Whitefeather's Woman

by Deborah Hale

  John took her right hand in his, placing his left firmly around her waist. She brought her left hand up to rest on his arm and they began to sway and swirl.

  “Beautiful dreamer, wake unto me,

  Starlight and dewdrops are waiting for thee.”

  Had Jane been told that dancing was a most difficult art to master, requiring endless hours of tuition and practice? Whoever had told her that nonsense must be a left-footed fool!

  John moved with such agile, masculine grace it was impossible not to fall in step with him. Perhaps he took some of her weight in his powerful arms, for Jane felt as light as a milkweed floss, or perhaps like “Jeanie with the light brown hair, borne like a vapor, on the soft summer air.”

  For no earthly reason she could think of, Jane felt warm tears begin to trickle down her cheeks. She had never enjoyed such exquisite happiness in her whole life as she tasted at this moment.

  And it scared her worse than Emery Endicott’s fists ever had.

  Chapter Nine

  For the first time in his long career gentling wild creatures, John Whitefeather wondered if he had finally met one whose trust he could not win.

  Better to stick with horses.

  Why, he’d even made progress with that unsociable little filly, Cactus Heart. As John worked her around the corral at the end of a well-seasoned rawhide lariat, his thoughts kept slipping back to Saturday night’s party.

  He’d believed his gentling of Jane Harris had been going so well. After he’d coaxed her out of hiding with the children, she’d appeared to enjoy the supper. John knew he’d had a much more pleasant time than at any past Kincaid gathering. Perhaps having to focus on drawing Jane out had made him less mindful of the invisible barrier between himself and the others. Having her by his side might have made him feel more a part of the group.

  Or could it be that he was so blasted happy in her company he forgot about being an outsider?

  Cactus Heart cantered around the enclosure, sometimes resisting his gentle pressure on the lead rope, mostly going along with it. John kept up a reassuring murmur of Cheyenne words, telling her she was a beauty, that she had spirit, and what a fine buffalo horse she’d make.

  How he wished he could convince Jane Harris that she was a beauty. That she had spirit, if only she could overcome her fears and cultivate it. That she would make as good a wife as any of the Kincaid women, once she found a husband worthy of her.

  He’d been so heartened by his progress the other night. When he’d lured her away from the dish tub, she’d shown a spark of humor. Maybe even gentle flirtation? And when they’d begun to dance, an echo of her joy had resonated in his own heart. She’d seemed to know where his feet were headed before he did, moving hers in an instinctive harmony.

  It had brought to his mind a vision of the other dance a man and woman might share. The one whose only music was the quickening drumbeat of two hearts, the soft whistle of ragged breathing and the primal refrain of sighs and moans of pleasure. Mounting to a fevered pitch and tempo and crowning in a cry or throaty growl of release.

  His body had stirred to those tempting images like a rogue stallion scenting a willing mare. He’d wanted Jane with a sudden gnawing ferocity that nearly drove him to his knees. Even recalling it after three restless nights spurred him.

  Perhaps he’d clutched her tighter to him. Through the cloister of her skirts and petticoats, she might still have felt the surge of his need. Or had he been reckless enough to angle his lips toward hers?

  Shameful to admit, he’d been too lost in a whirlwind of bewildering desire to trust his memory.

  He did recall, with harsh clarity, how she’d wrenched herself out of his arms as the final strains of music died away. This time she’d hidden herself too well for him to find. Or maybe he hadn’t searched as hard as he might have, fearing Jane Harris would pummel his heart with a force as violent as the children’s kicks of that battered old tin can.

  Certain Ruth and Caleb would bring her home with them, John had driven back to the ranch alone. As his buggy cleared Brock and Abby’s lane, distant music and bantering laughter from the party had mocked him.

  Jane’s voice outside the corral fence, soft and hesitant, brought his thoughts back to the present with a jolt.

  “Good morning, John. Ruth told me to come ask if you wanted any breakfast.”

  Jane looked at him with only slightly less dread than on that first day they’d met in the Double Deuce. If she’d been a mare, her head would have been thrown back for sure and her hooves stepping high in retreat. He’d spoiled his approach to her the other night, unnerving her.

  Horses were so much easier. With them he never had to worry about his own emotions rearing up to cause trouble.

  “I’m not real hungry.” At least not in a way that a bowl of oatmeal or a plate of bacon and eggs would satisfy.

  With deliberate steps he approached Cactus Heart, slipping the light rope from around her neck. “I was glad to see you got home from the party all right. I couldn’t find you after our dance.”

  They’d hardly exchanged a glance at mealtimes since then, let alone words.

  Jane shifted her weight from foot to foot as if the ground had suddenly grown hot beneath her. “I—I’m sorry about that. I had to run off to the…outhouse. I guess I must’ve drunk too much cider with my supper.”

  She blushed a violent shade of red. Because of the immodesty of what she’d just said? John wondered. Or because it was such a blatant falsehood?

  Steadily he walked toward her, making no sudden moves, keeping his voice temperate. “It’s all right. You don’t have to invent excuses if you didn’t want to dance with me again. Or if you didn’t want to drive home with me, alone in the dark.”

  “I don’t?” She made it sound like astonishing information.

  John shook his head slowly. “You don’t have to suffer my company just because you think you owe it to my sister. Or because I told Brock and Abby that present was from both of us.”

  Her gaze didn’t waver, though John suspected it took some will on her part.

  Jane inhaled like a diver about to plunge into a river of uncertain depth from the edge of a high cliff. “What if I just enjoy being around you?”

  Well, now… John rocked back on his heels. Had Jane’s deep breath sucked up all the air hereabouts?

  “Nothing wrong with that, I reckon.” He managed to speak the words in a casual tone, but it took some doing.

  She nodded her head, backing toward the house. “Well…fine. Then, I guess, if you don’t want any breakfast…I ought to…get back to work.”

  “Me, too.”

  “John?” She stopped, arms rigid at her sides, fists balled tight.

  “Yeah?”

  “Would you teach me how to ride a horse? I mean, really ride? Not that walk around the corral we took with Barton.”

  If things had gone better the night of the party, he’d been planning to suggest that to her. “I don’t see why not.”

  “And how to shoot a gun?”

  He tried not to look as surprised as he felt. Would an eagle come asking for swimming lessons next?

  “I reckon so, if you’ve a mind to learn.”

  “Thanks. I think I need to.” She flashed him a quick, bashful smile that might have been thanks. Or maybe something more. “Did Caleb tell you he got word the lady from Bismarck has been delayed a while longer?”

  “Not that I recollect.” Maybe his brother-in-law hadn’t wanted to see the eager hope that would have lit his eyes at the news.

  “She’ll be here soon enough, though. You said I needed to learn a few things if I’m going to make it here in Montana. I decided it’s time I pursued some instruction instead of shutting my eyes and hoping everything will work out on its own.”

  Just then it appeared to John as though Jane Harris had grown a bit taller. Or perhaps she was only standing straighter.

  It wasn’t easy to throw her shoulders back and stand tall, Jane refle
cted as she prepared to go off for an afternoon, riding and shooting with John. For so many years she’d tried to make herself small and inconspicuous. Drawing notice had too often meant drawing criticism. Or violence.

  But she must change if she wanted to stay in Montana, and Jane did want to stay—desperately. Not just because it was thousands of miles away from Emery Endicott, but because she’d enjoyed more moments of happiness here in the past weeks than she had experienced in all the years since the death of her family.

  She’d woken the morning after the party heartily ashamed of herself for running away from John. What kind of pathetic little mouse turned tail from fear of pleasure and happiness?

  New Year’s Day was months away, but that didn’t stop Jane from making a resolution. Never again would she bolt from the prospect of pleasure. Instead, she would seize and relish every opportunity for enjoyment that presented itself.

  What had persuaded her she was capable of change? Possibly the knowledge that she had already taken her first fumbling steps along that path. Since her arrival at the Kincaid ranch, she’d learned many new things, shouldered responsibilities. Gradually she’d begun to take pride and find fulfillment in her modest accomplishments—a clean house, a tasty supper, a contented baby.

  Jane cast a longing look over her shoulder at the Kincaid ranch house. On this bold, sweeping frontier, a woman couldn’t huddle inside her snug, civilized sanctuary forever. Hopefully, being able to ride and shoot would help her feel less vulnerable.

  John finished tightening the cinch on her saddle. “I’ll teach you how to do all this for yourself before we’re through. First, though, we just need to get you comfortable on horseback. If you don’t mind, I’ll carry the rifle and ammunition along with me.”

  “Be my guest.” She tried not to sound too anxious, but it didn’t work.

  “John, Jane!” They turned in perfect unison at the sound of Ruth’s voice.

  Ruth strode over the hard-packed earth between the house and the corral, her trailing buckskin skirt sending up a faint billow of dust. She held out a cloth-covered basket.

  “Don’t be in any hurry to get back on my account. With Caleb off to his meeting of the Stock Growers Association in Miles City, and Zeke gone to visit his mother’s folks in Texas, there’s little enough to do around here. I packed you some leftovers from the party in case you get hungry out on the range. Nothing like fresh air to give you an appetite.”

  “Thank you, Ruth.” Jane took the basket. “I guess I’ll have to carry this, since John will have his hands full with the gun.”

  “Let Ruth hang on to the basket until you’re mounted,” said John. “If I recollect, you had some trouble with that last time.”

  She remembered, all right. Falling back into the arms of that awful Cobbs fellow. How could one man manage to be smarmy and uncouth at the same time?

  It went much better today. With John hovering behind her, Jane knew she would never hit the hard ground even if she did slip. That certainty begat a heady sense of confidence. Before she knew it, she was securely mounted, in possession of the lunch basket and riding west with John Whitefeather.

  “You’re doing well, Jane.” He sounded so surprised, and just a little admiring.

  Jane sat taller in her saddle.

  “Try to let your body move a little with the motion of your horse.” John exaggerated his own graceful sway to give her the idea. “It’s almost like a dance, and your mount always leads.”

  He chuckled, and so did she.

  Recalling the magical moments of their dance at Brock and Abby’s party, Jane listened for the rhythm of her mare’s gait and began to rock ever so gently in time with it.

  “That’s the way.” John’s tone was as warm as the late morning sun.

  Jane felt like a shy wildflower coaxed to grow and blossom by its golden rays.

  “Can I make her go a little faster?” Jane could scarcely believe those words had come out of her mouth.

  “Don’t get too cocky now.” He chuckled; a sound like brook water gurgling over a rocky stream bed.

  After so many arid years, her spirit was parched for the moisture of a friend’s quiet laughter.

  “Just give your mare a soft little nudge with your knees and she’ll quicken her pace.”

  “Oh!” Jane squealed as the change in speed unsettled her balance.

  “It’s all right,” John reassured her. “You just have to adjust your movements to match her new stride. Keep practicing, and soon you’ll be doing it without even thinking.”

  If she sat on a horse every day for the rest of her life, Jane doubted she would ever ride with John’s natural grace. He reminded her of a centaur she’d read about in one of Mrs. Endicott’s books. With the torsos of men and the bodies of horses, most of those mythical creatures had been wild and lawless. One, however, had been a wise, honorable teacher to many of the great Greek heroes.

  While she certainly wasn’t hero material, Jane reflected, John Whitefeather had proved himself a natural teacher.

  They’d been riding for more than an hour when John nodded toward a low bluff. “We’re almost there. When you want to stop, pull back gently on the reins.”

  To her surprise, Jane managed to rein her mare to a halt without being pitched over the creature’s neck. She also survived her dismount, though her legs quivered a little when her feet hit the ground. As she reached out to clutch her stirrup for support, she felt John’s powerful arms wrap around her.

  “Guess I should have known better than to bring you so far when this was only your second time in the saddle. You were riding so well, I clean forgot.”

  Jane allowed herself to wilt against John for just an instant, savoring the scent of leather and sweet hay he always carried about him.

  “Please don’t apologize for bringing me here.” The moment her legs grew steady, she eased herself out of John’s arms. With some reluctance. “Even if the riding had been difficult, it would have been worth it to see this place.”

  She gazed around the high meadow. Brilliant green grass waved in a breeze perfumed with wildflowers. A narrow creek wound around the base of the gentle rise, its banks shaded with clusters of cottonwood and aspen. As far as the eye could see in any direction, not a single man-made structure challenged the sovereignty of nature.

  The power and beauty of it took Jane’s breath away.

  “I used to come here a lot.” John tilted his face to the sun. “It’s a great place to forget your troubles.”

  Jane had no difficulty believing that. Human cares shrank into insignificance out here. The natural splendor of the place would surely nourish the most famished soul.

  “You’ve had plenty of troubles to forget, haven’t you?”

  A choking lump rose in Jane’s throat as the words left her mouth. They had not spoken of his painful past, or hers, since that evening when he’d carried her up to bed. Might her intrusive question blight the fragile budding of trust between them?

  A weighty sigh billowed out of John. It reminded Jane of a distant breaking wave.

  “Still do by times.” His voice sounded hushed and weary.

  Another question occurred to Jane. She wondered if she dared ask it.

  “Is this the first time you’ve brought someone else here with you?” How she wished his answer was not so important to her.

  “Yeah, I suppose it is.” He sounded as surprised as she felt.

  Jane took a step closer and slipped her hand into his. “Thank you, John.”

  She wasn’t certain which gift was more precious to her—the fact that he’d brought her here, or the fact that he’d never brought anyone else.

  If he’d ever guessed that sharing his special place with another person would heighten his own enjoyment of it, John might have brought someone with him long ago. But he was glad he’d waited until now.

  Until Jane.

  John doubted anyone born and bred under the Big Sky could adequately prize the natural grandeur of this
spot. And that included him.

  Perhaps being an outsider had its advantages, after all.

  Today, John saw his special place through Jane’s fresh eyes. Supped deeply from the shared cup of her newfound delight. And got dead drunk with simple happiness.

  They let the horses wander to graze while they sat on the crest of the hill and helped themselves to the contents of Ruth’s basket. Stuffing slices of cold meat and cheese into bread rolls for improvised sandwiches, John and Jane washed them down with a single shared bottle of sarsaparilla.

  They talked about the party, Jane coaxing John to tell her more colorful stories about the Kincaids. Afterward they nibbled on Mrs. Dillard’s justly famous cherry turnovers.

  “Would you mind very much if we postponed teaching me to shoot until another day?” Jane brushed the crumbs of pastry from her skirt.

  “I guess not. Why?”

  “This may sound silly to you, but it seems to me as though gunfire would be sort of an…abomination out here. You know—like screaming cuss words at the top of your lungs inside some great cathedral.”

  “I don’t reckon that’s silly at all.” John stared off toward the Crazy Mountains. “Anyplace this beautiful has to be a little bit sacred. I know I feel the Great Spirit here, more than I do anywhere else. And there is something blasphemous about the sound of gunfire.”

  Jane seemed to read his unspoken thoughts. “How long have you been coming here?”

  He sensed her gaze upon him, but he could not turn and meet it. Surely it was enough that he answer her question. “Since I was a boy. Not long after my family was killed. I reckon I found peace here.”

  “I think I have, too,” whispered Jane.

  Was it being in this place that made it less painful for him to speak of his family? John wondered. Or did it just get a little easier every time? Like a tainted wound painfully pierced, the poison could now seep out.

  What canker gnawed at Jane’s soul? If he pushed to find out, John feared he might push her away forever. Yet if he failed to purge the poison, any changes he prompted in Jane would have no more substance than an early morning mist. They would burn away as soon as the harsh sun beat down on them.