This Fierce Loving

by French, Judith E.

  “I think I already have.”

  He laughed. “But you will do so again. I am a great musician.”

  “I think you are a great braggart.”

  “Wait until you hear me play.”

  “On a bone?” She giggled. “First you tell me you gamble with them and now play tunes. Why do I think I’m not going to like this music?”

  But when he did begin to draw music from the primitive instrument, it touched a chord deep inside her, and she could not keep her eyes from sparkling with tears. So fey was the high, sweet sound that she closed her eyes and listened, letting the ancient melody run through her until the lonely cry of a wolf shattered the mood. Shivering, she went to him and begged him to hold her.

  “My playing must be bad if the wolf protests,” he said as he lay down the flute.

  “You are a man of many accomplishments,” she said. “Next you will be reading poetry to me.”

  “I am a poet,” he agreed. “But I have written none of my poems on paper. Sometime, I will recite some of them for you.”

  She sighed and snuggled closer to him. “Are you certain you’re not Irish?” she asked. “For who but an Irishman could be so full of himself?”

  “No, Becca. This man is not Irish, or English. This man is born of a Delaware mother and a Shawnee father. You must not forget that. For we are different. This man does not think as a white man does.”

  A shiver ran through her as she looked into his eyes. Firelight reflected in the black depths. Firelight and something more—a wildness that she could not hope to understand. What have I done? she wondered. What have I done to go willingly to the bed of someone so alien? Will I spend the rest of my life regretting these few days? Or . . . She drew in a deep breath. Will I spend the rest of my life wishing that I was here again in this haunted valley with Talon in my arms?

  Chapter 18

  For seven days Rebecca and Talon shut out the world. They thought of nothing but each other and the giving and taking of sensual pleasure and of laughter. They played at checkers and the Indian gambling game and told each other stories of giants and ghosts and magic springs. The weather turned warm and the snow melted, washed away by a deluge of rain. But they were snug inside the cabin, heated by the fireplace and their love and nourished by venison and sweet words.

  On the morning of the eighth day, Talon shook Rebecca awake. “You must divorce Simon Brandt,” he declared. “I have decided. This man wants you as his wife. You must break your ties with your husband.”

  She looked at him with sleepy doe eyes. How long they’d lain awake the night before making love, he wasn’t sure. When the cabin door was closed and he couldn’t see the sky, it was hard to tell one day from the next. “What?” she murmured, yawning. “What did you say?”

  “This man tells you you must divorce your husband,” he repeated. He had thought about it for days now. What was between them was more than the pleasure a man took from between a woman’s thighs. He wanted Rebecca beside him; he wanted her to be the mother of his children, he wanted her to walk hand in hand with him when his hair had turned gray with age. He loved her as he had never loved another woman, and he had decided that she was the bride he’d waited for most of his life. He knew that they were very different, that it wouldn’t be easy, but a good marriage such as his parents had shared was worth fighting for. “Marry me, Becca. Marry me and become a good Shawnee wife.”

  Startled, she sat up and the covers fell away, revealing her full curving breasts. The cool air made her nipples harden, and he had to struggle with himself to keep from touching them. His throat constricted as his loins tightened with desire. He wanted to possess her again and again. Each time was as exciting for him as the first. Like clear water from a sparkling brook, each drink made him want more.

  Her blue eyes dilated with sorrow. “I can’t marry you,” she whispered.

  Rejection stung like the snap of a broken bow string, and indignation turned his voice cold. “Can’t or won’t? Is it me you will not have to husband, or the color of my skin?”

  “How can you say that?” She reached for his hand, but he snatched it away.

  His stomach burned and he felt as empty inside as if he had gone days without eating. “Why, Becca? Why can’t you marry me?”

  Her face paled as though he had slapped her. “I’m married, Talon, you know that. I’m Catholic. My marriage vows are for life. I can’t divorce.”

  “You cannot divorce a man you do not love? A man who does not deserve you?”

  She shook her head. “You don’t understand. I married in the Church.” She raised her hand to show him the ring on her finger.

  “Shawnee mothers frighten their unruly children with tales of Simon Brandt. He has no respect for the aged or suckling babes; he murders them indiscriminately. Your church would ask a woman to stay with such a monster?”

  She hung her head. “Yes.”

  He caught her hand, slipped the hateful ring from her finger, and flung it with such force into the fire that sparks flew. “If you stay with me, you leave white laws behind. I will protect you, Becca. You will have as many rights as any Indian woman. Our women rid themselves of unwanted husbands whenever they wish. It is a simple thing for the Shawnee or Delaware to divorce. A marriage without love is a travesty.”

  She looked up at him then, and one crystal tear glistened on her ashen cheek. “Not for me, Talon. For me, what you ask is impossible.”

  “You can lie with this man on a bed of pine boughs, but you cannot wed him?”

  “No.” She pulled the blanket to her chin.

  “Do you love Simon Brandt.”

  “You know I don’t.”

  He would not ask her if she loved him, Fire Talon. The pain would be too great if she said she did not. “And if you were free,” he said. “If Simon Brandt was in his grave, then would you marry this man?”

  “I . . . I honestly don’t know,” she answered huskily. “I . . . can’t tell you that.” Her lower lip quivered. “Do you hear what you’re asking me? Do you expect me to sanction my husband’s death? I don’t want you to kill him.”

  “What do you want, ki-te-hi?” My heart. His voice thickened with sarcasm.

  “I want Colin!” she cried. “You took him from me. I want him back.”

  “I tried to find him, Becca. I—”

  “Well, you’re not trying hard enough—are you?”

  He reached for his loin cloth and belt and wound them over his naked loins. “What a hostage wants does not matter very much. But this man does not speak with the tongue of his enemies the Englishmanakes. If your brother lives, I will find him; if I live, I will slay Simon Brandt.”

  “And if I hate you afterwards? What then, Talon? What if I can’t bear for you to touch me with my husband’s blood on your hands?”

  Anger made him cruel. He stiffened and turned away. “Make yourself ready,” he ordered. “We start the journey to my village today.”

  “And what will you do with me there?”

  For that question, he had no answer.

  The half-breed Indian woman called Ready Mary by the English, but Shash-kee-thee by her mother’s people, lay hidden in her nest of soft blankets as the two-wheeled cart rocked and jolted over the narrow trail. For days, she had thought of what she’d seen and heard at the white fort. And then, when she finally made up her mind where her duty lay, the cart appeared as if by magic. No need for Mary to walk through frozen woods and cross ice-covered rivers; the soldiers’ wagon would carry her where she wanted to go.

  At the fort, she carried water, washed clothes, and dumped pee buckets, when she was not occupied with satisfying the drunken desires of white men. Here in the cart, there was nothing for her to do but sleep and soak up the warmth of the heavy, Quaker wool blankets. Once she had owned a red and blue blanket almost as nice as these; a soldier had given it to her when she was still young with firm breasts and all her teeth. Now, no one gave her expensive gifts. Sometimes, men gave her whiske
y or food, but only if she did what they asked.

  Mary was glad she’d decided to carry word of Medicine Smoke’s death to his tribe. It was the right thing to do. It made her heart feel glad, and as reward, she was leaving behind the white fort and the men who treated her so badly. She hoped that Medicine Smoke’s son had whiskey and that he would share it with her. At night, her teeth hurt and she had bad dreams. The whiskey made her sleep. If she went too long without it, her head ached.

  When the soldiers camped, she crept from the cart in the darkness and helped herself to food and drink. Once she stole a flask of rum from an officer’s tent. At daybreak, when he discovered his loss, there was much shouting. But Mary didn’t care. Let the blue-eyed soldiers be blamed. She clutched the flask close to her sagging breasts and sipped at it until the mules brayed and the cart began to sway again.

  At last the British troops reached a small Delaware town and Mary slid from the back of the wagon and hid behind a wigwam. She realized at once that these people were certainly not Shawnee, but the soldiers didn’t seem to know the difference. The big-nosed sergeant began handing out blankets from the first cart to anyone who came forward. They had no sense of order, these white men. They did not offer the wonderful gifts of the wool blankets with proper ceremony, and they didn’t wait to receive presents in return. In less than an hour, they had turned back toward the white fort while the Delaware stared at them in utter dismay.

  Mary came out of hiding in time to snatch two blankets for herself, a green and black one and a gray one with a blue stripe. Mary was not a Delaware, but she understood the language well enough. She quickly introduced herself and told the gape-mouthed women to help themselves to the blankets.

  “The white soldiers are ignorant,” she explained. “They know no better. Their mothers beat all common sense out of them with sticks when they are still on the tit. Take the blankets before they realize this wasn’t the Shawnee village they were looking for and come back for them.”

  It was a very cold day, and swirls of snow and sleet were falling. This village site was new; these people had been driven from their cornfields farther east on the Juniata. Their old village had been burned, and they had lost most of their belongings. When Mary urged them to take the blankets, the women surged forward. But even in their need, they did not push or take more than their share.

  Mary almost felt greedy, having two blankets, when some women got none. But she told herself that she had come from the white fort with the precious blankets. That made her almost one of the gift-givers. She was entitled to a double share. After all, other than the silver flask which was now as dry as last year’s bone, she had no other possessions.

  They made her welcome, these Delaware. They did not mind that her dress was torn and dirty, or that her hair was matted. No one laughed at her toothless grin or called attention to her worn moccasins. Instead, she was offered a sweat bath and new clothing. And she found herself the guest of honor at a feast that night.

  Yes, Mary thought, as she stuffed another bite of fat, roasted raccoon into her mouth, she was truly receiving the blessings of the spirits for her courage. Even respected warriors leaned close in rapt attention to listen to her tale of perfidy. And when she told of Medicine Smoke’s hanging, there were groans and cries of outrage.

  “I must carry the word to his son, the great war chief, Fire Talon,” she concluded. “It is only fitting that he know of his father’s death and Simon Brandt’s plot to trade a dead body for a live captive.”

  “Yohu! Yohu!” her audience called. Yes! Yes! It was only right that she do this. And a handsome young man with a shaved head and red-dyed scalplock leaped to his feet.

  “Chimhe will guide you to the village of the Mecate Shawnee,” he shouted. “My cousin lives there. They have moved across the Ohio, but this hunter knows where they pitch their wigwams.”

  Mary nodded with dignity. The brave had broad shoulders and hard thighs. Doubtless, when they were away from his village, he would come to her arms for comfort. In the darkness, her missing teeth did not show, and a man might take her for years younger than she was. “I accept your offer,” she said graciously. “The war chief, Fire Talon, will be pleased that you help to carry the message. He may even reward you with a place in his band.”

  “Ahikta,” called a stocky matron whom Mary took for his mother. “Chimhe should go. The Shawnee are our brothers and Fire Talon would do the same for us.”

  “Tomorrow, then,” Chimhe said.

  “Yes, tomorrow,” Mary agreed, reaching for another corn cake. For tonight she would be content to fill her belly and sleep beside a crackling fire. She was sorry that the Shawnee Village had moved so far away. Walking would not be nearly as pleasant as traveling in the soldiers’ cart, but then . . . She smiled. She would have the company of young Chimhe on the journey . . . and she would have the warmth of her good Quaker blankets.

  Rebecca followed Talon with shoulders squared and head high. Her legs had adjusted to the long days of walking, and the weight of her pack no longer troubled her. What did bother her was Colin’s fate.

  When they’d left the cabin, Talon hadn’t gone directly to his own village. Instead, they’d traveled four days to the camp where The Stranger had lived to look for her brother. Her high hopes had been dashed when they’d found no trace of Colin or his captor. The Stranger’s Delaware wife had died recently, according to her relatives. The Stranger had mourned her passing, had given away all her possessions, then left the village with the boy. He’d not told anyone where they were going. The only thing that had made Rebecca feel better was that several people spoke of the white captive’s good health and the kind treatment he’d received.

  “The Stranger seemed fond of the English child,” an old woman had assured Rebecca. Talon had translated the Algonquian for her, but the smiles and repeated hand patting didn’t need explanation.

  “I don’t understand how they can just vanish,” Rebecca had said to Talon later. “Where would they have gone?”

  Talon had shrugged. “I cannot say, Becca. The Stranger was a brave warrior, but I didn’t really know him. He said he came from the west, far over the plains toward the setting sun. He may have gone trapping for the winter, or . . .” He spread his hands, palms up. “I do not know. Perhaps he returned to his own tribe, or perhaps he took your brother to the French at the Big Lakes.”

  “This is awful,” she’d replied. “He’s missing, and it’s all your fault for separating us.”

  “So you’ve told me.”

  Their relationship, which had not been the same since he’d asked her to marry him at the cabin, seemed to suffer even more. He’d slept beside her every night, wrapped in a blanket, but he’d not made love to her since they’d left the haunted valley.

  And she desperately wanted him to.

  Talon had distanced himself from her emotionally. They still spent every hour together, ate together, dressed and bathed within an arm’s length of each other, but he was once more the Shawnee war chief. And she was again the wife of his greatest enemy.

  He had told her this morning that they were only a short distance from his village. The day before, they’d crossed the Ohio River in a canoe Talon had found buried in some bushes. The boat was old and it leaked, but it was sufficiently strong to carry them across the swift body of water. She’d asked him how he’d known where to look, and he’d explained that it was courtesy to leave a canoe on either side in a certain place for passage.

  Today, they had risen and started walking without even cooking breakfast. “We will eat at the village,” he’d assured her. She hoped so; she was starving. The cold duck they’d shared the night before had hardly been enough to feed one, let alone two.

  “How much farther do we have to go?” she called to him. He looked back over his shoulder and raised a finger to his lips. “But you said—” she began.

  “Quiet. Village guards will—”

  Suddenly, an Indian dropped from a tree directly
in their path. Talon rushed forward and clapped the man on the shoulder. The lookout spoke to him in Algonquian and Talon replied in English for Rebecca’s benefit.

  “It’s good to see you, Water Snake. This man does not need to ask about your leg. If you can climb trees, then you are healed.”

  The thin young brave grinned. A scar marred his top lip and chin. He was dressed for the cold in long leggings, fur-lined moccasins, and a beaver skin cloak. In one hand, he carried a French long rifle with silver engraving on the stock. He motioned in the direction they were heading, then said something more in his own tongue.

  “Water Snake tells me that Counts and the others are already here. He says a stranger has come to bring me a message.”

  “A stranger?” Becca asked excitedly. “Does he say anything about a white boy? Is it the man who took Colin prisoner?”

  Talon shook his head. “A stranger, not The Stranger,” he corrected. “This is not the one you seek. This is a woman, a mixed blood. Water Snake says she brings word from the white settlements—word for my ears only.”

  Water Snake said something more in quick, low tones.

  “He also says the woman is unwell. She suffers a fever and muscle aches.”

  “Is the village far?”

  Talon asked, then shook his head. “About a mile. Water Snake is one of several roving scouts. There should be no whites on this side of the Ohio, but Fox is cautious. Come, you can rest before a fire and fill your hunger in the wigwam of my father’s sister.”

  Dogs began to bark as they neared the village. More men came out to greet Talon, and then a few women, and finally children. Mongrel dogs crept close to sniff and growl at her. A small flock of turkeys scattered, and a large Canada goose flattened his long neck and hissed at her. A little girl in braids, no more than seven years old, clapped her hands and chased the goose away.

  There were more houses than Rebecca expected. This was obviously a large village, not only big, but new. The remaining small trees showed signs of fresh trimming. There seemed to be no order, no streets as an English town might have. Wigwams, some round, some oval, and some that reminded her of Siipu’s longhouse, were scattered around a natural meadow. Most of the houses were constructed of saplings and bark, but some were roofed in animal hide, or even woven reeds. Near the center of the encampment stood a long, unfinished building of logs without any chimneys.