“Tonight?” Lorna shook her head. “It’s too late in the day to plan a celebration.”
“A lot of the preparations have already been made,” Meg said. “It’s what they’ve been waiting for and it’ll be an honor for us to be a part of it.”
“An honor?”
“Yes,” Meg answered. “To help prepare and participate.”
Shivers were tickling Lorna’s spine. “Help prepare?”
“Yes, that is what Black Horse told Little One,” Meg said. “To take us with her so we can help with the preparations.”
Lorna glanced around at the Indian women bustling about, adding sticks to the fires in front of their teepees, stirring the contents of bowls with their hands, and other such cooking activities. “Why?”
“To celebrate the start of the hunt.”
Still glancing around, Lorna asked, “What are we supposed to help them do?”
“Whatever they need,” Meg said, grabbing her hand.
Hours later, Lorna figured she’d done more work that day than all the others since they’d started traveling west. She’d gathered firewood, hauled buckets of water from the stream, dug roots with several young girls and completed numerous other chores requested of her. Tillie and Betty had disappeared, and she wondered why. They were the two who liked to cook. The ones who knew how to cook. When left to their own devices, she and Meg had eaten some pretty awful meals. Meg was better at cooking than she was, but her skills were also very limited. In fact, they’d lived mainly on beans the first few weeks. Not that she was expecting an appetizing meal tonight. Truth was, it didn’t matter. The dozens of trips to the creek to haul water had left her too exhausted to worry about eating. Sleeping was what she was looking forward to, especially now that the sun was setting.
Little One handed her a bowl full of something so foreign-looking she couldn’t have described it if her life depended on it. “What am I supposed to do with this?” Lorna asked.
“Follow us,” Meg said, her own hands full.
“Where to?” Lorna asked.
“To Black Horse’s lodge,” Meg answered, already following Little One and One Who Heals.
Lorna followed, too, but kept her distance from the old woman. From the time they’d started preparing for this celebration that had the entire camp running about like chickens with a fox in their pen, One Who Heals had been on Lorna’s heels. The old crone had smacked her across the shins with a switch when she’d slopped water out of the bucket on one trip. It had taken all the control she’d had not to grab the stick and smack the old woman back. If not for the fact the old crone would have tattled to Black Horse, she would have.
“Why are we going to Black Horse’s lodge?” she asked Meg.
“Because he’s the head of the family.”
“He and Little One aren’t real family,” Lorna said as they walked through the maze of teepees and campfires releasing a plethora of scents. “She’s not his sister. She’s your sister.”
“He accepted her into his family from the time the Southern Cheyenne left her here,” Meg said. “She loves him like he was family.”
There was an underlying tone in Meg’s voice. One Lorna had never heard, and for the first time, she wondered if Meg was worried that Little One wouldn’t want to leave with her. Didn’t want to be her sister.
Betty and Tillie, carrying pots from their wagon, met them near Black Horse’s lodge. “Where have you been?” Lorna asked.
“Making things for the celebration,” Betty said.
“Isn’t it exciting?” Tillie asked.
Lorna kept her opinion to herself and followed Meg through the doorway flaps. The contents of her bowl sloshed as she caught sight of Black Horse. He was sitting in the center of the lodge, surrounded by people, and greeted them with one of his little nods.
She was bustled forward, the bowl was taken from her hands and before she knew it, she was seated on the ground next to Black Horse. The oddest sensation washed through her. She certainly wasn’t happy to see him again, but she was the tiniest bit happy to be back in his teepee. As strange as it was, there was familiarity here, or at least a hint of safety. That was something she’d need to ponder. This man had flung her over a horse, thrown her into a wagon, tied her up and let his teepee almost crush her to death. None of that signified safety.
Conversation filled the space, as did laughter as bowls were passed about. They were laden with boiled ribs, stew that included the wild turnips she’d dug up earlier, and several other things she didn’t recognize. Everything was cut into bite-size pieces, and there were no utensils. No forks. No spoons. That didn’t stop anyone from eating, using their fingers. Betty was seated on her other side, and Lorna leaned closer. “There is a serious lack of table manners here.”
With a shrug, Betty said, “I suspect that is because there are no tables.”
Lorna didn’t have a retort for that.
“Eat,” Betty said. “It is very delicious. Especially these ribs Moon Flower made. They are so tender.”
Not as interested in the food as she was other things, Lorna asked, “Which one is Moon Flower?”
“The tiny woman next to Little One.”
Lorna found the one Betty indicated. The woman was indeed tiny, and was feeding food to a small child. “How do you know her name?”
“Little One told me. Moon Flower lost her husband last winter, and Black Horse has been providing for her family—her and her two children—ever since.”
“Why?”
Betty finished chewing and swallowed before answering. “Because she has no one to feed them. No one to hunt for food. The Cheyenne are very generous to each other. They let no one go hungry or cold. Black Horse is very rich, and shares his fortune with others.”
“Rich?”
“As in horses, and hides, and robes, and other things he’s traded with the white man. His lodge is large and he is a great hunter, so his larder is always full.
“Being the leader of the band, he takes care of the poor, or those down on their luck, until they are able to fend for themselves again.” Betty shook her head. “It surprised me to learn their society was much like ours. Those who are rich, and those who are poor. However, unlike our society, the poor are not shunned. No one is looked down upon.”
“How did you learn all that?”
“Little One told us much about the Cheyenne, and introduced us to many others.”
“When?” Lorna asked. “We’ve only been here for a few hours.”
“While you were tied up, and before and after.” Betty stripped the meat off another rib bone with her teeth. After swallowing, she said, “I believe what is written in books does not apply to all Indians. That most of it is simply what the writer wants people to think. Not at all the truth.” She picked another rib off her plate. “You should eat before it gets cold.”
Using her fingers, since there was no other option, Lorna picked up a rib. It was very tender and flavorful, and she counted heads while she ate. There were a total of sixteen people in the teepee, counting the three children who were extremely well behaved. They sat next to their mothers, opening their mouths like little birds in a nest.
Besides Black Horse, there were three other men. One was elderly, and the younger woman next to him fed him much like the mothers of the children. The other two men were younger, closer to Black Horse’s age, which was hard to guess. Older than her twenty years, but not aged. She didn’t recognize any of the men as ones who had been at the river earlier.
The men talked much more than the women, and laughed. Their chortles were practically nonstop. As was their eating. The women kept filling the men’s plates, and they kept eating, and eating.
Her own plate seemed to have gone empty on its own. She licked off the lingering bits from her fingers—her mother would have beaten her had she done that at home, but here it seemed to be what everyone else was doing. She couldn’t name all she’d eaten, but nothing that had hit her taste buds had been
revolting. Her palate had changed drastically this past year. There had been a time when she’d have refused to taste anything she couldn’t name, or hadn’t eaten before.
The tent once again filled with laughter, and Lorna was wondering what they found so funny when Betty reached around and pulled something from behind her.
Recognizing one of Betty’s prized pans, Lorna asked, “You’ve been to our wagons?”
“Of course,” Betty said.
She’d left England with nothing more than what she could carry. New York, too, but in Missouri, she’d followed Meg’s advice in outfitting their wagon for the trip to California. “Is everything still there?”
“Of course,” Betty repeated. “I hope they like this.”
Betty took the top off the pan, and the scent of molasses wafted upward. “What is it?” Lorna asked.
“I wanted to make something they would not normally have,” Betty said. “Something special, so I made a molasses cake. I usually bake them as cookies, but I couldn’t do that in my Dutch oven.”
Betty had brought along a spoon and started serving out pieces. She placed the first one on Lorna’s plate and whispered, “Happy birthday.”
Having forgotten hours ago that this was still her birthday, Lorna felt tears prick the backs of her eyes, and silently admitted her friend’s thoughtfulness had touched a vulnerable place inside her.
Plates were passed around the circle, and one didn’t need to know the Cheyenne language to know how much the Indians liked the cake. Even the children made little appreciative moans.
Lorna took a bite and was reminded of some of the sweet treats from back home. There had always been plenty of them. Her mother had insisted on having delicacies with tea each afternoon. The bite she’d taken seemed to double in size and she had to swallow twice to get it down.
Laughter once again filled the air, and Lorna glanced up to see why this time. It was over the cake, the two young men were obviously vying for second helpings. Everyone was laughing at their antics, how they were trying to put their plates closest to Betty, who was blushing red.
Being pushed aside by the bulk of the men, Lorna found herself up against Black Horse. He was laughing, too, and his plate was empty.
“Do you want more?” she asked very quietly, for only him to hear.
“There will be no more when they are done,” he replied just as quietly.
Making sure no one was watching, for she wouldn’t want to hurt Betty’s feeling by not eating the cake, Lorna carefully slid her piece onto his plate. “I’m full.”
He didn’t question her actions and ate the cake before anyone noticed. At least she’d thought no one had noticed until she felt eyes on her. One Who Heals’s glare was hot enough to leave blisters.
The old woman said something to Black Horse. Lorna had started to think of their language as inoffensive, but the older woman had a way of making it sound harsh and ugly again. Although it goaded her that she didn’t know what the woman said, Lorna ignored her and rose to her feet. Much like in the white man’s society, the women began to gather the dirty dishes. It was odd how she’d started to define things as the white man’s. They had only been here for a few hours. That certainly wasn’t enough time to alter a person’s thinking.
With so many women helping, the cleanup was done in no time, and Lorna turned to Meg as everyone started to reenter the teepee.
Before she had a chance to speak, Meg said, “It’s not polite for us to be conversing in front of them. They can’t understand what we say.”
“They do it to us,” Lorna pointed out.
“And how does that make you feel?”
Lorna couldn’t say it didn’t bother her as much as it used to—other than the old crone. Meg wouldn’t believe that, and Lorna wasn’t ready to tell her friend why. She wasn’t sure herself. Other than, just as Little One would answer any questions of Meg’s about what had been said, Black Horse would answer hers. Lorna couldn’t say how she knew that to be true, but she did, and that felt good.
Which was also extremely odd.
The men were passing a pipe among themselves, and though they still laughed, it was quieter now, as was the way they spoke to one another. Their conversation held a rhythm, almost like the cadence of someone reciting a poem. There was no harshness, and that made her glance to where One Who Heals sat near the door, as if she was a guard of some sort. The old woman didn’t speak, but her stare was as severe as ever. Perhaps out of defiance, or maybe defense, Lorna crossed the small area and once again sat down beside Black Horse as if it was her rightful place.
He nodded at her, and her heart fluttered oddly. Whether it was because the action felt like an approval from him, or because the old woman huffed, Lorna didn’t know, but she lifted her chin and let her gaze land on One Who Heals.
The old woman might as well know that their dislike of each other was mutual.
Once again seated, the women chatted quietly among themselves, using a large amount of sign language to include Betty, Tillie and Meg. The subject was clearly Betty’s cake, and she was blushing all over again at the praise she received.
Used to seeing the others dressed in their nun outfits, Lorna hadn’t realized she’d never pulled her habit back over her head until the conversation changed. With hand gestures again, the others were asking why hers was hanging down her back. She waved her hands near both cheeks. “Because it’s hot,” she said.
“Ehaoho’ta.”
She glanced at Black Horse.
“Ehaoho’ta,” he repeated.
“Hot?”
He nodded.
“Ehaoho’ta,” she repeated, feeling an uncanny sense of pride when she didn’t mangle the word.
The others nodded and the conversation moved on to another topic. Lorna didn’t try to follow. Her gaze had gone to Black Horse. He wasn’t looking her way, and she studied the sharp features of his profile. Some might consider him handsome, for his dark complexion was intriguing and pleasant to the eyes. His long hair no longer scared her, either. Not that it ever should have. She’d seen men with long hair before, especially on the ship that brought her to America. She must have just been startled back at the river, for there truly wasn’t anything frightening about Black Horse. Not any more than any other man.
People, although their lives might be different, were surprisingly the same. They still needed food, clothing and shelter to survive. They all had families. That was common sense, yet for some unknown reason, she’d never seen it that way before.
He turned then, and Black Horse’s thoughtful gaze caught her off guard. Heat rushed into her cheeks as she turned away.
No command was given, not by Black Horse or anyone else, yet one by one people began to file out of the teepee, including her friends. The women with children gathered the two that had fallen asleep, and once they left, it was just her and Black Horse. He’d already moved to the opening, and gestured for her to exit before him.
She pinched her lips to withhold a grin. There may not be table manners, but there was chivalry in their culture. “Where are we going?” she asked.
“To continue the celebration.”
One Who Heals was holding the flap open from the outside, making Lorna bite down on several other questions. Others were leaving their teepees, too, and a gaiety filled the air as everyone headed toward the center of the encampment. She walked alongside Black Horse, amazed by the number of people. The gathering was immense, and while people were still arriving, music started.
She couldn’t call them musicians, for they didn’t resemble what she’d seen in the past, but there were men pounding on drums and others blowing into flutelike instruments. The singing that soon began was more of a rhythmic chanting to the beat of the drums.
Most of the men, including Black Horse, headed for the open area around a huge fire and began dancing. Here, too, it was nothing like she’d seen before. Darkness had long ago descended upon them. The flames and sparks of the fire haloed the
dancers, and the eeriness sent a definite shiver down her spine. Standing near her friends, Lorna couldn’t pull her gaze from Black Horse. He was leading the band of men, hopping from foot to foot, and the deepness of his chant could be heard above the rest.
Following suit of those around her without really realizing it, Lorna sat on the ground. A large circle had formed all around the dancers. It was odd how everything they did was symmetric. There were no rows of people. No trying to see over the heads of those in front of you. Nothing blocked her view of the men and their primitive dancing. It was nothing like the ballets she’d attended. The music of those events hadn’t affected her the way this did. The continual beating of the drums seemed to enter her bloodstream, making her heart beat in harmony with the unorthodox concert.
One by one, women joined the dancing and chanting. Their higher notes complemented the low tones of the men and their gracefulness was admirable. Some steps had people leaping into the air much like the sparks of the fires, while other times they dipped low to the ground, their backs bent forward and their heads down as they continued around the circle. There appeared to be no right or wrong way, yet all were in perfect unison with the music.
When Meg, encouraged by Little One’s repeated, “Ho’sooestse,” joined in, Lorna was torn. Part of her was amazed by her friend’s courage. Another part was appalled that Meg was so willing to unite with these people. There may have been a small part of her that was jealous, yet she couldn’t fathom why. Dancing like a gypsy beneath a yellow moon was not something she wanted to do, nor ever would. Right?
Another pang stung her stomach as Tillie and Betty were invited to join the dance. She wasn’t used to being a wallflower. Most every ball she’d ever attended, her dance card had been full long before the music started. Her mother had made sure of that. Whether she’d wanted to be at the ball or not—and she hadn’t wanted to be at any of them—it was expected that she smile and dance until blisters covered her toes. The punishment of not doing so was worse than the blisters; therefore, she’d danced, often well beyond her full card.
Memories of such events brought up a rawness that she’d believed had been deeply buried. Until leaving, she hadn’t understood how deeply imprisoned she’d been. The control others had had over her. If not for that night a year ago, she’d still be there—obeying others as if she had no say in her own life.
Her Cheyenne Warrior (Harlequin Historical) Page 9