"You don’t...want a wife?" Now she was like a chipmunk, poking her nose in the acorn flour where it didn’t belong.
He rocked back on his haunches and considered ignoring her question. But it was an interesting one, one he’d left in the shadowy part of his mind for a long time. He liked the women of his tribe, and there were even a few from the neighboring villages he’d considered taking to wife. But starting his own family was always something he’d placed in the seasons to come. He was too busy raising his little brother, seeing that his sister found a mate, protecting the tribe from the dangers of the white men, dangers that the elders, the shaman, and even his wise headman uncle didn’t understand.
"I’ll have a wife," he conceded, "one day."
She seemed satisfied with his answer. "Will you sit for me now?"
He wasn’t sure what she wanted from him, and he felt very foolish as he lowered himself onto the grass beside her so she could make his picture.
"Now sit very still," she said, reaching for her sketchbook and the drawing sticks.
It was easy for him to sit still. He did it all the time when he hunted. The difficult part was having her stare at him as if he were a fawn and she a wolf, hungrily measuring every bite of him with her eyes.
CHAPTER 12
Mattie’s fingers shook as she touched the pencil to the page. That same hunger—the possession—that she’d felt the night before, depicting the Indian from memory, overcame her. He was magnificent, even more glorious in her presence, and it was a daunting task for her to translate that magnificence to paper.
She began with the eyes. They were calm now, steady—twin jewels of polished jet. They caught the light off the sun-washed granite and shone like candles at midnight. The crinkles at the corners spoke of laughter in his life, but the furrow between his finely arched brows told her he was just as wont to brood.
His nose was prominent, not hooked, but with a bold ridge that complemented his proud cheekbones. Her pencil faltered as she imagined how it would feel to have him nuzzling her neck.
His chin was straight, and despite the fact that it was without stubble, like a youth’s, his jaw was strong, capable, masculine. His mouth was straight and wide, his lips spare but supple. She liked the way they could curve into a crooked smile. She wished he would smile now. And she wondered, in her most secret heart, what those lips would feel like upon her brow, her cheek, her mouth.
She gave her head a small shake. Where had her concentration gone? Focus was the key to drawing a respectable portrait. She couldn’t let herself be distracted.
The cords of the Indian’s neck were broad, and she could see the beat of his heart in the hollow of his throat. A tiny nick marred his collarbone, a small scar from some past mishap, and she carefully pencilled it in.
Last, she added his hair. Much of it had come loose from the rawhide tie now, and it hung like shredded silk about his face. High on one side, where the sun struck, it shone in the rainbow colors of a raven’s wing. Mattie remembered combing Hintsuli’s hair. Did his older brother’s feel as soft, as lush?
As a final touch, she lightly shaded the whole face, using her thumb to smudge the pencil strokes, giving his skin a dusky finish. Then she scribbled the title, MR. INDIAN, at the bottom and signed it.
When she flipped the drawing around to show him, he didn’t move a muscle, but only stared at the portrait, silent.
"You can move now," she told him.
When he did, it was to lean back skeptically and fold his arms across his chest.
"It doesn’t look like me," he groused, though she could tell by his face that the picture did indeed impress him.
"Of course it does. It looks just like you."
He gave the work his harshest scrutiny, and one hand went up to touch the scar on his collarbone, but he only grunted.
"Well, if you don’t like it," she said, pretending to be miffed, "I’ll just keep it myself."
She wasn’t prepared for the speed at which he snatched the sketchbook from her hands. He brought the drawing close to his face, scowling all the while.
"I’ll take it," he announced, "in payment for saving your life."
She would have liked to think her life was worth a bit more than a sketch. But she supposed it was definitely worth the look of grudging amazement on his face to show him the picture.
"The next time," he told her, "draw the rest of me, not just this...head."
Before she could recover from her shock at his mention of a next time, he rose in one fluid movement to his feet and, taking her under the arms, lifted her till she stood before him.
He was a formidable man, and the fact that her chemise, nearly dry now, constituted no more than a few fragile threads between them made him seem that much more formidable. How easily those strong arms had plucked her from the ledge, carried her through the wood, picked her up from the ground. And how easily they could crush her in their embrace. But instead of inspiring fear, the thought sent a thrill of desire through her. How would it feel to have his arms enclosing her bare shoulders, to feel his hands splayed across her naked back?
The thought burned her cheek and made her eyes grow heavy. Her gaze settled on his lips, parted enough to glimpse the tips of his white teeth. What would he taste like? Bay? Mint? Smoke? She absently ran the tip of her tongue across her own lips.
They had been silent a long time now, and yet he hadn’t dropped his gaze from her. His eyes had darkened, if that were possible, turning a deeper shade of black. As Mattie plumbed their depths with her own stare, she sensed danger for the first time. Not dread. Not menace. But a profound, exhilarating power that threatened to insinuate itself into her heart, to seize her soul.
The quick flash of a doe’s ear through the trees alerted Sakote, dragging his attention from the white woman. Over Mati’s shoulder, two deer boldly advanced toward the water. Sakote stared in mute surprise. For the first time in his life, an animal had crept up on him.
He frowned. What was wrong with him? He was the best hunter in his tribe. He’d made his first kill when he was no older than Hintsuli. And at the Simi, the deer dance, he was always given a place of honor. How, then, had the pair of does caught him unawares?
It was the woman. She stole his eyes and ears from him as simply as she’d drawn them on the paper. And she stole his sense from him as well.
For one moment, he’d looked at the woman, truly looked at her, and he’d seen a destiny—afternoons swimming together, nights lying entwined in her arms, seasons of sun and snow and children and laughter. In the blink of an eye, a whole lifetime had seemed not only possible, but certain.
Now he knew it was only deception.
The woman wasn’t a shaman. She had no knowledge of even the simplest herbs. But she had power, dangerous power, power to blind and deafen him to the things of the Konkow world. He must break her control over him.
"Come," he said roughly, startling the deer.
Mati turned at the sound of rustling leaves. "Oh, look!" she whispered. How innocent her voice was, like a child’s. Her face lit up with delight. "Tem-diyoki."
That wasn’t the right word. They weren’t fawns. And though it impressed him that she knew something of the Konkow language, it was best that she forget. Without another word, he laced his moccasins tight and prepared to take her home.
"You must return to your camp." And I to my people, he thought.
He saw a brief longing pass over her eyes, the same longing Hintsuli showed just before he begged to play the grass game for just one more finger of sunlight. She was happy here, as he’d known she would be, and she didn’t want to leave.
But they both had responsibilities. He had to repair his fishing net and chip a new arrowhead. And she had to pan for her precious oda.
He helped her pull the dress over her head. How ugly it was. The brown sack concealed her beauty like the soap root hid the tender white bulb within. Mati sighed when she saw the garment’s ragged hem, but said nothing. She pulled on the boots, whi
ch seemed too large for her tiny feet, and gathered her sketchbook and drawing sticks.
He knew she couldn’t walk all the way to her hubo. The knee wound would begin to throb and bleed again, and the fall might have given her injuries she wouldn’t feel until tomorrow. It was a grave risk he took, walking to the willa’s camp with a white woman in his arms, but he had no choice. Bowing his back, he lifted her to nestle against him.
Her hair was wet against his chest, but he liked the smell of it, fresh and clean like the creek.
"Mr. Indian, I assure you, I can walk on my own." The softness of her voice belied the stiff words.
He ignored her, flicking his head to toss his hair over his shoulder.
And then she touched him, spread her small white fingers across his chest. He felt her imprint like a tattoo.
"You needn’t..." She broke off her words as her gaze halted on his mouth.
He stopped breathing.
She took her hand from his chest and lifted it with the stealth of a wildcat. Her fingertips brushed his lower lip, tracing it with fire, then came to rest lightly on his cheek. Before he could utter a sound, she leaned forward, so close he could feel her breath upon his mouth. Then she closed her eyes and pressed her lips to his.
He couldn’t move. He couldn’t speak. It was that thing, that rite that made Towani sigh with joy. His lips tingled where Mati touched him, and he felt a bolt of current stab through his body like lightning, straight to that place where desire resided. It was wondrous and powerful and terrifying all at once. He wanted to answer her with his mouth, to breathe her breath, to drink her like manzanita cider.
But she suddenly broke off from him, blushing and shielding her eyes with her lashes, and he was left with the gnawing hunger of the bear awakening from his winter sleep.
He was silent all the way back, but his thoughts chattered on. Over and over they told him he must forget Mati. He must forget her serpentine eyes and her tawny hair and her delicate hands. But most of all, he must forget her soft lips and the way they’d almost sucked his soul from him.
She, too, was quiet, and he couldn’t guess her thoughts, but their journey through the woods would be over soon. Then he’d no longer trouble himself with her. Akina. It was over. He’d saved the white woman’s life. The bad kokoni would not return. Now Towani would be safe. The Konkow would be safe.
"Look. Someone’s at my—“
It was all Sakote allowed her to say. With one hand, he buried her face against his chest, muffling her voice, and froze, staring at the figure on her doorstep. Mati struggled in his confining embrace until he hissed at her for quiet.
Through the meager veil of pine branches, Sakote studied the visitor at Mati’s house. He had curly hair the color of dead wood and skin as red as salmon. The man had no flowers, but his arms were full of tins, and Sakote knew the tins were full of things to eat. More courting. He curled his lip. How easy it was for the white man to bring her food. He didn’t have to perform the hunting dance or make his own bow and arrows. He didn’t have to pray for the animal’s spirit or give thanks to Wonomi. He didn’t have to hide in the brush all morning and cut meat all afternoon.
Mati pushed up from his chest with a frustrated shove and a harsh whisper. “What’s the matter with you?" She followed his gaze. "You’re afraid of him?"
He shot a glare of disdain at her. Afraid? How could he be afraid? The man on her doorstep couldn’t even hunt his own food.
And yet, in a sense, she was right. He was terrified of the white man. Of what the willa brought to the land of the Konkow. Not just the disease that had killed his father and half of his tribe, but of his relentless hunt for gold and his love of strong drink. And of what he would do to Sakote if he caught him with a white woman.
Mati slid from his embrace like a seed slipping from its hull, leaving him empty and cold. She straightened her skirts, shook her hair back from her shoulders, and looked up at him with eyes as clear as the summer sky.
"Wait here," she breathed. "I’ll be back."
He let her go. Even though his heart grew heavier with each step she took away from him. Even though the same light that brightened the man’s face when he caught sight of Mati cast a shadow over Sakote’s spirit. Even though he knew he wouldn’t be waiting when she returned.
Getting rid of Ned Buttram was no easy chore. He’d brought her supplies, after all. Though his motives may have been selfish, Mattie couldn’t very well turn him away, especially when he began to go on at length about his dead wife. The self-involved man didn’t seem to notice her damp hair, her cracked forehead, her bandaged hand, or her ripped hem, apparently distracted by his own determination to prove his suitability as a suitor.
When he finally got to the crux of his conversation—whether Mattie would allow him to call on her—she was beside herself with anxiety, her thoughts a thousand miles away. Would the Indian still be waiting for her? Would he come inside her cabin? Would he have supper with her? Would he stay the n-...
"That is, if you don’t mind, ma’am."
Mattie shook herself from her daydreams. "Mind?"
"If you don’t mind me comin’ to call." He rolled the brim of his doffed hat in his fingers and pursed his lips, awaiting her reply.
"Um, well, to be perfectly candid, Mr. Buttram," Mattie said uncomfortably, racking her brain for some plausible excuse, "I’m still, well, my husband only recently...er..."
"Well, you say no more, ma’am," he replied, taking her hand and patting the back of it in a fatherly manner. "I can see you’re still aggrieved about Doc Jim. Just put it right out of your mind then." He blinked sympathetically and turned to go. Then, glancing at the half dozen tins he left behind, he thought better of his investment. "You prob’ly better bear in mind, though, ma’am, bad weather’s not far off. In the gold fields, there ain’t much time for nothin’, not grievin’ or marryin’ or gettin’ braced for winter."
Guilt washed over Mattie like rain. "Mr. Buttram, I’d like to pay you for the food you’ve brought."
He snorted. "I won’t hear of it, ma’am. It’s the least I can do for a purty lady."
Mattie stifled a chuckle. She’d never been called "purty" before, and at the moment, she couldn’t deserve the compliment less. "Then let me give you something in return," she offered. "Would you like your portrait sketched?"
He beamed, and after a little hemming and hawing, was convinced to take her up on her offer.
She whipped out her sketchbook, sharpened a pencil, and proceeded to render the fastest, most careless drawing of a person she’d ever done. Ned didn’t know the difference. He was, in his own words, as pleased as punch, and she managed to get him out her front door in a matter of minutes.
Mattie was disappointed, but not surprised to discover the Indian had left. The day had grown late. He probably had to return to his village before dark. Still, she wished he’d waited for her. She wanted to look at him once more, to speak with him. She gazed up at the plum-colored sky and wrapped her arms about her. Lord, she wanted to kiss him again.
What madness had driven her to do it the first time she didn’t know. Aside from her kin, she’d never kissed a man. And yet it seemed the most natural thing in the world when no one was there to see and his mouth hovered so near. His lips were soft, much softer than his grim countenance would lead one to believe, and his breath was scented with sweet mint.
She wanted to draw portraits of him, to fill a whole book with him. She wanted to sketch him fishing and sleeping, swimming and eating, running and shooting his bow. She wanted to learn his expressions, to capture each emotion, to know every curve and plane and scar of his body intimately.
With a languorous sigh, Mattie sat on the edge of her plank porch and watched for the first star of evening. Where was the Indian now? While she sat alone, wistfully observing the night sky glimmer to life, what was he doing? Licking his fingers at supper? Telling ancient stories to Hintsuli? Smiling over the fire at the faces of his family? Or were
they both gazing pensively at the same heavens?
The questions obsessed her. What did he do? How did he subsist? Where was his village? He surely couldn’t live in a house much sturdier than hers, and yet the Indians had survived thus for generations. What were his people like? Did his mother sing his little brother to sleep? Had his father taught him to fish? What did they eat for breakfast?
She smiled as the first star winked on. She truly was her father’s daughter. Like him, her intellectual curiosity was insatiable. Suddenly, she must know everything about the Indian’s tribe, his family, him.
She wrapped her arms around her knees, mindful of her injuries, and let her eyes dance across the lacy silhouettes of the pines against the sky. The Indian dared not come into her world. There was too much fear here. He’d chased Hintsuli from it before, and tonight, he’d remained at the verge of her property, as if a physical barrier separated their domains.
No, she decided, taking one last breath of twilight before she took shelter for the night in her cabin, if she wanted to know more about the enigmatic Indian, she would have to go back to the waterfall, back to his world.
"Your thoughts are not with us tonight, my son."
Sakote’s mother gave the acorn mush a stir, sprinkling in bits of wild onion. She was still beautiful, Sakote thought, despite the wrinkles that made tracks across her face and the silver that tipped her hair like the fur of an old grizzly. And as always, she could tell when his mind was not at peace.
"I’m thinking about my sister," he lied. "I wonder if she’s safe." He couldn’t tell his mother the truth—that he’d become so enchanted by a willa that he’d let deer come upon him unawares, that he’d carried the white woman through the forest by the light of day, that he’d forgotten his father’s hunting pouch at the waterfall. He couldn’t let her know that for one brief moment in time, his heart had betrayed his mind.
"My daughter will find her way," she told him, piercing him with shiny black eyes that could winnow the truth from his words as readily as skin from an acorn. "But I sometimes worry about my son."
Vote Then Read: Volume III Page 109