Sunflower

by Jill Marie Landis

  “The Indians are used to life without boundaries. Before whites settled here, they lived a nomadic life, following the buffalo and other game. They lived to hunt and hunted to live. Now we expect them to live in one place, to stay put while we build homes and plant crops on the land they once roamed freely. They can’t or won’t adjust.”

  “Can you blame them?”

  “No. No, I can’t say I do. But the army is in a rough position. We are supposed to corral the Indians and keep the peace. If they won’t stay civilized—that is, live in one place and abide by our rules—we’re supposed to ride them down and put them back on the reservation. The problem is, there are men in command who see our job as a license to kill the Indians off. Some officers think that’s the only way we’ll ever end the conflict. Just get rid of them.”

  “But aren’t the Indians cared for on the reservations? Isn’t the government supposed to provide for them and teach them to provide for themselves?”

  “That sounds real good in theory, on paper in Washington. But by the time the money filters out here, most of what’s due the Indians has been skimmed off the top. They get the worst of the bargain, moldy meat and mealy flour. I haven’t met an Indian agent yet who isn’t a crook. Buff Hardy at the agency nearby is one of the worst.”

  “Why don’t you get rid of him?”

  “The system won’t let me do that. He’s been there for years, and the BIA recently took away what little power the army had over the agents.”

  “BIA?” Analisa asked.

  “Bureau of Indian Affairs.”

  Caleb had already explained all of this to Analisa, but she pretended to be ignorant of it. If Caleb were actually a botany professor, she would have little knowledge of the Indian situation.

  “Perhaps you’d like to visit the reservation, Mrs. de la Vega? You might find it interesting.”

  “I never—”

  “You might be moved to do something for the Indians out there. None of the other women around here seem to care, but I have the feeling you would think differently.”

  To imagine herself moving among the Sioux frightened her to death. But did she owe it to Caleb and Kase to try? Perhaps she could understand a part of them that was unknown to her. Besides, working at the reservation would help fill her idle hours. As the idea began to take shape in her mind, Analisa questioned the major. “Are there many children on the reservation?”

  “Yes, kids and old folks mainly. The strong young ones take to the hills and try to stay one step ahead of us. They live off of raids or an occasional hunt. Of course, with the railroads expanding so quickly now that the war has ended, it’s getting tougher on them every day. If something isn’t done soon, I’m afraid there’ll be all-out bloodshed. Neither side wants that.”

  “No.” She noticed his empty cup. “Can I get you more tea, Major?”

  “Thank you, no. It’s time I got back to work.” Unfolding his tall form, Frank Williamson set the cup and saucer on the plate and offered them to Analisa, who walked across the porch to stand above him.

  “I’m glad you stopped by, Major.” Her smile was genuine, for she appreciated his company as well as his suggestion, which had set her mind on a plan to relieve her boredom. “And thank you once again for the flower boxes.”

  “I’m always happy to oblige, ma’am.”

  Too late she noticed the soft warmth in his voice as he lifted her free hand to his lips. She felt the heat of his breath on her skin before his lips touched the back of her hand. The whole experience was over before she could pull her hand away. Major Williamson stood tall and smiled casually as if the kiss had been nothing but a polite formality—and yet a vague uneasiness nagged at Analisa. Had he meant it to be something more?

  He pushed his hat down over his wavy hair. “Let me know if you decide to ride over to the reservation. I’d be happy to show you around.”

  Both the major and Analisa were startled by the sound of a heavily accented voice.

  “I’m sure you would be, Major, but I am also quite sure that an Indian reservation is no place for my wife.”

  The major turned to lock eyes with the man behind him while Analisa, her face surprised and then welcoming, recognized Caleb.

  “Don Ricardo,” the other man began smoothly, extending a hand in greeting, “welcome home.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Caleb shook the major’s hand briefly and waited for Williamson to move away from Analisa. Obviously ignoring Caleb’s biting words, Williamson tipped his hat in Analisa’s direction and walked away from the house.

  One glance at Caleb revealed his anger. Analisa tried to see past the ridiculous round glasses to look deep into his eyes and gauge his feelings. Fatigue shadowed the depressions under his eyes and weighed heavily on his eyelids. Beneath the bowler hat, his hair looked dull and unwashed, its usual sheen dimmed by dust and grime. She could tell he was uncomfortable in the stiff, high-collared shirt, for he stood at attention, holding to the foppish pose he assumed with the role of Don Ricardo Corona de la Vega. He clutched a variety of plant cuttings in his hand. More plants filled a wooden box at his feet. She longed to encircle him in her embrace and welcome him home properly, but was all too aware of the constant activity across the square. Instead, she stepped aside, her hands filled with cups and saucers, as he lifted the box and strode past her without a word. Retrieving the bread board, she stacked the service and followed him into the house.

  Caleb was not in the parlor. Analisa passed through to the kitchen and found him drinking a glass of water. Finished in seconds, he poured another glass full and drank it, then set the glass on the drainboard and turned to face her. With his hat off and the spectacles in his breast pocket, he looked more like himself, but the anger on his face was clearly visible to her. Afraid of the coldness she saw in his eyes, Analisa stood rooted to the spot. Suddenly unsure how to react to his mood, she did nothing, although she longed to go to him and melt the expression that tightened his lips.

  “I need a bath.” His icy words matched the cold blue steel in his eyes.

  “I’ll heat the water for you.”

  “Fine.” His voice a gruff whisper, he brushed past her on his way to the bedroom. Confused, Analisa reached beneath the sink for a bucket and then added wood to the stove. She lifted the kettle and crossed the room again to fill it with water from the crock. Something had gone wrong; that much was certain. She wondered if he held her to blame? Determined to clear the air, Analisa waited impatiently for the water to heat before she went to face him.

  Stripped to the waist, Caleb folded back the fragile screen that surrounded the tub. He walked to the dresser and glanced at his reflection in the mirror while he ran a hand across the light stubble of beard on his usually clean-shaven face. He untied the twisted queue at the nape of his neck. He knew the men at the fort thought him strange indeed, but what did he care? he asked himself. It was all part of the ruse. His problem was that he did care—he cared too much what Analisa thought. He cared about her and the boy, and he was becoming more convinced as the days dragged on that he should never have brought them to Fort Sully.

  Nothing was going right. He pulled his near-shoulder-length hair out of the knot and let it hang loose. He’d greased it down in the Sioux custom to keep it from flying into his face, and now it felt as heavy as his spirit. He sat on the bed and began to pull off his boots, wishing they were the familiar, worn snakeskins. Unbidden, the disturbing picture of Frank Williamson and Analisa engaged in idle conversation on the front porch sliced through his thoughts. He felt his gut churn and was hit by an urge to toss his boot against the wall. Instead, slowly, intently, he pulled off the other one, picked both boots up, and walked in stocking feet across the room to set them down silently beside the door. Discipline. Silence. He wasn’t a wild man, he told himself, and refused to give in to the raging anger inside him. He owed her the chance to explain.

  Everything in the room was in order, just as he had known it would be. He’d
looked forward to coming home, even though he could stay only one night. But to return to the cozy sight of Frank Williamson kissing his wife’s hand—it was not what he’d bargained for, and he certainly didn’t have time to deal with it right now.

  Living a dual life was not easy, especially since life in the renegade camp was so hard. The Sioux who refused to live on the reservation scraped out an existence on the run. It was a far cry from the Indian way of life he’d known in his youth. Two weeks ago he’d located the renegade camp, hidden in a quiet meadow between the bluffs along one of the many offshoots of the river. The leader of the band was a man named Red Dog, a warrior from a northern clan. Openly suspicious of the half-breed who claimed to side with them, Red Dog had spoken out against Caleb and wanted him gone until some of the older men, men who’d known of Caleb’s grandfather, agreed that he be allowed to stay and prove himself. So far Caleb had not been forced to participate in any raids against the white settlements nearby, but he feared the time would come when he would no longer be able to avoid a confrontation. He would have to prove his loyalty.

  With thoughts of the past two weeks heavy on his mind, Caleb poured water from the pitcher on the dresser into the washbowl and wet the soap cake in his shaving mug. Lathering his face with a boar-bristle brush, he tried to concentrate on shaving.

  At the sound of quiet tapping, Caleb bade Analisa enter.

  “The water is heating.”

  “Thank you.”

  She carried the first bucket full of steaming water to the tub and dumped it in. Caleb turned to watch her, wiping away the little islands of lather that remained on his face and neck as he did so.

  “I’m sorry,” he began slowly. “I didn’t realize you were already carrying a bucketful. I’ll bring in the rest.”

  Silent, Analisa stared at him from across the room. Bare to the waist, his body was lean and hard, his bronze skin glistening over tautly molded muscle. It was the color of dark golden honey fresh from the comb. She knew his trousers hid thighs and legs as lean and strong as the rest of him. Disappointment swept over her when he turned away, until the sight of his slim hips and tight buttocks beneath the wool tweed pants sent an aching throb through her. She longed to touch him.

  “Would you like me to trim your hair?”

  “No.”

  He tossed his head, shaking the hair away from his eyes. “I have to leave it long. Besides, it’s too dirty.”

  She closed the distance between them, reaching out to touch his shoulder, and saw him stiffen as she approached. His silence frightened her.

  Her words were hurried. “I’ll go see about the rest of the water.”

  Analisa closed the bedroom door behind her and fled into the kitchen. While she waited for another kettle of water to boil, she busied herself with dinner, hoping to release the tension she felt. What in the world was wrong with Caleb? She’d never seen him so visibly angry, not even the day they were married, the day he rode out of her life for three months. Venting her own anger while she began to prepare supper, Analisa realized her mistake as soon as her eyes began to flow with tears. She looked down at the onion, which she had minced to a pulp. Sniffing and wiping at her eyes with the backs of her hands, she stepped away from the overpowering scent and backed into Caleb.

  “Oh!” She pressed her hands to her eyes to stop the stinging as well as the flow of tears. Fingertips heavily scented with onion only made matters worse.

  “Are you crying?” She heard doubt in his voice.

  “No. I’m chopping onions. I never cry.” She waved her hands beneath his nose and he winced.

  “Oh.”

  Silence again.

  Didn’t he realize she was teasing him, reminding him of his own words, “I never yell”?

  Caleb opened his mouth to speak and, thinking better of it, closed it again. Desire pulsed through him at the sight of her flushed cheeks and the haunted expression in her eyes. All he wanted at that moment was to take her in his arms then and there, to taste the nectar of her lips and hold her to him. He studied her, wanting to read desire in her eyes. He saw only tears. Could they be real? Doubt assailed him, blotting out reason. Analisa’d never met another eligible man before he’d ridden up to her door. No one from Pella would have married her, of that he was certain, but what if she’d had a chance to leave the Dutch community and meet a man elsewhere, someone more like herself, someone of her own choice? Someone like the major?

  Doubting himself, Caleb was sure in an instant that she would never have chosen him. If that was true, was it fair of him to keep her, to press her into holding on to a marriage that had no real reason for being? Did it matter at all that he’d come to love her? Wiping his open palms against his thighs, Caleb turned away.

  Analisa dried her tears with the corner of her apron and pretended not to notice as he hefted a kettle off of the stove and carried it into the bedroom without another word. His footsteps beat a soft tattoo against the floorboards as he walked back and forth, cooling the boiling water in the tub with a bucket of cold water from the barrel on the back stoop. The footsteps stopped soon after she heard the bedroom door close.

  She would give him ten minutes, she decided. Ten minutes, and then she’d go right in there and ask him face to face what he was so mad about. Having finally decided on a course of action, Analisa scooped the onion and some butter into a frying pan and set it on the sideboard. Then she washed and dried her hands, smoothed her hair, and paced the room for nine minutes.

  The door swung open soundlessly. Analisa moved into the bedroom on tiptoe, her heart racing. Caleb sat low in the tub, un moving, his head against the high rounded backrest, his eyes closed. Intending to offer to wash his back, she walked toward him silently. Caleb’s chest rose and fell heavily; he was asleep. She knew he was thoroughly exhausted, for the slightest sound usually woke him.

  His hands were folded across his chest, his fingers intertwined. The thick, corded muscles of his upper arms contrasted with the serenity etched on his face as he slept. His dark lashes were half moons against the high-cheekboned planes of his face. His knees were drawn up to accommodate his length, extending well above the surface of the water while one leg lay against the side of the tub. Clouded with soap, the milky water hid his lower body from view, but the knowledge of what lurked just below the surface was enough to send a rush of heat to her cheeks.

  Unwilling to disturb him, Analisa began to walk away. The soft rustle of her skirt and the brush of the fabric against the side of his face roused him. With a warrior’s instinct, Caleb sat up, instantly alert, yet for a split second unsure of where he was.

  Damn. He chided himself for his laxness. Had she been an enemy, he’d be dead now, he thought, and knew he was more tired than he had realized.

  He watched Analisa over his shoulder as she placed folded linen towels on the bed. As if aware of his eyes on her, she turned to face him. Selfish pride and possessiveness overwhelmed him. God, he loved her. No one else would have her, he’d be damned sure of that, for he couldn’t let her go. Not to the major, not to anyone, even if the other man was more suited to her than he was.

  “Caleb, we have to talk.”

  It took all of her courage to utter the words. Something was wrong; she saw it in his eyes and felt it in the very air around him. She unfolded a wide linen towel and carried it to him. Awkward with his nudity, she draped it over the screen and busied herself, tidying up his shaving items. The mirror over the dresser afforded her a view without forcing her to face him directly. He stood in the tub and briskly toweled his hair, shaking the loose strands and rubbing it until it no longer dripped profusely. He swiped at the beaded water on his skin and dried his body before stepping out. She watched the muscles in his arms bunch and relax with his movements He kept his back to her until he had draped the towel around his hips and tucked in the ends. She turned to face him just as he turned to face her.

  He felt everything inside him flop upside down at her words. She wanted to talk.
Well, he would listen, he told himself, even if she told him what he feared most. He’d listen, but refuse to let her go.

  “What do you want to talk about?”

  His steps took him within inches of her. He didn’t realize he’d pinned her against the dresser.

  “I ... I just want to know what’s bothering you, Caleb. I have never seen you like this.” Her eyes moved over his face. It was grim and determined. “That is, not since last year. Before you went to Boston.”

  They both knew she was avoiding mention of that day by the stream.

  “Should something be bothering me?”

  “What?”

  “What is there for me to worry about, Analisa?”

  “How should I know?” Her mind raced. Why hadn’t he called her Anja as was his habit now? Why hadn’t he spoken her name with the loving caress in his voice she’d grown used to?

  “Where’s Kase?” he demanded.

  The abrupt change of subject confused her for a moment.

  “Kase?” Her brow furrowed in thought. “Kase is with Private Jensen. They went out rabbit hunting.”

  His expression changed to one of concern.

  “Where?”

  “Not far. Toward the river, I think. I’m sure Tor will be careful with him.”

  “That kid can barely take care of himself, let alone Kase.”

  “They should be back soon. Besides, I think Tor misses his family deeply. Kase reminds him of his own brothers and sisters; that’s why the major assigns him to us as orderly whenever he can.”

  As soon as the words were spoken, Analisa knew she’d said something wrong. She knew now how the prey of a hawk must feel in its final moments.

  “The major.” A muscle tensed in his jaw and failed to relax.

  “Yes, the major. He’s very perceptive.”

  “Perceptive?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where did you learn the word perceptive?”