The crowd buzzed like a swarm of bees, as if someone like her had no right to resist.
The major glared at the sentry, across at his wife, and then at her.
"Jalbert!" the major finally bellowed. "Explain... all my wife... want to... eat... clean!"
The half-breed came toward her. He was so tall she had to look up, so broad she felt somehow diminished by his nearness. She raised her chin, determined not to let him see how overwhelmed she was.
He must have seen it anyway. When his gaze sought hers, there was calm and understanding in his eyes. "Do not be afraid, Cassandra Morgan," he told her in Cheyenne, his voice soft and coaxing as if he were taming a balky colt.
"I have not been Cassandra Morgan for a very long time," she answered him.
His full mouth narrowed almost imperceptibly. "You are Cassandra Morgan here."
"My name is Vih o ots He?e."
"Sweet Grass Woman," he translated, the words sounding unaccountably precious on his tongue. "I am Lone Hunter, but these whites sometimes call me by my Christian name, Alain Jalbert."
Sweet Grass Woman nodded, acknowledging the point he'd made. She would answer to Cassandra Morgan when these whites spoke to her.
"What is it these people want of me?" she asked him.
"The women want you to go with them. They have food prepared..."
She was not so easily bought off as to trade her cooperation for a bite of bread. "And what else?"
"They want to bathe and dress you in clothes like theirs."
"I bathed this morning in the creek," she insisted. "I greased my hair and my body to prepare myself for the exchange. I am wearing my marriage dress."
Lone Hunter inclined his head. "The ways of The People and the ways of whites are different, as you well know. Can you not remember how it was before you were captured?"
She had schooled herself not to think about that time, not to remember. As the years passed and she had given up hope of either rescue or escape, it had been easier to deny herself the memories. She had become a girl without parents, a home, or a childhood. She had become somebody else.
Now she was suddenly afraid to relinquish who she had become with the Cheyenne. How could she give up being Sweet Grass Woman—who had cured skins that were prized beyond all others, who could quill and bead the finest shirts and moccasins—to become an unformed girl she barely remembered?
She drew a long, slow breath. "Perhaps I remember some of it."
"You must let them do what they will with you," Jalbert advised, "if you want them to accept you."
Terrible bleakness dragged at her. It had been huddled deep inside since the day she had been taken by the Kiowa, a fear so cold it burned, a yearning so deep it pierced the chambers of her heart. But it was only when the Cheyenne chiefs had decided to send her back to the whites that she realized what that terrible needing was.
"Do you believe that these whites will accept me?" she challenged Jalbert, her voice breathless and small. "Do you think they will claim me as one of their own now that I have returned to them—especially as I am?"
She could see this was a man who would not lie. "Go with them," he urged her instead of answering. "I will come if that will make it easier."
She inclined her head, needing his company, agreeing to do as he asked. She turned to follow the women, shamed by the sweep of relief she felt when she heard him fall into step behind her.
Chapter 3
"Cassie Morgan," Drew Reynolds muttered under his breath. "Well, I'll be damned!"
Even as he watched Sally McGarrity and her compatriots lead the woman in the direction of the major's quarters, Drew couldn't quite believe that this squaw was who she claimed to be. How could this woman with her stiff, greased braids and tattooed cheek be the girl he'd grown up with back in Kentucky?
That Cassie's hair had shone in the sun, the golden brown of hazelnuts. Her skin had been satiny, all pink and cream. And not even as a child had she been so thin. By the time she turned fifteen she'd rounded out. With sudden and unnerving clarity, Drew remembered just how soft Cassie had been when she curled against him, how well her breasts had filled his hands.
In spite of not wanting to believe this Indian woman was who she claimed, in spite of being appalled by what had befallen the girl he'd known, Reynolds could not find it in him to refute her words. When he'd first looked into those pale, desolate eyes, something had stirred up cold, unwelcome memories. He should have recognized that shiver of recognition for the portent it was.
For if this was indeed Cassie Morgan, there would be far more questions than the few Major McGarrity had asked so far. Questions about what happened that day nine years before when both Cassie's family and his own were massacred. Questions about the attack, about who had been taken captive, about how he'd managed to survive. About why he hadn't carried on a search for the captives once his wounds had healed.
The questions would disturb the memories he'd finally managed to suppress. In a way, coming west had helped him do that. He had finally been given a posting that would enable him to seek vengeance against the savages who had shattered his life. But coming west had also put Cassie Morgan in his path—Cassie who would stir up memories of that day like the layer of fine, dark silt at the bottom of a pond.
What was worse, her arrival raised questions Drew wasn't sure he wanted answered. If Cassie had survived those nine long years of captivity, could his sister be alive, too? Was Julia living among the Indians? And if she was, had she become as soiled and debased as Cassie Morgan?
* * *
Cas-san-dra Mor-gan.
Sweet Grass Woman whispered the name to herself as she followed the women through the parlor and into the kitchen of what she surmised were Major Ben McGarrity's quarters. They had clearly prepared for her arrival. A sawed-off barrel intended for use as a bathtub stood before the hearth. An assortment of bodices, skirts, and underclothes had been draped over the chairs. The table was an inch deep in fripperies.
As the three white women went about flapping toweling and heating water, Sweet Grass Woman eased toward the jumble of brushes and combs, hairpins and ribbons, bottles of scent and tins of pomade. Half-hidden in their midst was a beautiful ivory-backed looking glass. For a sharp, breathless moment, Sweet Grass Woman simply stared at it.
Not once in all the years since the Kiowa had scarred her had Sweet Grass Woman allowed herself to peek into one of the traders' mirrors. Not once had she sought her reflection in a stream. She had been determined not to acknowledge the stamp of shame Little Otter and her sisters had cut into her face, the scar that declared her a Kiowa slave. When Gray Falcon had claimed her and taken her to live with the Cheyenne, she discovered that women of the tribe adorned themselves with all sorts of tattoos. After that, the mark she bore no longer mattered.
But she knew it mattered here at the fort. It mattered now, among the whites. She'd been shamed by the sentry's reaction when they had crossed the bridge, and she'd seen the women's expressions of shock and dismay. She needed to know what they saw when they looked at her.
For a long moment she stared down at the mirror's ornate back and gathered her courage. Slowly she flipped the mirror to the opposite side and leaned above it.
The image in the looking glass was not that of the clear-eyed Kentucky girl with a ready smile. It was not that of the Kiowa's half-starved captive. An Indian woman peered out at her, a woman with wind-burned skin and vermilioned hair, with pale green eyes and a vulnerable mouth. A woman with a blue star-burst design scored deep in the skin of her left cheek.
Sweet Grass woman closed her eyes and remembered how the Kiowa women had held her down, remembered the heat of her blood welling up as Little Otter pierced her skin, remembered the way the finely ground pigment burned when they rubbed it into the cuts. And this was how they'd left her, scarred, disfigured. An abomination in the eyes of the whites.
The flush of rage and futility scorched her face and throat, belly and chest. Marked as she
was, she could never deny what she had been. She could never escape into her former life. And because they had no use for her, the Cheyenne would never take her back.
The realization left her shuddering.
"Cassandra?"
She swung around at the sound of her name. She refused to let these women guess what she'd been doing, or sense her shame. Sweet Grass Woman was too proud to allow anyone to gain such an advantage. Wasn't Cassandra Morgan at least as brave?
"Cassandra." The woman spoke again. It was the one she had come to think of as Major Ben McGarrity's woman.
"Me"—the white woman thumped herself on the chest just as the major had done—-"Sally McGarrity."
Sweet Grass Woman inclined her head. She'd been right about the pretty one belonging to the major.
"And... ladies... friends." Sally McGarrity pointed to the large woman whose deep red hair was scraped into a fuzzy knot on the top of her head. "Alma Parker," Sally said, making the introductions.
"And Sylvie Noonan." The small, sleek mink of a woman stepped forward.
Again Sweet Grass Woman inclined her head.
Sally McGarrity seemed a little breathless after that, or perhaps it was the thought of what lay ahead that taxed her.
"We... you... bath," she said with the appropriate hand motions.
All three women had donned voluminous canvas bib-aprons in anticipation, as if they expected to have to fight tooth and nail to get her into the wooden tub.
Nothing could have been farther from the truth. Mere feet from the warmth of the kitchen fire, the tub steamed invitingly. From somewhere in the murk of Cassandra's memories came the feel of warm, soapy water lapping against her skin, of how the heat and joy of it crept all the way into a person's bones.
Obviously thinking she hadn't understood, Sally McGarrity made her way to the tub, extended one arm, and pantomimed washing it. "Bath," she offered hopefully.
"Bath?" The woman named Sylvie chimed in helpfully, bending over the tub and going through identical motions.
Sweet Grass Woman waited.
"You"—the red-haired woman pointed from her to the tub—"take bath!"
The woman joined her friends. The three of them stood bent over and pantomiming. Sweet Grass Woman easily read their expectant expressions.
Slowly she smiled. It was a smile that had little to do with acquiescence and understanding, and everything to do with satisfaction and amusement.
The women beamed—and converged on her.
They swept the beaded trade blanket from around her shoulders and took her herb and medicine bags out of her hands. They removed the clattering bone bracelets, the rings from her fingers, and the tiny copper bells from her ears. They untied her woven belt and deposited it—her awl holder and her knife—well out of reach. They pulled off her moccasins and unlaced the soft rabbit-fur leggings.
When she made no move to do it herself, the women stripped her buckskin dress away. It had been her wedding dress, and while it was a good deal less ornate than the one most maidens wore, Sweet Grass Woman was proud of it. She liked its deeply fringed yoke, the rows of elk teeth sewn across the front, and the wide, intricate bands of beads she had added to the sleeves. She had worn it today to impress the whites, and because if she had not worn it, Gray Falcon's new wife would have claimed it for her own.
With the removal of the dress, Sweet Grass Woman stood before the white women, straight and strong and naked. She stood as she had so often among the Cheyenne women when they'd all gone to the creek to bathe. But instead of nodding in acknowledgment of her slender waist and well-muscled flanks, these white women blustered and flushed and turned their heads.
"...help us!... not one bit... modest!" Alma Parker gasped and went to take the steaming kettle from over the fire.
Keeping their eyes carefully averted, the other two wrapped Sweet Grass Woman in a sheet and led her toward her bath. Water lapped even deeper in the tub as Alma Parker poured from her kettle. Steam rose in welcoming billows.
Discarding the sheet, Sweet Grass Woman stepped over the rim of the sawed half-barrel. For a split second the water in the tub seemed cold against her skin, icy cold, burning cold. Then the cold turned blazing hot. She yowled and recoiled, jumping back.
Sally McGarrity and Sylvie Noonan grabbed her by the arms and forced her toward the tub.
Sweet Grass Woman twisted in their grasp. Did they want to burn off all her flesh?
Pulled off-balance and with one foot still stinging from being scalded, Sweet Grass Woman lost her balance and crashed backward, taking the two women with her. They landed in a jumble of skirts and petticoats and long, bare limbs.
Alma Parker screamed.
A split second later the front door banged back on its hinges and the mixed-blood Jalbert loomed over them.
"...hell going on...?" he demanded.
"She... get... tub!" the redheaded woman shouted, waving her now-empty kettle.
Sweet Grass Woman could see that Jalbert was perfectly capable of plucking her off the floor and depositing her in the scalding water.
"E-hao-ho?ta!" she protested. "E-hao-ho?ta!"
Jalbert's eyebrows shot upward in surprise. "...says... water... hot."
The room went still. The white women exchanged stunned glances.
"...never thought... test it," Sally McGarrity admitted, simultaneously pushing up onto her elbows and dragging the discarded sheet over Sweet Grass Woman's nakedness.
Jalbert let out his breath. "...seems... someone... tell... Cassandra... what you mean."
"Well... certainly... sit... watch... bathe!" Alma Parker huffed in disapproval.
Shooting the woman a glare that would have withered someone less formidable, Jalbert cleared one of the chairs, thumped it in the doorway, and sat down facing into the parlor.
"I won't look," he promised.
Sweet Grass Woman froze in the midst of climbing to her feet and gaped at Jalbert's broad back. She had understood every word.
Excitement filled her. She wanted to share the joy of that discovery with the major's woman, who was steadying her, but she had no way to tell her.
While the three women scurried around adding cold water to the tub, Sweet Grass Woman searched her mind for any English words she could remember. There were Cheyenne words, Kiowa words, Sioux words, words in German and French. There was a whole vocabulary of hand talk for communicating with tribes whose language she did not know. And there were English words, a few locked away—house and food, face and hands, tree and sky. She needed time to remember, time to roll the words 'round on her tongue. But she could not do that here. She would practice the words when she was alone.
"Cassandra," Sally McGarrity said, gesturing, "...bath ready... water no... hot."
The women stood back solicitously and allowed Cassandra to climb into the tub without their help. Once she had eased down into the delicious, fluid warmth of the bath, Sylvie Noonan and Sally McGarrity loosened and brushed out her braids. Alma Parker picked up a cake of strong-smelling yellow soap and started scrubbing her face with it.
When Cassandra reached for one of the bars of soap to wash herself, the women pushed her hands away. Employing energetic, businesslike strokes, they bathed her from the soles of her feet to the top of her head. They used a scrub brush on her knuckles, her elbows, and her knees. They soaped and shampooed her hair until the bear grease and vermilion floated in a scum on the surface of the water.
When the women had dumped and filled the tub again, when they had washed her clean by the white world's standards, Sweet Grass Woman lay back in the water. Her muscles were lax with the rubbing and the warmth. Her mind was exhausted by the emotions of the day. Behind her she could hear the women talking, preparing towels to dry her, and clothes for her to wear.
Then from beneath the fringe of her lashes, she saw Alma Parker gather up her things. Before she realized what the white woman meant to do, she had crossed to the open fire and dumped Cassie's beautiful buckskin dress i
nto the roaring blaze.
"No-o-o-o!" Sweet Grass Woman howled, coiling toward the front of the tub, reaching out in an attempt to snatch the butter-soft deer hide from the flames. "No-o-o-o!"
Jalbert was across the room before she could blink. He shoved Alma Parker aside and reached into the fire. But even as he lifted one corner of her wedding dress, the flames chewed upward and inward, consuming the hide so quickly that he had no choice about letting go of it.
He turned from the blaze to where Sweet Grass Woman huddled against the side of the barrel. She sensed his awareness of her, the leap in his pulse. In the instant before he turned away his eyes, already bright with anger, flared hotter.
"You... not burn... anything... her," he ordered, turning on the three women.
"...nothing here... few dirty—" Alma Parker began.
"You... not... burn... things!" Hunter told them fiercely. "...all she has!"
Sweet Grass Woman was grateful for his defense, embarrassed that he should reveal to these white women what the destruction of this meager pile of belongings would mean to her. Still, Jalbert had stepped in in time to save her beautiful beaded blanket and her moccasins, her belt and leggings, her medicine bag and precious store of herbs. She would need all the magic she could muster in this strange new place.
"...think... Jalbert... right," Sally McGarrity intervened. "...think... let... keep... things."
With the disposition of her belongings settled, Jalbert stomped to his chair in the doorway. Once he was settled, once the women had caught their breath, they converged on her. They helped her out of the tub, rubbed her dry, and slid her into a loose, flowing gown embroidered in blue. They fluffed her hair with a towel and brushed it dry. They smoothed some strange, flowery-smelling cream into her face and hands. Once they were satisfied with their efforts, they gestured for her to remove the gown that she was wearing and gave her another, done all in white.
Knee-length pantaloons came next, followed by stout woolen stockings that knotted above her knees. The women fastened a stiff, boned cloth around her middle, then proceeded to tighten it with laces at the back until Sweet Grass Woman could barely breathe. They lowered two thick flannel skirts over her head and tied them with bands around her waist.
So Wide the Sky Page 3