But there was no point in rehashing the past or wondering what might have been if he’d followed a different road. It was too late to turn back now, too late to abandon the habits of a lifetime. He was a hired gun, and no fit company for decent people. If he’d remembered that sooner, Jassy’s life wouldn’t be in danger.
Gritting his teeth, he swung onto the pinto’s back. “I’m coming, Jassy,” he murmured. “God help me, I’m coming.”
*
Jassy pulled the blanket over her head. Three days had passed since the Indians had abducted her. Three days. And nights.
Tears stung her eyes. It had been the worst three days of her life. Worse than the day her father left home. Worse than the day her mother had been killed. Worse than having Rose run off.
She closed her eyes, and immediately Creed’s image rose in her mind, his hair as dark as the night, his eyes as deep and black as a bottomless pit—sometimes cold and unfathomable, sometimes blazing with desire.
Tears coursed down her cheeks. He was dead. She wished the Indians had killed her, too. At least then her troubles would be over and she wouldn’t be afraid anymore. And she was afraid. Horribly, terribly afraid. Of the Indian who had captured her. Of the look in his eye. Of what would happen when they reached their destination. So far, he hadn’t touched her. She should have been relieved, but for some reason, that only frightened her more. If he didn’t intend to rape her, what was he going to do with her? Visions of being cruelly tortured crowded her mind during the day and haunted her dreams at night.
They reached the Indian village late the following morning. Jassy stared at the numerous lodges and experienced a heart-stopping sense of fear. She tried to find comfort by reminding herself that Creed had been half Indian, but it didn’t help.
Black eyes filled with distrust and hatred stared up at her as they rode into the camp. A woman spat in her direction, others reviled her in a harsh guttural tongue, and Jassy realized that some words sounded the same in any language.
Her captor reined his horse to a halt in front of a large tipi. Vaulting from the horse’s back, he lifted Jassy to the ground, then shoved her into the lodge.
The inside was cool and dim. Jassy glanced around, her gaze resting on what she assumed was a pile of furs, until the pile moved and she saw two dark eyes staring at her and realized an old woman lay under the furs.
Her captor spoke to the woman for several minutes and then, using gestures and a few words of English, informed Jassy that she was to care for the old woman. For Jassy, the next few days were like something out of a nightmare. She was scorned and reviled by the Indian women whenever she left the lodge to fetch water or wood, or to try her hand at cooking in the huge iron pot that hung on a tripod outside the tipi.
Her days were spent looking after the cranky old woman—bathing her, cooking for her, feeding her, dressing her, helping her outside to relieve herself.
The old woman, who was partially paralyzed from the waist down, spent most of the day sleeping, which left Jassy with a great deal of time on her hands with nothing to do but sit outside and try to ignore the jeers and dirty looks that came her way, or sit inside the dusky lodge and lament her fate while she listened to the old woman snore.
Nights, she slept beside the fire, wrapped in a buffalo robe, afraid to close her eyes for fear her captor would try to molest her, though he had made no move to touch her in any way.
A week passed. In that time, Jassy learned that the warrior who had captured her spoke more than a little English. She learned that his name was Chah-ee-chopes, that the old woman was his mother, that his wife and little daughter had been killed by soldiers in the same attack that had crippled his mother.
In stilted English and sign language, Chah-ee-chopes told her that he had been on a raid of vengeance when the war party found her and Creed. He had thought it a fitting form of revenge that the white man should be killed, and that a white woman should be forced to look after his mother, whose name was Oo-je-en-a-he-ha, since it had been a white man who had crippled her.
Chah-ee-chopes’ story touched Jassy’s heart and eased some of her fears. He hadn’t captured her to abuse her or torture her, but to care for his mother.
As the days passed, Jassy learned a little of the Indian’s daily routine. Early every morning, the herald called for the people to get out of bed, bathe, and drink all the water they could.
“Put water on your body,” he called. “Get up and drink your fill. Make your blood thin.”
Jassy questioned Chah-ee-chopes, and learned that the Crow believed that drinking plenty of water kept the blood thin, which would keep a person from getting sick. Thin blood wouldn’t clog, but ran freely through a person’s veins. A person who didn’t drink a lot of water wouldn’t live long.
She learned that when there was meat in camp, a man who was not concerned with joining a war party, or taking part in a ceremony, tended to idle away his days in his lodge. Jassy realized, of course, that, among the Indians, going to war and providing meat were a man’s main occupations. Occasionally, she saw men making arrowheads of stone or bone, but shafts and bows were made by experts. Only little boys used bows made of wood; a warrior’s bow was made of horn or antler with a backing of sinew.
Still, Crow men appeared lazy when compared to the women, who were never idle. They spent their days sewing, mending, drying meat, tanning hides, and cooking.
Now that she was no longer quite so afraid of him, she realized that Chah-ee-chopes was a handsome young man. She noticed that he was greatly admired by the Crow women, and that the men held him in high esteem.
One night, there was a large gathering in the middle of the camp. Jassy sat in the shadows, watching as the men danced. When the dancing stopped, Chah-ee-chopes stood up and began to speak. He would say something, then pause, and one of the drummers would strike the drum.
When Chah-ee-chopes sat down, another man stood up to speak. And then another.
Later, Jassy asked Chah-ee-chopes what he had said, and learned that at most large gatherings, the men enumerated their deeds.
There were four deeds of valor that brought special honor to a warrior. The first was counting coup on an enemy, the second was taking a bow or a gun from an enemy in hand-to-hand combat, the third was the theft of a horse picketed within a hostile camp, the fourth was being the pipe-owner or raid-planner. A man who could claim any of these deeds was called arraxsi’wice, or an honor-owner. To be a chief, a man must have accomplished at least one deed of valor.
“You must have done many brave things,” Jassy mused, remembering how many times the drums had beat.
Chah-ee-chopes nodded. “I have counted coup. I have captured a gun and a bow. I led a war party. I have raided the enemy for horses and scalps. I have been to war many times.”
Jassy nodded. He was, indeed, a warrior. And yet, for all that, he had treated her with kindness and respect.
That night, curled up in the warmth of a buffalo robe, Jassy offered a silent prayer, thanking God that she was still alive, that she wasn’t being mistreated, that the warrior who had captured her seemed to be a man of honor.
Lying there, listening to the faint sounds of the night, she prayed for Creed’s soul.
The tears came then, tears of grief because she would never see him again, never hear his voice murmuring her name, never again feel the touch of his hand.
Her eyes burned and her throat ached as she wept for the life they might have shared, a life that was now forever lost. As the last of her tears dried, Jassy vowed to stop feeling sorry for herself. Creed was gone and all the crying in the world would not bring him back.
Tomorrow, she would try to make the best of her life. She would endeavor to learn the Crow language. She would be nicer to Oo-je-en-a-he-ha. She would wear the doeskin dress, leggings, and moccasins that Chah-ee-chopes had provided for her.
A single tear trickled down Jassy’s cheek as she touched the beaded choker at her throat. It was all she had l
eft of Creed. Ruthlessly, she wiped the tear away. The time for tears was past.
Chapter Eighteen
Creed sat huddled near a small fire. He’d spent thirteen hours in the saddle, and his bruised ribs ached like the very devil.
He grimaced as he lifted a cautious hand to his face. The swelling in his left eye was almost gone. His fingertip traced the edges of the gash on his left cheek and he swore softly, knowing there would be a jagged scar when the cut healed. As if he didn’t have enough scars, he mused ruefully, and then shrugged. Another scar was the least of his problems.
He stared into the dancing flames and thought about Jassy, always and forever Jassy. It had been almost a week since the Indians had abducted her. He wondered how she was getting along, how the Indians were treating her…
Creed swore softly, the thought of Jassy being manhandled by the warrior who had taken her tying his stomach in knots.
Iyokipi, Ate… Please, Father, let her be alive. Please, Father, don’t let them hurt her. Please, please, please…
He ran a hand through his hair. With luck, he would catch up with the Crow sometime tomorrow. And then what, he mused.
He had no weapons, nothing to bargain with. And yet he couldn’t just leave her there. He’d got her into this mess, and, by damn, he’d get her out!
He just wished he knew how.
*
Jassy was returning from the river when she heard the commotion. Curious, she walked toward the center of camp, wondering what was causing such a ruckus in the middle of the afternoon.
Standing on tiptoe, she peered over the shoulder of the warrior in front of her. For a moment, she could only stare, unable to believe her eyes.
“Creed.” His name whispered past her lips. He was alive.
Relief and joy erupted within her, and as quickly disappeared. He was alive, but for how long?
She glanced at the faces of the Indians around her. The women looked at Creed with hatred, but there was curiosity and admiration in the eyes of the men.
And then Creed’s gaze met hers and for a moment she forgot everything but the fact that he was alive, that he was there.
He gave her a reassuring wink, and then he turned his attention to the warrior who was speaking to him in sign language.
She had no idea what they were saying, but after several minutes, Creed dismounted, handing the reins of his horse to a young boy.
A moment later, Chah-ee-chopes led her into his lodge and closed the door flap. “White man says he is husband. Is true?”
Jassy nodded vigorously. “Yes.”
Chah-ee-chopes grunted softly.
Oo-je-e-en-he-ha sat up, her dark eyes narrowed as she fired off a burst of rapid Crow. Chah-ee-chopes silenced the old woman with a wave of his hand, and then he fixed Jassy with a long assessing glance.
“You, here, wait,” he said, and then he left the lodge.
Jassy paced back and forth for several minutes, wondering what was happening outside. Finally, unable to stand the suspense, she peered out the door flap.
It looked as if every Indian in the village had assembled in the middle of the camp. She could hear voices raised, not in anger, but in anticipation, reminding her of the noisy excitement that had preceded horse races or fisticuffs back in Harrison.
Curious, she left the lodge, ignoring Oo-je-e-en-he-ha’s obvious admonition to stay inside.
No one paid her any mind as she took a place in the back row of onlookers. She knew immediately what was happening. Chah-ee-chopes, stripped down to only a clout and moccasins, a knife in his hand, stood to her left. Creed, wearing only his trousers, stood across from the Crow warrior. His face and body still showed the effects of the beating he had received. Faint bruises could be seen on his chest; his left eye, though no longer swollen, was still discolored.
She saw him flinch as he accepted a knife from an aged warrior in the crowd, and she wondered how he was going to fight when he was still hurting.
Creed and Chah-ee-chopes stared at each other for an endless, silent moment, and Jassy knew with terrible certainty that they were fighting over her.
They circled each other warily, like two wolves on the scent of blood. Creed was taller, broader, heavier. At any other time, he would have won hands down. But now he moved stiffly, one arm curved protectively around his rib cage.
The knowledge that his opponent was not up to full fighting strength made Chah-ee-chopes reckless. With a cry, he lunged forward, his knife eager for blood, but he had badly underestimated his adversary and his blade found only empty air as Creed sidestepped at the last moment, his knife making a wide slashing arc that sliced into Chah-ee-chopes right shoulder.
With a cry of rage, Chah-ee-chopes whirled around and lashed out, his blade missing Creed by inches.
Heart pounding with fear, Jassy watched as they circled each other, coming together again and again, with Chah-ee-chopes always on the attack. It was only a matter of time, Jassy thought hopelessly. Creed was tiring fast. All Chah-ee-chopes had to do was wear him down until his reflexes slowed, then close in for the kill. And yet, in spite of everything, Creed had managed to avoid the warrior’s knife while he, himself, had drawn blood three times.
From the corner of his eye, Creed saw Jassy in the crowd, her eyes wide, her face drained of color. Seeing her filled him with a renewed sense of urgency. Taking a deep breath, he faced Chah-ee-chopes, and waited.
The next time the warrior lunged at him, Creed let him come, and then, at the last possible moment, he stepped aside and brought his fist down on the back of the warrior’s neck. Chah-ee-chopes hit the ground hard.
Ignoring the throbbing ache in his side, Creed straddled the Crow. Grabbing a handful of the warrior’s hair, he jerked his head back and placed his knife at the man’s throat.
Jassy held her breath, waiting to see whether Chah-ee-chopes would die or yield. The seconds ticked by, each one seeming longer than the last as everyone waited for Chah-ee-chopes decision.
Slowly, the tension drained out of the warrior’s body. Reluctantly, but resolutely, he dropped his knife.
Creed loosed a long sigh as he stood up. Tossing his own weapon aside, he wrapped one arm around his middle, and then he made his way toward Jassy.
The Indians made no move to stop him.
“Creed.”
“It’s all right, Jassy,” he murmured as he drew her into his arms. “Everything’s gonna be all right.”
She gazed up at him, her heart beating fast. “I thought you were dead,” she whispered, and burst into tears.
The sound of someone clearing his throat drew Creed’s attention. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw a tall warrior standing behind him.
“You, come this way.”
Wrapping one arm around Jassy’s shoulders, Creed followed the warrior toward a small lodge located near the outskirts of the village.
“You will stay here,” the warrior said. “My woman will bring you food and clothing.”
“My thanks,” Creed said, and taking Jassy by the hand, he entered the lodge.
“What are they going to do to us?” Jassy asked.
“Nothing.”
His gaze moved over her, noting the doeskin dress, the moccasins, the bit of red ribbon tied at the end of her braids. Her cheeks were tanned, her eyes luminous with tears. He felt a peculiar catch in his heart when he saw she was still wearing his grandmother’s beaded choker.
Murmuring a silent prayer of thanks that she was alive and well, he held out his arms.
“Come here, Jassy.”
She flew into his arms and hugged him tight, her face pressed to his chest, her shoulders shaking as she began to sob.
“It’s all right, honey,” he murmured soothingly. “Don’t cry. Everything’s all right.”
Lord, he thought, but she felt good in his arms.
“Did they hurt you?” he asked.
“No.”
“Did he…he didn’t…are you sure you’re all right?”
“Not quite. ”A long shuddering sigh rippled through him. “I think I need to sit down.”
She watched him anxiously as he carefully lowered himself to the ground, and then she dropped down beside him.
“How did you find me?”
“Followed your trail, of course.” He lifted one dark brow. “You didn’t think I’d leave you here, did you?”
“I thought you were dead.”
Creed grunted. “No, just tired. So damn tired.”
“Sleep then,” she urged softly.
She didn’t have to tell him twice. Pillowing his head on her lap, one arm snugged possessively around her waist, Creed Maddigan closed his eyes. And slept.
Jassy gazed down at him, unable to believe she wasn’t dreaming, that he was really there, alive and well.
An Indian woman arrived a short time later, bringing bowls of venison stew and dried meat, as well as a change of clothing and moccasins for Creed. She also brought a waterskin, two wooden cups, and two spoons made of buffalo horn.
Jassy smiled her thanks, and the woman left the lodge.
And still Creed slept. She covered him with a robe, then smoothed the hair from his brow. She frowned at the half-healed cut on his cheek. It would leave a nasty scar, she thought sadly, but a hundred scars couldn’t change the way she felt about him. He was the bravest, most wonderful, man she had ever known.
And she was going to be his wife.
She held on to that thought as she watched him sleep, trying to imagine what it would be like to be married to this man, to lie in his arms after they made love, to bear his children, to grow old at his side.
Missus Creed Maddigan.
“Missus Jassy Maddigan.” She smiled as she whispered the name aloud.
She was still smiling when she fell asleep.
Chapter Nineteen
Creed woke slowly, aware of being warm for the first time in days. A familiar scent tickled his nostrils. A lock of silken hair lay across his chest. An arm spanned his waist; a long slender leg was pressed close to his.
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