Reckless Heart

by Madeline Baker

  “But you’ll have to stay tied up the whole time,” she warned.

  “I do not care,” he had replied wearily. “Even this is better than being chained to a wagon.”

  Now, much to her dismay, she found herself feeling sorry for him. He was a proud man. Anyone could see that. Captivity would have been unbearable, she mused, but not as bad as being made sport of. He seemed like such a quiet, soft-spoken man, she was hard-pressed to believe he was really the cold-blooded killer McCall had said he was. But then, looks were deceiving…

  At noon, she took him his lunch. After a moment of indecision, she untied his right hand so he could sit up and feed himself. Then, taking a derringer from the dresser drawer, she sat in a chair at the foot of the bed, the gun lined on his chest while he ate.

  Two Hawks Flying studied her surreptitiously as he sipped a cup of coffee. She was a pretty woman, with a mass of wavy brown hair and placid brown eyes. Her features were soft and even; her figure was trim and pleasing to the eye. She was so lovely, so feminine, the derringer looked ludicrous in her hand. Yet he was quite certain she’d pull the trigger if he made the slightest move in her direction.

  “You do not have to be afraid of me,” he assured her as he finished the meal. “I will not bite you.”

  “I’m not afraid of being bit,” she replied tartly.

  “What then?”

  “I don’t know,” she lied, avoiding his gaze. “I only know I don’t feel safe with you in the house.”

  “Why? Because I am an Indian?”

  “I don’t know!” she snapped crossly, and taking the tray from his lap, she quickly tied his hand to the bedpost again.

  His black eyes probed her own, bringing a flush to her cheeks. “Could it be you are afraid of me because I am a man?” he asked softly.

  He had ventured too near the truth. With a wordless cry, she slapped him, then fled the room.

  Later that night, after Beth was safely tucked into bed and the house was dark and quiet, Rebecca paced the living room floor. Her cheeks burned with shame at the sinful thoughts tumbling through her mind. She had been a widow for three years and she had not been with a man “that way” in all that time. Had not even wanted one.

  Until now. She had been on fire for Shadow’s touch since she first saw him lying in the road. Even unconscious, there had been something vital and sensual about him, something coarse and earthy that aroused her as no other man ever had. It was a hard thing for a preacher’s daughter to admit, harder still because he was a heathen Indian, but true nonetheless. And though she might burn in hell for her thoughts—thoughts no lady should entertain—she could not put them from her.

  There was a faint creak as Beth’s bedroom door opened. Filled with dread, Rebecca whirled around and blanched when she saw him outlined in the doorway. Frightened as never before, she cast about for a weapon, wishing she had kept her derringer close at hand.

  “Easy, white lady,” he admonished quietly.

  “What do you want?” she whispered hoarsely.

  “Nothing.”

  She did not believe him. There were too many stories of white women raped by savages, too many tales of treachery and bloodshed.

  “Look,” Shadow said, “if I sit over there and behave myself, would you make me a cup of coffee?”

  “Yes,” she said, and fled the room.

  Moving slowly, Shadow took a place on the sofa, wincing a little as he sat down. The wound in his shoulder ached only a little, but the knife wound in his side remained a constant, throbbing pain.

  Glancing around, he saw that the parlor was clean and neat. There was a piano in the corner, a couple of uncomfortable looking chairs, and the sofa on which he sat. A braided rug covered most of the wooden floor. There was a picture of the white man’s god on one wall, a pot of flowers on a shelf, and a worn Bible on a low table.

  The woman was gone for quite a while—so long, in fact, he began to wonder if she’d slipped out the back door and gone to one of her neighbors for help. He hoped not. He was in no fit condition to fight, but fight he would. Because now, with Stewart and the others dead by his hand, he knew there was a rope waiting for him.

  He looked up sharply as Rebecca entered the room carrying the tray laden with a blue enamel coffee pot and two china cups.

  “I thought maybe you had run off to get the sheriff or something,” he remarked.

  “I thought about it,” she admitted as she poured him a cup of coffee, then took a seat in the chair furthest from the couch.

  “You really are afraid of me, aren’t you?” he mused aloud. “Well, relax, white lady. Even a heathen savage does not attack someone who saved his life.”

  “Where did you learn to speak English so well?” she asked, curious in spite of her fears.

  “From a trapper, when I was a child. He married one of our women and my father decided it would be wise for us to learn the white man’s tongue. He said it would be harder for the whites to cheat us if we understood their language. It was harder,” he added bitterly, “but it did not stop them.”

  “How did you get hurt?”

  “The great white scout got mad because I would not dance for the people,” he answered flatly.

  “I’m surprised Mr. Stewart hasn’t come looking for you. In fact, no one seems to be looking very hard.”

  “Stewart will not come,” Two Hawks Flying muttered.

  “Oh? Why not?”

  “Because he is dead. His friends, also.”

  “You killed them, didn’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “I suppose I can’t blame you. Not after the way they treated you.”

  “You do not sound very sure about that,” Shadow remarked drily.

  “I’m not. You talk about it as if it were nothing. Does killing come so easy to you?”

  “Believe me, it was not easy. Now, if you will give me another cup of that coffee, I will go.”

  “No,” she said quickly. “I mean, you’re in no fit condition to travel.”

  “I will be all right.”

  “Please don’t go,” she whispered hoarsely, and lowered her eyes before his penetrating gaze, ashamed of the hunger she knew was shining in her eyes.

  Two Hawks Flying frowned, wondering if the signals he was receiving were the ones she meant to send.

  A week later he was up and around. Beth was thrilled by his presence and she dogged his footsteps, asking endless questions about Indian life and love, pestering him to teach her to speak Cheyenne.

  Once she overcame her fear of him, Rebecca, too, was glad for his company. It was nice to have a man to do for. She found herself taking greater pains with her appearance, baking more often and singing as she worked. He did not behave at all as she had supposed an Indian would. He knew how to read and write, he spoke English better than some of her neighbors, and his table manners were impeccable. In fact, dressed in one of her husband’s shirts and a pair of pants, he looked pretty much like any other man, except for his long hair and coppery skin.

  As she got to know him better, she realized he possessed many of the quantities she had admired in her late husband—virtues like honesty, pride, tenderness, and a strong sense of right and wrong.

  For Two Hawks Flying, the days were peaceful and serene. Plenty of rest and Rebecca’s good cooking soon had him feeling better than ever, and he began to think about moving on. But then, late one night, Rebecca came to his room. She stood in the doorway, her cheeks flushed and desire shining in her eyes.

  He knew what it had cost her, coming to his room. A woman’s pride was a fragile thing. She wanted him, and he could not refuse her. She had saved his life, and he had no other way to repay her kindness. She uttered a small sigh of joy and relief when he held out his arms…

  The days that followed were the best Rebecca had ever known. All her inhibitions seemed to have vanished like smoke in a high wind, and every night she went eagerly to Shadow’s bed, finding in his arms a joy and fulfillment she had neve
r known. Each day was better than the last, each night a time of blissful delight.

  Only on Sundays, in church, did her conscience bother her. Out of his arms, in the harsh light of day, she was forced to admit she was living in sin with a heathen savage. She knew her neighbors would shun her if they knew, and yet, each Sunday night, she shut the door on her conscience and went once more to taste the forbidden fruit.

  The days passed, growing longer and warmer. And Shadow grew increasingly more and more restless. Though he had the run of the house, he dared not go outside except late at night for fear of discovery. It was like being in prison again, he mused—a velvet prison this time, but a prison nonetheless.

  His temper grew short; often he was silent and brooding. Rebecca was not unaware of his inner restlessness.

  “You’re thinking of leaving, aren’t you?” she asked late one evening.

  Two Hawks Flying continued to stare out the bedroom window, his back toward her. “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “I miss the plains,” he answered honestly. “I feel trapped within these walls.”

  “Take us with you.”

  With a sigh, he turned to face her. “I cannot,” he said quietly.

  “There’s someone else, isn’t there?”

  “Yes.”

  “An Indian girl?”

  “No. She is white, like you.”

  “I hate her,” Rebecca cried petulantly.

  “Do not waste your anger,” Two Hawks Flying chided gently. “She belongs to another.”

  “Then why must you go? Why can’t you take us?”

  “I am sorry,” he said sincerely, “but I cannot stay. And I cannot take you with me.”

  “When are you going?”

  “In a day or two. Unless you want me to go now?”

  “I don’t want you to go at all,” Rebecca sobbed, and hurled herself into his arms. How would she live without him? He had become important to her. With him, she felt safe and protected. It would be unbearable, to be alone again after knowing the warmth of his arms.

  Two Hawks Flying held her while she cried. He did not want to hurt her; in the last few weeks he had grown very fond of her. But it was Hannah who held his heart, Hannah who he yearned for even more than the sun-swept hills and valleys of home.

  It still hurt, even after all this time, to think of her in another man’s arms. Hannah—soft, honeyed flesh, with a spirit sweet as life itself. If only he could forget her, but try as he might, she was ever in his thoughts.

  With a strangled cry, he carried Rebecca to the bed they had shared, hoping to ease his desire for one woman in the caring arms of another. It was a futile hope, and he knew he would yearn for Hannah even in the After World.

  When Rebecca woke the next morning, Two Hawks Flying was gone. Rising, she went to the window and stared into the distance, toward the west. The house seemed unusually quiet, empty without his virile presence.

  “You might at least have said goodbye,” she murmured brokenly, and then the tears came.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Two Hawks Flying traveled stealthily across the night-shrouded countryside. In his white man’s garb and hat, he knew he could pass as a farmer, but only from a distance, and so he moved with caution. Afoot and unarmed, he would be no match for a mob of blood-hungry whites, and he had no desire to experience again the abuse he had once suffered at the hands of the men in Bear Valley.

  He had gone about ten miles when he spied a farmhouse situated atop a small crest. The windows were dark. No smoke rose from the chimney, but still he watched the place for a full thirty minutes before he padded noiselessly up the hill toward the barn, stopping only once to pick up a large rock.

  He was opening the barn door when a low growl sounded behind him. He turned in time to see a large white dog launch itself from the ground, teeth bared in a vicious snarl.

  With smooth precision, Two Hawks Flying twisted sideways so that his left shoulder took the brunt of the dog’s attack. His right arm was moving too, swinging high and then crashing down as he struck the dog’s skull, killing it instantly.

  The interior of the barn was dark and smelled of horses and hay and manure. There were three horses housed in the building, two Clydesdale geldings and a chestnut Quarter Horse mare.

  A search of the tack hanging on one wall produced a bridle for the chestnut. The mare snorted and backed away as Two Hawks Flying entered her stall. For a moment he stood unmoving, letting the animal get accustomed to his smell and the sound of his voice.

  Then, talking gently, he patted the mare’s shoulder, gradually moving his hand up her neck to scratch her ears.

  The mare rolled her eyes as he slipped the bridle over her head but followed docilely enough as he led her out of the stall.

  “Easy, girl,” he murmured, and swung effortlessly aboard her back.

  Once clear of the farm yard, he put the mare into a gallop. It was exhilarating to be astride a horse again, to be riding free across open ground. The wind was cold against his face, but it was a good feeling and he threw back his head and laughed aloud. He was free! Free at last!

  He rode until dawn, then took shelter in a sandy wash until nightfall. Two nights later, he raided a store in a small town, helping himself to a rifle, ammunition, and a sack of beef jerky.

  In the weeks that followed, he rode at night and holed up during the day until he was well away from civilization, and then he rode hard day and night, resting only when the chestnut mare needed time to rest or graze.

  A deep need for vengeance against Joshua Berdeen burned hot in his blood, and he knew he would never be content until Berdeen was dead. He felt a twinge of guilt because Berdeen was Hannah’s husband, but that fact would not save Berdeen. Two Hawks Flying had suffered much because of the white man’s treachery, and the proud warrior blood in his veins cried out for vengeance.

  In the land of the Comanche, he traded his weary chestnut mare for a spotted stallion. He was well treated in the Comanche lodges, and he stayed with them for three days, eating and sleeping. He threw away his white man’s clothes and again donned clout and moccasins.

  The morning of the fourth day, he bid the Comanche farewell and headed west, through the arid plains of Texas and New Mexico.

  Three weeks later he reached the Arizona border.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  My baby was a boy. Healthy and strong, he entered the world October 29th, red-faced and howling at the top of his lungs, sounding for all the world like an enraged Indian on the warpath. I wept tears of joy and happiness as Doctor Mitchell laid him in my eager arms. Oh, but he was beautiful, from the top of his black-thatched head right down to the tips of his pudgy little feet.

  Doctor Mitchell looked grave as he washed his hands in the basin beside my bed. “You’ll never pass that child off as white,” he remarked. “You know that, don’t you?”

  “Why should I want to?” I replied. “I’m not ashamed of him.”

  “Josh will be,” the good doctor stated flatly, and his face was lined with worry as he closed his bag and slipped into his coat. “Do you want me to tell him?”

  “Would you, Ed?”

  “Sure, honey. Call me if you need me,” he said succinctly. “For any reason. Any time.” And with a last glance at my son, he left the room.

  His words had taken the edge from my happiness. No one knew better than I how angry Josh was going to be when he discovered he was not the baby’s father. But there was nothing he could do about it, and after the first explosive burst of fury, he would just have to accept the baby. Josh and I could always have another child—several, if he so desired, though I knew this child, fathered by the man I loved, would always hold a special place in my heart.

  Childbirth was hard work and I was on the brink of sleep when I heard Josh’s footsteps in the hall. Instinctively, I held my son closer. Josh crossed the room in long strides, and his blue eyes were like pools of glacier ice as he glared down at us.

&nb
sp; “So you slept with that red nigger when he was in the hole!” Joshua flung at me. “You dirty little tramp. Rutting in the dirt like a damn squaw!”

  I flinched before the disgust in his frosty gaze, but my chin came up and my voice was strong and clear as I said, “Yes, Josh, just like a damn squaw.”

  Eyes blazing, my husband leaned over me until his face was only inches from my own. “Let me tell you something, Hannah Berdeen. You’re not a squaw anymore. You’re my wife. And I don’t intend to have any little half-breed bastard running around clinging to your skirts.”

  “Joshua…”

  “Shut up, you slut! I sent Hopkins out to the Apache reservation to find a squaw to look after your brat, and as soon as he gets back, the kid goes. We’ll say it died. I’ve already discussed it with Mitchell.”

  “You can’t be serious!”

  “But I am,” Josh replied coldly.

  For a moment I could only stare at him, unable to believe my ears. Unable to believe I had once cared for him, that once, long ago, I had fancied myself in love with him.

  “Joshua, please don’t do this,” I begged, “Please! I can’t bear to lose another child.”

  “Stop whining!” he snapped. “You think I want my men whispering behind my back about you and that redskin? You think I want people to know you slept with him right up to the day you married me?”

  “Josh, please let me keep the baby. I’ll be ever so grateful.”

  Joshua’s eyes pierced mine like daggers. “Shut up, Hannah, or I’ll take the bastard out and drown it!”

  He wasn’t bluffing and we both knew it, just as I knew that nothing I could say would change his mind.

  Choking back my tears, I asked, “How soon will Hopkins be back?”

  “Tomorrow morning, early,” Josh said, going to the door. “And don’t worry, I’ll see to it that you have another child. One whose skin is the right color.”

  I stared at the ceiling long after Josh was gone, hearing his voice over and over again as he promised to give me a child who was the “right color”. I thought of my son growing up on the Apache reservation, raised by strangers, and I went cold all over, as if my blood had suddenly turned to ice. The baby stirred in my arms. My baby. Mine and Shadow’s. I couldn’t let him be raised on the reservation. Shadow’s son should grow up where men were free, where warriors lived and died in the old way. I wanted Shadow’s son to know the thrill of chasing down his first buffalo, wanted him to see the prairie in bloom when all the world was green and new, wanted him to experience the wondrous quiet of a midsummer night in the high country.