shouldn’t touch the white woman. He knew how dangerous the road of desire was. But Mati felt so right tucked against his chest. Her breath tickled him, and her curled fingers felt cool on his skin. He tentatively brushed the curve of her back, the back of her head, and then, with a sigh at his own recklessness, succumbed to pulling her close against him.

  When he’d seen the mountain lion edging toward Mati, dwarfing her with its large, muscular body, his heart had dropped to the pit of his stomach. He’d acted on pure impulse, firing the arrow to frighten it away.

  Never had he felt such a powerful surge of protectiveness. It didn’t matter that the beast had likely not intended to hurt her, that it had only come to the pool for water. The need to keep Mati safe was overwhelming.

  She settled into his arms now as easily as he slipped into his moccasins, fitting perfectly into the crook of his shoulder. Her hair felt like soft doeskin beneath his fingers, and her scent...