by Shirl Henke
“You wanted to see me, Noah?” Her voice was level and calm despite her strong sense of unease.
When he turned from the window and faced her, she gasped and took a step back, trapped against the door. Using it to steady herself, she met his piercing stare. His face was not triumphant like Mrs. Thorndyke's’, but furious in cold, murderous rage. Carrie had lived with Noah's moods long enough to recognize that.
He took several steps across the room until he stood at arm's length from her. “Yes, my darling wife. I have something to show you.” He paused, then reached in his pocket and pulled out a soiled length of ribbon. Loose, fluffy bits of dust clung to its satiny length. It had once been bright orange. “Recognize this?” His voice was almost silky.
She reached for it almost involuntarily, baffled. “Yes, it's from my white silk night rail. I never found it. You tore it—Oh! Last fall...” Her voice trailed away as a dawning horror began to choke her throat. “Where—”
“Where did I find it? I didn't. Mrs. Thorndyke did—under Hawk's bed!” Each word cracked like a whiplash in the hot, still room. His eyes riveted her to the door like barbed arrows. “Care to hazard any guesses as to how it got there? Let's see, it must have been eight or nine months ago, somewhere around the time you conceived that.” He suddenly placed one hand on her belly, pressing until he could feel the baby kick.
Carrie thought her knees would surely buckle when he removed his clawlike fingers. Her thoughts whirled in a maelstrom of frantic confusion. “But how? I don't know! You tore it loose.”
How vividly that ugly memory stuck with her after all this time, right alongside the beautiful memory of how gently Hawk had taken the gown from her later that same night. Her cheeks flooded with incriminating crimson as she stood mute and frozen.
“I may have torn it loose, but my son,” he spat the word like an oath, “seems to have pulled it free. No doubt as he bared these for his pleasure!” With that he grasped her breasts in his hands and cruelly pinched the nipples, grinding the swollen globes against her ribs until she gasped in breathless pain.
“Don't, please, don't hurt the baby, Noah!” The plea was torn from her.
He jerked his hands away as if she were a leper. “The baby, yes! Whose baby seems to be the question. Well, whose is it? Am I to be a father or grandfather? Or do you even know!”
As she struggled to regain her breath, Carrie choked out, “It must be yours, Noah. After all the times, surely it is. I was only with him one night, just one—”
He hit her then, so hard she saw an explosion of red and yellow light behind her eyes and the room began to grow dim. She could hear his voice, raised from its low, cold pitch to full-blown screaming rage now. “So, you expect me to thank you for only cuckolding me one time! You filthy slut! What is it about women and that goddamned stinking savage! You, so cold and prim, so innocent, as different from Lola as day from night, and still you went to him! Was it really only one night, or were there others? Why the hell should I believe you!”
“Because it's true,” she ground out, struggling to stay on her feet and clear her spinning head. God, if she fell, he might turn on her like a wolf on a downed deer, tearing her limb from limb! “That's why he left the next morning. We both knew it could go no further. We never intended for it to happen.”
As he stared into her clear green eyes, full of fear, yet also hinting at a resolute, growing strength, he began to regain some semblance of control over his raging emotions. Yes, she was probably telling him the truth. She had never been good at hiding her feelings or dissembling. More likely the child was his.
He took a long breath. “We'll just have to wait and see, won't we, dear wife?” His eyes were calm and calculating. He had a position to consider in the territory. After his fiasco with Lola, he would not have another wayward wife. “Yes, I'll know when the child is born if it's Indian or not. If it's mine, and a boy, I'll allow you to live here, with proper guardianship, of course. If it's a girl, I'll get you breeding again.” He paused and reached out to stroke her face, which was beginning to swell and discolor from his blow. “But, oh my dear, if the little bastard is a filthy redskin I will personally kill you both. You have my word on it!”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Wind Song awoke to the sound of spring birds. The sun was bright, but the breeze brisk and cool, for the last of the snows were only now leaving the valley. It was a glorious day—their wedding day. Her elkskin dress, tanned soft as butter, trimmed with elaborate rows of gleaming elk teeth, lay before her. Lovingly, she ran her fingers over its rich folds. She had already sent her wedding gift to Hawk, a magnificent shirt of antelope hide, painstakingly worked with porcupine quills.
Eagerly she awaited Sweet Rain and Calf Woman, who were to assist her in the ritual preparations for her wedding night. First she would go to the women's sweat lodge, then bathe in the icy stream. Her hair would be freshly washed and perfumed and she would be dressed in her finery. The Cheyenne had no marriage ceremony as such. The relatives of the bride simply carried her to her bridegroom on a new blanket, depositing her at the door of their new lodge. Iron Heart would stand in place of her father, imparting his unspoken blessing on their union this night. She knew the day would seem endless.
Hawk, too, thought of the night to come as he dove into the breathtakingly cold water. Over and over he told himself he was doing the right thing. Every time he saw Angry Wolf and felt his silent hate, he knew Wind Song was well rid of the cruel warrior. But you don't love her. His conscience would not leave him in peace. He rationalized his answer as he had thousands of times before in the past five weeks. He would learn to love her. They would share a life together, children; he would belong. Lord knew, Wind Song loved enough for both of them. Secure in that fact, he let the old arguments die and busily began drying himself.
That night, when he stepped out of their new lodge to watch the bevy of giggling women and girls leave Wind Song in front of him, he was aware of Iron Heart's smiling benediction. The tall old man stood beside his adopted daughter, beaming as she looked up into Hawk's eyes. Her face was alight with love. Hawk reached down and took her hands in his, pulling her up to stand in front of him. He embraced her, and they were considered from henceforth husband and wife.
The feasting, dancing, and celebrating lasted far into the night. Hawk and Wind Song did not stay long, but soon departed for the privacy of their lodge. Once inside, he turned to her and stood looking at her startling beauty. In the softly flickering light from the firepit, her coppery skin glowed in warm, flawless perfection. Her high cheekbones and slanted brows gave her face a strong, austere appearance, but her lovely, curving smile softened the effect. He took one long, gleaming braid in his fingers and felt its sleek weight. Raising it to his lips, he kissed it. Looking deeply into her eyes, he could see her soul laid bare. Did his own eyes reveal as much?
Wind Song felt shy now, eager to please her new husband but uncertain of what to do. Several of the older women of the village had taken her aside and instructed her in the basics of sex. She was to do as he asked, but doubts assailed her. He had lived among the whites, and she was sure he had lain with many white women. Did they act differently? Please him more than she could? She smiled at his tender gesture with her hair.
Hawk sensed her nervousness. He knew she had never been with a man and was unsure of what he would do to her. He could only surmise what those old women had told her, probably only the most rote mechanical aspects of consummating a marriage. A great warmth stole over him as he gazed at her dusky loveliness. For all his women, white or red, she was his first virgin.
Taking a plump braid in each hand, he drew her close to him. Then he put one arm around her back and took her chin in his free hand, tipping her face up to meet his eyes. Slowly, he lowered his lips and kissed her, a light brushing motion, meant to reassure and warm her. He let his lips travel across her cheek over her ear to nibble on one earlobe, then trail soft, wet kisses down her neck.
Offering her face an
d neck joyously to his mouth, Wind Song leaned toward him. Tentatively she placed her hands on his shoulders. As his embrace tightened, drawing her snugly against him, she naturally wrapped her arms around his neck, straining closer and closer.
Hawk murmured her name, then slowly drew her down to the luxurious pile of buffalo robes and rich pelts that would be their bridal bed. “Loose your hair. I want to feel it in my hands,” he whispered hoarsely, caressing her face with one hand while gazing into her eyes.
Kneeling next to him, she complied, unplaiting first one, then the other braid. Her mass of midnight hair was dense and shiny, falling straight and long to her waist. When it was all free, she shook her head and tossed it back, facing him proudly.
“You are very beautiful,” he said softly, burying his face and hands in her hair, clasping her to him as they knelt on the bed. He kissed her once more, this time using his tongue to trace delicate patterns on her lips until she parted them in a gasp of wonder. He emitted a barely audible groan and slipped his tongue into her mouth.
As he teased and caressed her soft inner cheeks, tongue, and teeth, Wind Song found herself clinging to him, opening her mouth freely, wanting more of these incredible sensations that the old women had not spoken of. Her hand moved from his shoulder, where she could feel his muscles flex as he held her, to steal down to his chest. Ever since the first time she had seen him, she had wanted to feel that exotic black curly hair growing there.
His shirt was open. She stroked the hard, furry surface and was startled to feel the pounding of his heart. It matched her own, which was thrumming a furious beat.
Hawk intensified the kiss and felt her response. Gradually he broke the joining of the kiss to unfasten her dress. As he unlaced the elaborate ties, he whispered, “The dress is beautiful, but I know what it hides is even more beautiful.” When he freed the last laces, he reached inside and lightly touched the dark brown tip of one proudly upthrust young breast. The nipple instantly hardened.
Wind Song let out a soft, startled gasp at the electric pleasure it gave her. When he used both hands to cup and fondle her breasts, she became dizzy with the wild new sensations he was evoking. Her own hands kneaded frantic patterns across his chest, fingers busily weaving in and out of its black hairy covering.
“Raise your arms and let me take this off.” He held the heavy dress in his hands.
Obediently she complied, helping him free her hair when it became entangled in the laces. She knelt before him, clad only in soft leggings and moccasins now. His eyes glowed with frank admiration as he swept them across her straight shoulders, high-pointed breasts, and long, narrow waist.
“Lay back, love.” Carefully he lay her onto the mound of pelts, then caressed down her sides with both hands. His fingertips glided over her sleek hips, slim and shapely, then down to begin unfastening her leggings. As he unlaced, he stroked and petted her silky flesh, until finally she lay naked before him.
“Do I please you?” Her voice was hesitant as she lay so vulnerable, watching his eyes travel up and down her body.
“Yes, Wind Song, yes, you please me,” he replied hoarsely.
In a few swift motions he slipped his heavy leather shirt and pants from his body and kicked away his moccasins. Wind Song watched his lean, hard muscles ripple as he shed his clothing. She wanted to touch every inch of his body, to feel the sinewy, hairy texture of him.
Before her eyes could drink their fill, he rolled down beside her and took her gently in his arms. His hands seemed to be everywhere, stroking, caressing, petting her back, flanks, buttocks, breasts, belly. All the while he kissed her feverishly, drawing her hesitant tongue from her mouth into his to explore and delight them both.
After a lengthy period of mutual caressing and exploration, he slowly but firmly took one of her hands and guided it downward to grasp his hard, pulsing sex. In complete trust, she allowed him to guide her, stroking up and down until he arched and gasped in ecstatic need. He released her busy hand and placed his own between her legs to test her readiness. There was little need, for she was slippery, wet and open. Her legs spread eagerly, instinctively, to welcome him. Slowly he rolled her on her back and raised himself above her.
Exerting iron control, he slowly began to push inside her eagerly welcoming flesh. Meeting resistance, he paused and kissed her with searing intensity, running one hand along her side, up and over her breast, then back down her thigh. Gradually he increased the even, gentle pressure of his shaft, waiting for any signals that he was hurting her.
Wind Song only knew she wanted him close to her, wanted some unknown, desperate hunger appeased. She arched and bucked, causing him to break her maidenhead and slide inside her in one swift, clean thrust. She gasped at the stab of pain, small and quickly gone. He was buried deep within her now, and it began to feel wonderful. . Hawk took several deep breaths, desperate not to rush and spill his seed before he could bring her to pleasure with him. She seemed eager for his caresses, not at all in pain after that one small gasp. Very slowly he thrust up and down, then repeated the motion until she joined in the natural rhythm. He murmured soft, indistinct love words, urging her on, kissing her eyes, temples, mouth, and neck as he stroked in increasingly hard thrusts, faster and surer.
Wind Song held on to him in mindless pleasure, until she felt a swift contracting that blinded her with its unexpected ecstasy. As it widened out in scorching ripples, she cried his name and held fiercely to him, feeling him stiffen and swell, gasping in the same startled awe.
He covered her with his body, protectively, realizing for the first time what this meant. He was her husband, her lover, her provider. He must dedicate himself to her alone for the rest of his life. Smiling, he kissed his bride lightly on the tip of her nose and rolled to his back, drawing her to lay beside him.
She did not want him to leave her flesh, and felt empty when he withdrew. But snuggled securely against his side, she found a perfect niche in the curve of his shoulder as he put his arm around her. He pulled a thick, soft buffalo robe across them and kissed her lips gently, saying, “Sleep, sweet wife.”
Wind Song awoke at the first filtering light of dawn. Feeling Hawk's warm, hard body beside her, she snuggled closer to him, reveling in the glorious memories of the preceding night. Slowly, so as not to awaken him, she turned and raised her head, propping it up with one hand as she lay on her side. Looking down on his sleeping face, she studied it carefully. The black bristle of whiskers had magically sprouted across his jaw once more. Gingerly, she reached up and stroked them, recalling that first time in the woods when she had spied on him as he shaved.
Suddenly he reached up and caught her caressing, curious fingers in his hand. As his eyes opened to look into her startled face, he smiled and said, “Does my beard displease you? It's part of my white half. I cannot change it.”
Wind Song leaned over and planted a lingering kiss on his mouth, then brushed her lips back and forth across his bristling whiskers in light, teasing motions. Breathlessly she said, “There is nothing about you that does not please me, my husband.”
“Is that so,” he replied, rolling up and over her, swooping down to continue their kiss in a more serious fashion.
* * * *
It was finally spring in the Yellowstone country, and Iron Heart's band was preparing to move from its winter camp grounds to the site where the summer gathering of Cheyenne bands would once more take place.
The Elk Warrior Society was in charge of the move to summer camp. Within the loose confederation of northern Cheyenne bands, there were three such societies, the Crazy Dogs, the Foxes, and the Elks. Most young men joined one of the groups at puberty and thus received their training as fighters and hunters. The societies organized the communal hunts, conducted the moves from camp to camp, and organized the defense when villages were attacked.
Hawk had not lived with Iron Heart's band long enough as a youth to be initiated into any of the societies. His grandfather was one of the few ruling chiefs wh
o had not chosen to join a society. A wise leader and brave fighter could be selected as a chief without belonging to such a fraternity. Being a natural loner, Hawk was just as happy to follow his grandfather's way regarding the societies. He had no illusion that he could become a chief; his mixed blood and a childhood and youth spent mostly away from the tribe would prevent it. However, as he did not wish to lead, this did not trouble him.
He did resent Angry Wolf's authoritarian behavior, however. Angry Wolf was the leader of the Elk Warrior Society and was taking full advantage of his position to show off before the group. When Hawk wed Wind Song, Angry Wolf had lost considerable face, since everyone knew he had offered for her and been refused. He brooded and waited for his chance at revenge.
Within a month of the marriage, he could see all was not going well between the newly weds. Hawk became more reserved and brooding, frequently going off to hunt alone for several days at a time. Wind Song went about her chores in subdued silence.
The rift had begun over a foolish woman's matter. Little Bright Leaf was always chattering about her time with the veho. One day Angry Wolf overheard her telling Sweet Rain that the fire-haired wife of He Who Walks In Sun did not wish to be married to the old man. The child also observed how splendid Hunting Hawk and Carrie looked together and how they had laughed and talked in the white man's language when she was with them. When Carrie's husband died—for he seemed very old to a seven-year-old girl—Carrie could come to live with the People and be Hawk's second wife. That was sufficient to start Angry Wolf thinking.
He approached Wind Song the next day and mentioned the child's prattle, tauntingly inquiring if she would mind sharing her half-blooded husband with another woman who was all white. She vehemently denied the possibility that Hawk would take his father's wife. It was indecent. But Angry Wolf could tell his barb had struck home. She had already been listening to the child and to other talk about the mysterious flaming one whose exotic beauty had stirred such a furor when she had come to the village last summer. The seeds had been planted. Angry Wolf watched while they grew.