Somewhere to Dream (Berkley Sensation)

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Somewhere to Dream (Berkley Sensation) Page 5

by Graham, Genevieve


  CHAPTER 7

  Healing

  “Ad-layd.”

  I stepped away with reluctance and crouched beside Dustu. I did a quick check of his injuries, called for what I needed, and two young boys ran to get it. I ran my fingers over the break gently, trying not to make Dustu yelp.

  “You must be calm,” I said to him. “Breathe through your nose.”

  “Ha!” he replied. His eyes shifted cruelly toward the prisoner. “He cannot breathe through his beak. I broke it.”

  I shook my head and lifted one eyebrow. “Sorry, Dustu. It was already broken before you hit him. You just got his lip going again.”

  “Quiet, woman,” he grumbled, but Soquili chuckled beside me. He folded his arms over his chest and glared down at Dustu, pale and sweating into the dirt.

  “I told you this man is mine,” Soquili told him. “Why do this?”

  “Soquili, you are a fool,” Dustu spat through clenched teeth. “This is no man like your brother. This is a toad. He is not worthy of your family.”

  Soquili spoke briskly before turning away. “That is not for you to say. Especially now. You are a small man for fighting an injured man. I had thought you braver than that.” Dustu made a furious noise, but Soquili shook his head with disgust and addressed me. “Fix the coward, Ad-layd, then go to your house. I will bring this man for you to heal.”

  Once the others dwindled and I had Dustu in place, he seemed to get over his initial agony and bite down on his sounds of pain. Dustu wasn’t prone to sitting still for long. A broken bone would take a long time to heal with a man like this. I told him what I suggested he do, including rest, then said I would stop in at his house later to check on him. He frowned, then nodded once, dismissing me. I rose and collected my things, then left.

  By the time I arrived at my house, Soquili had already brought the prisoner. He sat in a corner, glaring at us like a cornered bear. Except a bear would have had a thicker, more impressive coat. This man’s torn clothing was a dull mud brown, patched with blackened blood.

  “I need to clean you off so I can see to your wounds,” I said.

  It was an odd experience, speaking English after so many months. The prisoner looked slightly startled, but said nothing, only maintained his forbidding glare. I approached cautiously, thinking this would be like treating a wild animal. I half feared he might bite. I dipped a cloth into a wooden bowl set at his side, disturbing the still surface and inviting the aroma of sweet herbs into the air. I wrung out the cloth, watching the man closely, then held it out for him to assess. He seethed.

  “It’s only water,” I assured him, then pressed the cloth against my cheek in illustration.

  His chin lifted, seeing proof that whatever was in the bowl was safe, then he gave me a brief, almost imperceptible nod. I took his wrist between my fingers, feeling the rounded sharpness of his bones, then gently caressed his forearm with the cloth so he could feel the truth. He flinched at my touch, then slowly relaxed and let me cut through the dirt with the cloth.

  From across the room, Soquili watched, then grunted as if he’d just remembered something. He came toward us and reached in the direction of the man’s throat. The prisoner instantly jolted backward, pressing his back against the wall of the house, fists raised. I barely caught my bowl before it was kicked over.

  “What are you—” I began, just as confused as the man.

  “His shirt,” Soquili explained.

  I glanced at Soquili, then back to the man. “Of course,” I said, then sighed. “But I think he can do that himself, don’t you?”

  The prisoner’s gaze shifted from Soquili to me, and the slightest twinkle of hope shone in the back of those amber eyes as he waited for my explanation. I thought it likely that he saw me, my language, my blond hair, and my blue eyes as a sign that he might survive this.

  “He didn’t mean to frighten you. It’s only you need to take off your shirt. Your chest is bleeding.”

  The man sniffed, studying both our faces. Soquili gave him a tentative smile and obligingly moved away. Keeping his eyes trained on Soquili, the man wriggled painfully out of his filthy shirt, yanked it over his head, then tossed it beside him.

  I was used to men in various states of undress. After all, the Cherokee rarely wore much of anything during the summer months. But the lean lines of this man’s muscles, stretched tight across his chest, drew my gaze. Under his shirt, the skin was almost clean, the colour of cream, making him somehow seem more vulnerable. I examined a deep gash on his arm, trying not to touch his chest, though I knew I would have to when I tended to his wounds. A thin line of blood snaked down from over his right breast, following the contours of his ribs and congealing on the pale blond hairs of his stomach.

  “What? Never seen a white man before?” he muttered, lifting my eyes to his.

  “I’ve seen plenty,” I assured him, returning my attention to his arm. I decided the wound would heal without stitches, as would the one on his chest. They needed cleaning, though. Blood had trapped grime and pebbles on the shredded lips of the cuts.

  Soquili sat quietly on the other side of the house, watching.

  “Does he know why he is here?” I asked in Cherokee.

  “How could he know?” Soquili asked, shrugging.

  I nodded. Just as I thought. The man must be thoroughly confused, expecting to be killed, yet here he was being tended and healed. “Should I tell him?”

  Soquili considered this. I looked over my shoulder at him, waiting for an answer. Finally, he shook his head. “Not yet.”

  “What’s going on?” the man asked.

  He hissed through his teeth when I dabbed at the cut on his chest. “I’ll put balm on all of these. It’ll help.” He closed his eyes while I continued to clean him up and smear small patches of melted bear grease across the injuries. My patient wrinkled his nose, and I shrugged.

  “It will help the healing.”

  It was like a map, this body, and my eyes followed roadways of past injuries marked by various lines and scars. It had seen a great deal of abuse. Four deep pink lines stretched across his belly. I touched them, and he jumped as if I’d tickled him.

  “Cougar?” I asked gently.

  He looked away, but nodded. “Why didn’t they kill me?” His voice was hoarse, tired.

  “I can’t explain that to you yet.”

  “But why—”

  “I can’t. Just wait awhile, and you’ll find out.”

  His glare returned. I could feel his eyes burning me, though I kept my attention on his wounds. “What’s awhile?” he demanded. “An hour? A week? Give me something, girl. Am I just waiting to be tortured to death? Because if that’s it, you might want to save your medicines for the next man.”

  “Sorry. I don’t know the answer. You’ll just have to bide your time.”

  “But—”

  I turned toward Soquili and held out my hands in question. “He wants to know why he’s not dead.”

  Soquili scowled, not changing his mind.

  I studied the cuts I’d tended. The bear grease flickered slightly with the light of the hearth fire, and I tried not to shake my head with disgust. Such a waste of time. They’d let these injuries heal, then they’d tear them open again. I knew the Cherokee. This poor, bewildered man was only going to get more confused. I could tell him everything—Soquili would never know—but I wasn’t sure that would help. The stranger still stared at me, waiting, though my focus was on his chest. His gaze was so intense, I felt I could be at the other side of the room and still feel the beam of those eyes. I looked up.

  “I deserve to know,” he said quietly, echoing my thoughts. I continued to look at him, saying nothing, and he took that as an invitation to explain more. “When I was a kid, these sons of bitches killed my mother, my sisters, and my brother. I ain’t got no love for Injuns. But I ain’t afraid, n
either. I just wanna know what’s going on.”

  I squeezed the cloth under the water and touched the side of his face, hiding my smile. Not afraid. He wasn’t much of a liar. He winced but didn’t pull away.

  “And I have no love for white men,” I said. He was silent, but I’d already said too much. What could have prompted me to share my secret with a stranger? I bit my lip.

  Frustration creased his brow, but he didn’t ask anything else about me. His immediate concern had to be for himself, and that was a relief.

  “Are you gonna tell me what’s going on?”

  “I can’t. I don’t know exactly, to be honest.”

  I slid the cloth over his brow and felt him relax a little further. I knew my touch was soothing, the sweet-scented water refreshing. His hair was cut short so it curled behind his ears, tickled the bottom of his neck, and I knew once it was cleaned, it would be golden. Not white blond like mine, but gold. One stubborn curl in the middle of his forehead twisted away from the rest, and another flicked like a wave over one ear. His eyes watched me as I worked, a beast of prey scouting the territory, but he said nothing. When his face was clean, I leaned back and examined it.

  “What you looking at?”

  “Seeing if you have more damage,” I lied.

  In truth, I wanted to admire him. Now that most of his face was revealed, the pictures from my dreams were coming together, touching in his eyes, shaping around the strong set of his battered shoulders. He was about my age. And despite the swelling, he was undeniably handsome.

  But he was a man. And a white man, at that. I shoved the traitorous thought out of my head.

  “Well?”

  I reached into a small cup by my knee and pulled out a leech, black and wriggling between my fingers. My patient was no stranger to the treatment, because he didn’t object when I gently pressed three of the creatures to the swollen skin around his eye.

  “You’re not going to impress the ladies for a while, I’m afraid,” I said with a vague smile.

  “No?” A hint of humor curled in his voice. “Not even you?”

  I was surprised to feel blood rush into my cheeks. “No. Not even me.”

  He was still pale, and I knew it had to do with his leg. I looked down at the tear in his trousers and saw the bleeding had stopped, but it was a long cut. It would need attention. When I glanced up at him, he was frowning.

  “You ain’t gonna need to see that, are you?”

  “Of course I am.”

  “Well, I ain’t gonna—”

  From the other side of the room, Soquili chuckled. I glared at him. He got to his feet and went to the far end of the house, leaning down to reach for a blanket. He dropped it beside my patient.

  “Look away, Shadow Girl,” he said, grinning. “You will see all of him soon enough.”

  I stood and looked toward the open doorway, arms crossed over my chest. I knew I was blushing and hated myself for it. “Why would you say that, Soquili? I have no desire to see him.”

  The prisoner grunted with effort as he worked his way out of his trousers then hid under the blanket. When Soquili said it was safe, I turned back. My patient leaned against the wall, slightly paler than he had been, wearing nothing but a blanket from his waist to his knees. An unwelcome shiver passed down my spine and settled with heat in my belly. I fought the sensation, reminding myself that I knew well what was beneath that blanket. I knew what men could do with the weapons God had given them. No. I wouldn’t allow myself to feel anything for this man. I knelt beside him and rolled the blanket up the side of his thigh so I could heal the ugly gash. It stretched almost all the way from hip to knee.

  “Why did I say that?” Soquili chuckled. “I thought you would know that by now. This man carries the spirit of my brother. That means he is my brother, but he is also your betrothed.”

  CHAPTER 8

  Introductions

  I went about my daily routine, tending whoever needed me, doing chores with the women, sitting and talking with Nechama. My mind, however, dwelt in the small, silent tent near the centre of the village. They had tossed him in there with nothing but the blanket, and now took turns terrorizing him. I knew they hadn’t allowed him more than a couple of hours sleep. He was going to have to prove himself, and he was going to have to do it with next to no strength. In my opinion, they’d planned a horrible welcome-home party for Soquili’s so-called brother.

  I stayed purposefully away from him, though it bothered me how much I wanted to peek into that tent. I fought my curiosity for as long as I could, but I was plagued at night when his yellow eyes glared into my dreams. After a day, I gave in. I lifted the edge of the tent’s flap and squinted through the opening, relieved to see his eyes were closed. He sat straight, facing the tent’s flap, ready to defend himself . . . except his head lolled over his shoulder, long lashes rested on his pale cheeks, and soft snores padded his breathing. The cut on his brow seemed, from where I stood, to be healing all right. The scab was dark, and the purple-black bruises around his eyes were beginning to melt into an ugly greenish tinge. The swelling was mostly down.

  He looked younger when he slept, but then we all do. I wondered vaguely what his smile looked like. Then I sighed. Why bother wondering? Another day or so and his pretty face would be pounded to a pulp again. What a waste.

  I heard a sound behind me and turned slowly, not wanting to wake him. It was Kokila, and I smiled to see her. She didn’t have a mean bone in her body.

  “Does he sleep?” she whispered. I nodded, and she pulled the flap farther, then squatted beside me. I felt exposed, as if we trespassed, but Kokila didn’t seem bothered by it. She tilted her head, studying him, then smiled gently at me.

  “Does he eat?”

  I shook my head. An untouched bowl of corn and rice sat by him. It had been brought the night before. The water bowl, however, was empty.

  Kokila’s pretty mouth quirked up at one edge, and she nudged me with her elbow. “You could do worse,” she whispered.

  I looked away. Though I’d said nothing of it, Soquili’s teasing hadn’t left my mind since he’d uttered it. He is your betrothed. I refused to make any kind of comment, but what he’d said simply would not happen. Not in this lifetime. I wouldn’t marry anyone. But to even consider pairing me with a white man? Did these people forget who I was? What I’d survived? This new approach was strange and confusing to me. They were usually so caring.

  Kokila looked back into the dark tent. It was midday, and the air was still. Sweat trickled down the prisoner’s chest and over the cougar scar while he slept.

  “Tomorrow,” she whispered. “He will run tomorrow.”

  A sadness swelled in my chest. Not for myself, surely, but for this brave young man who had done nothing but defend himself. I hadn’t spoken with him since I’d cleaned his cuts, so he was completely in the dark about what was coming.

  Sometimes I hated the Cherokee with every one of my breaths. I hated their sense of right and wrong, their demeaning perspective that everyone but them was an imbecile, and their brutal methods of declaring superiority.

  Superiority. Hardly that. For them to beat an exhausted man almost to death so he could prove something of which he had no idea? How could that be superior? I tried not to dwell too much on this aspect of their society, because I could do nothing about it. They were what they were, and despite what they might believe, I knew they weren’t better or worse than anyone else. They were human. But knowing what was coming for this man made me sick. My throat tightened as I stared at his sleeping form.

  The Cherokee were human. White men were human. And yet they were so dramatically different. Their hatred was a living thing, and each wanted nothing less than to annihilate the other.

  Somewhere in the middle was me. I straddled both races, terrified to plant one foot permanently in either camp. This man slumped before me was trapped
between worlds as well, but he didn’t have to choose one or the other. He knew he was white all the way through. He knew to hate the Cherokee.

  I didn’t know who I was anymore. I had once been a quiet middle sister with a skill at sewing. Nothing more than that. I thought of myself as Maggie and Ruth’s sister, not my own person, and I was happy that way. I liked to hover behind others like a shadow, watching but silent. There was nothing special about me. Nothing except for the dreams I despised and ignored.

  This man’s presence reminded me that I was a part of two separate worlds, but a member of neither. I was alone. I used to want that. Then everything changed and being alone turned into being lost. Now I wanted, more than anything else, to be found.

  Kokila’s soft hand touched mine, and I turned toward her. Her eyes were dark, liquid with mirrored pain. She didn’t have to say a word. Her gaze, deep with the gentle soul of the Cherokee, loving and loyal and beautiful, apologized on behalf of all of them. It is something that must be done, said her black eyes. I looked away and tried to remember the caring, healing hands, the songs the women had sung to rid my sleep of nightmares, the lessons Wah-Li had taught me that had come close to freeing me from myself. Remembering their generosity of spirit reminded me of the creatures from whom Maggie and I had been rescued. I had steadfastly refused to remember those monsters or that day again, but just the thought of them helped me to see the prisoner as a white man again. That made it much easier for me to nod and back away from the tent.

  In the morning, excitement was as thick as the shrieks of cicadas in the air. Soquili and the others applied fresh war paint and bounced around one another, grinning with anticipation. The women were all outside, the children as well, and their laughter should have lightened my spirit.

  Instead, I felt sick. While the preparations were getting under way, the guest of honour sat trembling in his tent, unaware he was the reason for all this noise. I couldn’t stand it. I stomped back to his tent and stood face-to-face with the warrior on duty.

 

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