by Karen Kay
So little time, she thought; so much to accomplish. She had to find him.
Chapter Six
Darkness had fallen, and Carolyn decided that there was at least one delightful thing about being stuck in the wilderness, the only white female within a hundred-mile radius. And that was the joy of being able to bathe. At home, baths were rarely possible, unless one counted the swims in the creeks and streams. Real baths, with hot water and soap, were simply too much work.
But here at the Fort, Carolyn had been given no problem. More than seven young men had volunteered to do the back-breaking task of hauling water from fireplace to tub. However, the work had fallen to only five of the volunteers since two of the men had tripped over themselves and spilled scalding, hot water upon their persons. Alas, they had ended up in the infirmary.
Settling herself into the sudsy water, Carolyn frowned at the memory. Had her own bad luck caused the accident? And if so, would her mere presence somewhere cause more?
She fretted. Time was, indeed, of the essence.
Where was he?
A-luu-te Itt-áchkáat. This was what he had called himself and it was only since arriving here that she had learned that those words meant Lone Arrow in the Crow language.
So, she thought, he was Crow Indian.
She had always wondered. Not knowing the tribes very well, he could have been anything, from Sioux to Blackfeet to Cheyenne or even Arapaho.
Nonetheless, even this bit of information, once gleaned, hadn’t accomplished much. She still had not found him.
In the short time that she had been here, she had approached as many Indians as she could find, most of them Crow. Using the language of sign, she had asked about him, repeating his name; did anyone know him?
But the Indian men would not speak to her, and it had taken her many such tries with several of the Crow women to find one who was willing to talk to her.
So far only Pretty Moon had responded to her inquiry; most seemed afraid to approach her. And Pretty Moon had been helpful. For one thing, the Indian woman was one of few Crow women who spoke some English, even if it was a very crude form of it. Also, Pretty Moon had been willing to talk, woman to woman, about a few other things. Carolyn had learned much.
For instance, Lone Arrow was a Mountain Crow. And there were two divisions of the tribe: the Mountain Crow and the River Crow.
She had also discovered that Lone Arrow’s clan was one of the most revered clans within the tribe, but the reason for this Carolyn had not been able to determine, though she had asked.
Still, despite all this, she did not know that which was most important. Had she had been successful in soliciting someone to carry a message to him? Truth be told, Carolyn feared that, though she had spent several days inquiring about him, she had no more to show for her efforts than when she had first arrived.
In truth, so desperate was she becoming that Carolyn had toyed with the idea of entrusting one of the soldiers or traders with her secret. But she had thrown the idea aside almost at once.
For one thing she had given an oath to Lone Arrow to never breathe a word about that cave to anyone. Also, she feared that if she were to share that information with the wrong person, not only the treasure but perhaps her life could be at risk.
Gold could make men do terrible things.
Besides, she thought, it would be useless to solicit the help of a white man. Not only were there no expeditions planned for the Bighorn Mountains, it was doubtful if any of these soldiers would know the terrain well enough to lead her to the one particular peak she needed to reach, let alone find the cave.
Truthfully, the situation left her with only one option. She must find Lone Arrow…now.
Tomorrow, she thought, trying to calm herself. Tomorrow, she would rise early, would again go into the Crow village where she would try to question even more Indians.
There was nothing more she could do tonight. She might as well relax. So thinking, she sighed, and sank deeper into the warm, scented water of her bath. And even the reminder that she had best finish her toiletry quickly, so that she could get herself off to bed, did not detract from its pleasure.
Lazily, she raised an arm out of the bubbly water, following the motion with a soapy cloth.
The whisper of a slight wind met the coolness of her arm, creating goose bumps on it. Darn, she should have shut that window. Perhaps she should go do it now.
No, she rejected the idea immediately. She was not yet ready to leave the fragrant warmth of her bath. She would close the window when she was done.
With a low moan of delight, she lowered her arm and scooted down a little deeper into the perfumed water, if only to enjoy its delight a little longer.
Ah, heavenly. She closed her eyes.
A finger touched her cheek, stroked her delicate skin. She smiled. The silken graze was like a caress, and unknowingly, she leaned in closer to that massage. She was dreaming…had to be dreaming.
“The white woman has been asking for me?” The words had been whispered in a masculine voice, close to her ear.
She recognized that voice.
Carolyn’s lashes flew up. She jerked her head to her right, in the direction of the utterance, letting out a gasp as her gaze met the deep, dark depths of midnight-colored eyes.
“Lone Arrow?” she uttered.
A quick, unsmiling nod was her answer, as the man came up onto his feet and, spinning away from her, trod toward the far side of the room.
Pleasure radiated through her, and her gaze followed him. Well, well, what do you know? Success. He was here, his presence seeming to scream at her that it had been much too long since she had last seen him.
She sighed, while her gaze scrutinized every small detail about him. She had forgotten, she realized; forgotten how exotic he was, forgotten how handsome was his countenance; forgotten how quickly her heart beat, simply at his mere proximity.
Truly, she could not help but stare. At this moment he looked larger than life, standing there with his back to her, his figure encompassed within the folds of a red, green and yellow trade blanket.
Her gaze followed him as he crossed the room, and then spun around toward her. His glance caught hold of hers, locked with hers.
She found herself barely able to meet his stare as she took in the changes that had come over him in these past years. His cheekbones were high, as she had remembered; although his nose was a little more aquiline than it had been when he was younger.
Lone Arrow had grown into a very handsome man.
His hair was still long, the ends of it now falling well past where his waist would be, there beneath that blanket. And under the room’s candlelight, the mane of his hair gleamed brightly with the sheen of pure health. Funny, but she had forgotten how his skin looked, too—as though he wore a permanent tan—and how full were his lips, which were currently pulled down in a frown. Pulling her gaze up to meet his, she found him staring intently back at her.
She gulped. He looked formidable—foreign—standing before her. The shell earrings he wore, which hung from both of his earlobes, and the eagle feather, which dangled from a front lock of his hair, did much to heighten the unfamiliar image, she realized. In truth, he looked more intimidating at this moment than her memory recalled him being, and for a moment she felt ill at ease.
But, she reminded herself, these things did not matter. He was here. Dear Lord, thank you, she prayed.
However, he had certainly chosen the wrong moment in which to find her. Instinctively, Carolyn glanced down at the water and the suds still left in her bath. Were the bubbles enough to cover her body’s most private places? She groaned as she brought her arms up to cover her bosom. Not quite enough, she answered the question; not enough by far.
She shot her glance back up at him.
He had not moved, and by the look in his eyes, she could see that he was annoyed with her.
Why? Why, each time she was in his presence, did this man seem to be irritated with her? It
was this attitude she remembered most about him. Yes, he had helped her; yes, he had saved her life all those years ago, but as it had been then, and as it appeared to be now, he seemed anxious to be rid of her.
She said, “Hello.”
He nodded, a brief unfriendly movement of his head.
She swallowed the lump in her throat. “I—I had not expected you tonight…as you can see.”
He did not utter a single word in reply; simply crossed his arms inside that blanket so that the material of it pulled around his body.
“Please,” she went on to say, “this is not exactly a good time to talk. If you would give me a moment to get out of the bath and dress, I would be able to receive you a little more properly.”
Still, he said nothing; nor did he budge an inch.
“Please, A-luu-te Itt-áchkáat, if you would come a little closer and hand me that towel on the chair in front of you, I can get out of my bath, dress, and then we can talk.”
The man, however, did not even glance at the chair. Nor did he relent in his perusal of her.
He said simply, “We…talk…here…now.”
Carolyn sighed. Did the man, like Pretty Moon, only speak pigeon English? She said, “Why, I couldn’t possibly talk to you now, here,” she motioned toward herself. “Look at me.”
Not a single emotion showed on his face, nor did he allow his gaze to roam lower than her eyes. “There is no other place where we can speak in private,” he said in perfect English.
Carolyn, however, despite her fretting, barely noticed the change in his speech. Perhaps she was too intent on other things, and she asked, “And why is there no other place where we can talk?”
Again, with a complete deadpan expression, he said, “The white man will not allow a woman such as yourself to talk to me in public, nor do you want to be seen doing so.”
“That’s silly,” she said.
He shrugged. It was the first expression of emotion she had glimpsed on this man since he had arrived, and whether it was right to do so or not, she rejoiced to see it Perhaps he was not as emotionless as he would like her to believe.
He said, “Even a few words spoken with me in public could taint your reputation. The white man has one standard of conduct for himself, another for the Indian. And most of my people do not wish to antagonize this person. At least not at this time.”
“I see,” Carolyn said, although did she really? What did that mean? That she would have to sneak private conversations with the man? Drat! If that were true, it meant that she would have a much harder task trying to solicit this man’s help. It would also add time to her quest; time she did not have. Barely daring to think, she continued, “Then, if you would turn your back for a moment, I will arise, and we can talk. I have come here seeking your help.”
He nodded, as though he understood her perfectly, but he did not make a single movement.
She gestured for him to turn around.
But instead of doing her bidding, he asked, “Why has the white woman returned to my country? And why does she seek me out?”
Darn the man. She was not yet prepared to have this conversation. Not here; not like this.
She said, “How can I possibly speak to you about these matters, when I sit here with nothing between us but…but water? You must know that it puts me at a certain disadvantage.”
He was quick to note, “Does the white woman need advantage?”
She moaned. “You might at least give me some privacy.”
He nodded. “I might.” But he did not stir so much as an inch. “As soon as I learn the white woman’s reason in asking for me, I will go away from here and leave her alone. I give the white woman my word.”
Drat! She had forgotten how truly obstinate this man could be. She wanted to scream at him, wanted to rant at him; for this and perhaps other transgressions that she remembered from their past. But she knew she dare not do it. Unfortunately, she needed his cooperation.
But she did glare at him, and she said, “You certainly time your visits well, don’t you?”
He simply shrugged.
“You must realize that a woman is never prepared to begin a conversation with a man in such a state of…of undress.”
He frowned at her, opened his mouth as though he might say something, but another thought must have crossed his mind, for instead of speaking, he shrugged yet again.
She grimaced, beginning to resign herself to the task at hand, but she could not help observing, “Perhaps another woman—of easier virtue—might feel comfortable in entertaining you in this manner. I, however, would prefer to be dressed.”
She watched as a slight grin softened the features of his face. He said, “You say these words as if I have never seen you in the manner in which you came into this earth.”
She drew in her breath, shutting her eyes, hoping against hope that by doing so, she could shut out the memory, also. It did not work, unfortunately, and she said, “I was eleven at the time, and if you will remember correctly, you were the one who ordered me to bathe.” She did not add that she had well needed that bath, too.
But Lone Arrow did not mention it; he did no more than shake his head, smiling. At last, however, he shifted his position around until he had turned his back to her completely. Still, he remarked, “Ah, I recollect it well.”
She could hear his soft laughter, and though she did not share what he found humorous about their situation, either then or now, she felt some relief in these, his last few words. At least they had been more personal.
In truth, the slight reference to their past seemed to have done much to bridge whatever barrier might have been erected between them. She could sense it. It was as if, for a moment, his guard had been lifted, at least a little.
What was it that he had said? That she could not afford to be caught talking to him? If that were true—and she had no reason to doubt it—she would have to be careful in her dealings with him. If she sought him out, would she make trouble for him? Was that why the Crow men had thus far refused to talk to her?
She would have liked to ask these questions and more, but Carolyn knew that now was not the right time or place to do so, and so she stepped out of the tub. The chair was only a short distance away, and with one foot out, one foot still within the bath, she made a grab for it. She hit the chair instead of the cloth, and lost her balance.
Darn! With a slight shriek, she fell over.
He turned around and was at her side immediately.
And Carolyn was more than a little mortified. She was naked. Naked, for goodness sake. And she was no longer eleven years old.
He was grinning at her, however, and as he placed the terry cloth into her hands, he observed, “Within my memory are times when you had many similar falls. Perhaps the white woman should take walking lessons.”
He smirked, but she found nothing humorous in their situation, and she retorted, “Perhaps the red man should keep his observations to himself.” She grabbed the towel away from him.
But he was not finished, and he went on to observe, “You are right. The white girl I once knew is no longer eleven. In truth, I fear that she has grown into a beautiful woman.”
Given another time, another place, Carolyn might have rejoiced to hear these words. But not now.
Now she stood before him in no more than a threadbare towel. And though the length of it was long and only her feet peeped out beneath it, she felt exposed, vulnerable.
With one eyebrow cocked, and a note of teasing in his voice, he said, “It is too bad that the white woman is not this other kind of woman—the kind you spoke of earlier—for if she were, I would tell her many things about herself, about myself, too. Many things, indeed.”
It took a moment for that comment to register. And when it did, all Carolyn could do was gape at him. She said, “You mean a woman of easy virtue? Is that what you’re talking about?”
He did not answer; merely leered at her. And a wicked, crooked smile it was, too.
&nb
sp; Carolyn didn’t think. She reacted instead, and slapped out at him, stating, “How dare you!”
Her hand whacked at a corner of his blanket, and though no serious damage had been intended, nor done, she managed to knock a portion of that blanket right off his shoulder.
He did nothing, however. Nothing except to continue to beam at her. Although after a time, he did observe, “It is good to know that The-girl-who-runs-with-bears is still full of fire.”
“The-girl-who-runs-with-bears?”
“That is your name. The name that I gave you.”
She fell silent. She hadn’t known that he had called her anything. All she remembered from their past was how he had ignored her. Somehow, the idea that he had given her a name mollified her—at least a little.
However, she was in no mood to give quarter, and she said, “As you can see, I am fine. Please return to your corner over there”—she fluttered her hand in the general direction of the far wall—“and allow me to dress.”
Perhaps it was the order; perhaps it was her tone of voice, or maybe it was something else that did it.
Whatever the reason, Carolyn grimaced as she watched the light of battle enter into his eyes. His gaze raked her up and down once, again, before he observed, “The white woman is dressed well enough. We will have that talk now, I think. Prepare yourself…”
Chapter Seven
Carolyn stiffened. “Very well,” she said. “But in order to prepare myself, I still must insist that you turn your back.”
Lone Arrow frowned, yet he met her request nonetheless and turned his back to her.
Carolyn fled to where she had placed the modesty screen, stationing herself behind the flimsy structure. She said, “I think that you do me a disservice, Lone Arrow. When we were little, you barely spoke to me. Now that we’re older, you make suggestions. I fear that I must remind you that although I am a woman, I am a person who does not take well to innuendos or insults.”
“Ho,” he said, and with some relief, she heard the note of humor creep back into his voice. “I agree,” he continued, “you are more than a girl.”