The Bride Wore Feathers

by Sharon Ihle

  The ferry. Her uncle's men had put her and her chaperon on the boat for the trip to Fort Lincoln. The river, the chunks of ice, a bump. That was it. She suddenly remembered, giving in to the insane urge to giggle like a schoolgirl. She'd fallen off the ferry shortly after leaving Bismarck. Or had the ferry fallen off of her? The giggles erupted again as her mind, fragmented and numb, supplied a cartoon of the ferry, bottom-side up.

  Instinct and the will to live took over then, and Dominique found a way to ignore the strange sensations and colorful images flashing in her head. Determined to find out where she was and seek an avenue of escape, she crawled over to the entrance of the tipi. Carelessly tearing the flap away from the wall, she peered out at what appeared to be a campground and found her eyes would not focus.

  Although her vision was blurred and nightfall shadowed much of her surroundings, she could see at least five more tipis arced around another lodge twice their size. She hadn't been kidnapped by a single Indian—she was in the middle of an entire village. Fear knotted in her throat.

  "Mon Dieu," she ground out, her voice sounding hoarse and guttural. But at the words her fear dissipated and again she thought of her father, of his liberal use of his native tongue, French, and of the love he had for her mother even seven years after her death. Mother, she mouthed to herself, thinking of Julia's Custer blood and the fact that she was the youngest sister of the general himself. What would Mother do?

  Julia Custer DuBois would have approved of Dominique's adventure, even to the point of wheedling Jacques into allowing her to accompany their headstrong daughter out to the wild frontier. Dominique chuckled as she remembered Julia's fiery streak of independence—and the day that streak had sent her to her own husband's court to answer charges of harassment and battery. A staunch supporter of women's rights, Julia and a small group of women had bound and imprisoned a terrified jupon manufacturer in a crinoline cage of his own making, then challenged him to wear one of his miserable creations for even a day. Beyond those few details, the incident was never discussed in the DuBois home, but Dominique knew all she had to do was mention the word "crinoline" and her father's cheeks would puff out like a squirrel's and turn as bright as her mother's flaming red hair.

  She gave in to another burst of laughter and then suddenly felt maudlin and contrite. A bare six months after the crinoline incident, Julia had died, a victim of consumption. Dominique cast mournful eyes on the circle of lodges. In the darkness, with fires burning inside each dwelling, the scene was almost familial. Each small circle of flames, visible through the skins, looked pink and inviting and gave her an eerie sense of home—and a desperate feeling of loss. She watched, envious of the watery forms of the families as they moved near the fires inside the tipis, and she smiled drunkenly as she thought how much they resembled dancing shadows. Then she blinked, and they transformed themselves into glowing monsters.

  Was she losing her mind? Dominique snickered as even that thought flashed a bizarre, yet terribly vivid picture to her poor confused brain. On hands and knees, lurching from side to side, she crawled back to the fire. Collapsing on the buffalo rug, she curled into a fetal position and willed her head to stop spinning, to stop distorting the images around her.

  Dominique lay still, straining for lucid thought, searching for some understanding of what was going on inside her muddled head. Then her brain sent its final message just before she passed out: The odds of surviving this little adventure, or even the night, were as good as finding an orchid blooming on the snow-dusted riverbanks.

  Chapter 2

  Jacob Redfoot sighed with satisfaction, and then rolled over onto his back. He glanced over at Spotted Feather and smiled. A Lakota woman knew how to serve a man, knew when to speak and when not to. What arrogance made the crazy woman in his lodge think he would seek or find this kind of gratification with her—in the arms of a white woman—even if he was born of the same kind?

  Surprised by the disturbing, unbidden thought, he clenched his fists in anger. I am Lakota, he grumbled inwardly. He had become one nearly twenty winters past on the day a Crow raid destroyed his family. Chief Gall of the Hunkpapa Sioux tribe had found him, a frightened trembling child, and taken him in as his own. Forced by circumstance to accept the Lakota life as a youngster, when Jacob grew to manhood, Chief Gall offered him a choice: to return to the people of his birth and make a place for himself in white society, or to remain with the Lakota and prove himself as a warrior. The choice had been easy. The Lakota were the only family he knew, the only people he trusted. Until he'd found the crazy white woman, he'd almost forgotten the physical differences between himself and his adopted family.

  Shaking off the troubling thoughts, Jacob slammed his fist into the rug and again growled, "I am Lakota."

  "Have I not pleased you?" a small voice whispered at his side.

  "Yes, Spotted Father, you have pleased me well. Now silence your tongue if you do not wish to anger me." Half expecting her to make some kind of reply, Redfoot laughed at his own folly, and then turned his back to her.

  Although she'd been widowed only a few short weeks, already this berry-skinned woman was easing the pressure on many a warrior's loins, giving of herself, but never asking for anything in return. The complete opposite of the golden-haired woman he'd pulled from the river. How did the white men manage if all their women were like this "gift" he'd found along the frozen banks of the Missouri? Why had he even bothered to save her from the icy grave?

  But he knew, of course. It wasn't just that cloud of golden red hair floating among the chunks of ice that beckoned him, nor was it her white-skinned beauty. Redfoot would have pulled a worthless Crow warrior out of those icy waters—even if only to kill him later in hand-to-hand combat. That way, it would be a fair death, an honorable end to an otherwise useless life.

  Angered as he thought of the Lakota's most hated enemy, the Crow, Redfoot allowed his mind to drift back to the woman, to her glorious multicolored hair. Red, gold, and yellow streaked her curls, as if the Great Spirit himself had dipped his fingers into a fiery sunset, an early morning's dawn, and a starlit night, then passed them through the silken strands of her hair. His breath caught as he thought of the locks so like the stars, the color of which reminded him of the woman he'd once called Mother.

  His throat tightened. Redfoot swallowed hard and rolled onto his side. He'd been expecting this, yet still memories of another time, another heritage, shook him, rolling his gut into a tight ball. How would he manage when the Lakota's plans for him finally reached a climax and he returned to the world of the whites? Would memories of this past life, of the gentle yellow-haired woman of long ago, cloud his judgment, jeopardize those he now called family? He wouldn't, couldn't, let such thoughts interfere with his mission. He would have to find a way to harden his mind and heart to the past and to the woman whose presence seemed to draw this forgotten part of him to the surface.

  Redfoot closed his eyes and worked at forcing sleep, but still his mind refused to rest. Still he saw those golden curls bouncing down the woman's naked back, felt his fingers swim through waves of hair the color of maize at sunset, and he recalled the sweet scent of lilacs that seemed to drift up from her soft skin. Something about her—was it those defiant brown eyes coupled with the stubborn set of her chin even as it trembled with fear, or perhaps the way her lithe body twisted and writhed beneath him, or all of those things? Whatever the cause, sudden flames licked at the depths of loins he'd thought were sated.

  Groaning his newest frustration into the buffalo robe, Redfoot knew he must make a decision. The crazy woman could prove to be a costly, if not deadly, distraction. But she was his gift, his responsibility. What was he to do with her? He considered offering her to one of the other warriors, but then he recalled the surprise and innocence in her eyes when he caught her gawking at him as he dressed. This one remained a maiden. Who but himself would have any consideration for her white flesh? None, came the answer. The others would tear and ravage t
he crazy woman's tender body with no thought to her discomfort or pleasure. What to do?

  * * *

  After a few hours of restless sleep, he awakened well before dawn, his decision made. The Hunkpapa, along with the six other council fires in the Lakota nation, were finally ready to send him back to his own kind on a mission that could bring great rewards—or an end—to the Lakota nation. This gift, this sharp-tongued woman, was an amusement he could not take the time to enjoy, much less groom in the way of the Lakota.

  Redfoot dressed quickly, knowing he must be rid of her while the sun still slept. If the dawn's light touched his features and the woman was still his captive, he would have to kill her to ensure his identity would remain secret. Working even faster, he helped himself to a few articles of Spotted Feather's clothing, and then hurried out into the night and back toward his own tipi.

  As he approached the entrance, he made a decision as to which direction to ride. He'd been very close to the town of Bismarck when he found her. His task that morning had been to study the perimeters of the fort, to establish meeting sites for himself and the first in a series of messengers who would take information back to the Hunkpapa camp. But he'd wandered too far north, much too close to the town and its citizens. Again doubts plagued him. Had he been drawn to Bismarck by some forgotten link to the past or had he simply strayed off course?

  Redfoot forced his thoughts to yesterday, to the boat and its occupants just before it lunged out of control and began tossing its cargo into the icy waters of the Missouri. All had been dressed in the clothing of farmers and townsfolk. None wore the uniform of the Long Knives. Armed with this logic, he decided the woman belonged to the town and not to the soldiers. He could safely leave her near the fort and one of the general's eager soldiers could escort her back to Bismarck. Redfoot could not take a chance of approaching the town again. Satisfied with the new plan, he paused as he reached his tipi, then lowered his head to duck inside.

  Coiled in the corner behind the entrance flap of the tipi, Dominique tensed in anticipation as she heard footfalls growing louder and closer. When a large figure stepped past her, she leapt from her hiding spot and sprang onto his back.

  "Ayeee," Redfoot cried as he spun in a circle, raising his arms and grasping at her loose curls.

  Dominique clawed at the front of his buckskin shirt, but her fingernails glanced off the rows of porcupine quills sewn there. Panic drove her to wrap her arms around his neck and try to squeeze the life from his body. But she was too weak to do anything but hang on.

  Redfoot caught her wrist and jerked her off his back. He held her for a moment, then flipped her to the ground as if she were nothing more than an annoying insect.

  "Are you really so brave?" He laughed. "Did my little gift plan to use me to make coup? Perhaps you thought to take my scalp and present it to Chief Gall in the warriors' lodge as well?"

  Dominique squinted up at him in the near darkness, then squeezed her aching eyes shut and rubbed at her temples. "I thought you were a bear or a cougar or a monster. I thought I—I can't think," she cried. "What's wrong with me?"

  Redfoot's brow bunched as he leaned down and tilted her chin toward the faint glow from the dying fire. He could barely see the woman's big brown eyes, but what he found in them startled him. They were swimming in rivers of fog and insanity, drifting in all directions with no set course. Her head wobbled then, and Redfoot caught her before she tumbled sideways into the fire.

  Jerking her to her feet, he tried to reassure her. "I think I have given you too much medicine, crazy one, but you should be well again soon. Can you dress yourself?"

  All night long, her manner and emotions had been changing at will. For some reason, his words brought forth the giggling schoolgirl. Dominique chuckled and stuck out her hand. "Of course I can get dressed by myself, you dolt. My gown, if you please."

  "You have done nothing to please me since I set these weary eyes on you," he muttered as he collected the clothing he'd brought. "Now dress yourself. We must hurry."

  Dominique reached for the clothing and recoiled when her fingers touched buckskin instead of silk. "That's not my dress," she pouted.

  Jacob thrust the garments into her arms, his voice rising with his temper. "That mountain of clothes you almost drowned in has been shared by the women in our camp. I am sure they thank you. Now dress."

  When she didn't move immediately, Redfoot lost all patience. He tore the buffalo robe and blanket from her shoulders, then slid the buckskin dress over her head before she could protest. He tugged at the garment, noticing it was too narrow for her curved hips and rounded bottom. Then she slumped against him and began to weave. With a final jerk, he managed to get the buckskin down past her knees. Straightening, he caught her by the waist and pulled her close to him. Her body was limp and unresponsive. Had she passed out?

  "Crazy one?" he whispered. "Will you be sick?"

  But her only answer was a feeble moan.

  Gripping the back of her neck, he tilted her head toward the faint light, and again he gazed into her eyes. They were shrouded and glazed. Her thick auburn lashes skimmed the crests of her cheeks, bobbing open and closed like gentle summer waves teasing the shoreline of the Missouri. The crazy one languished in a dream state, the medicine still heavy in her brain.

  Redfoot looked around for a safe place to prop her up while he finished dressing her, but the woman's lovely features and sudden lusty chuckle drew his gaze once again. Her mouth opened, her upper lip curling at the corner, her full bottom lip, just made for pouting, jutting out to its most tantalizing and appealing pose. Then she gasped a quick breath and sighed breathlessly from deep in her throat.

  A fiery whip of desire uncoiled in Redfoot's gut and lashed at his senses. Stung by an urge more powerful than reason, he ignored all logic and took that provocative mouth with his own. Soft, he discovered where he'd expected rigid denial. Lush, he realized, surprised to find the white woman's lips riper, fuller, and more intoxicating than those of Spotted Feather. Expecting to be rebuffed, Redfoot plunged ahead, indulging his curiosity, dangerously igniting an inner passion he might not have the strength to suppress. Still she remained compliant. Still she moaned, the sound deep and throaty as she accepted his kisses.

  Redfoot's control began to unravel then, and he knew that to indulge himself with this woman would be to condemn her to death. Dawn was just on the dark side of rising. He had to let her go—after one more taste.

  Startled into as lucid a state as she was capable of, Dominique struggled to understand what was happening to her. Her mouth, her body, all seemed to be on fire. New, wonderful, frightening sensations throbbed inside her, coaxing foreign feelings from everywhere at once. Kissing, she realized. A man was kissing her. Who? Why? A thousand stars exploded in her head. A whirlwind gathered a field of dandelions, then scattered them in her brain. Her mind was cotton. And the man continued to kiss her.

  Dominique's eyes flew open as she jerked out of his arms. Suddenly indignant, she slapped his face with as much strength as she could find. "Unhand me, you cad. You don't know who you're dealing with. You are—who are you?"

  Redfoot's deep laughter was prompted as much by relief as by amusement. He gathered the other articles of clothing as a sense of urgency overcame his desire, and then he approached the woman. She was weaving again. He had wasted too much time trying to reason with her. They must leave now if she was to arrive at the fort before daylight. Redfoot gathered her in his arms and tossed her over his shoulder like a sack of grain. Then he pulled a pair of knee-high moccasins onto her feet and adjusted a buffalo robe across her shoulders.

  When she groaned as if to protest, Redfoot slapped her bottom in warning and made his way through the opening in the tipi. The bite of the frigid morning air nipped at his face, cooling his heated body, and he stopped long enough to inhale its crispness. Then he continued on his way, amused by the feeble pounding of her fists against his back. When he reached a string of horses, he loosened
his grip and leaned forward. Dominique slid off his shoulder and landed in a thin patch of snow at his feet, a tangle of arms and legs.

  Dominique's hands sank into the slush, and the cold air revived her enough to realize she was in danger. She swallowed hard and said, "What are you going to do with me? Who are you?"

  Redfoot ignored her as he separated his horse from the rest of the mounts and tied a rope around its muzzle. When he grabbed a fistful of the stallion's mane and launched himself onto the animal's back, the woman's demands grew louder.

  "Well?" she said, her tongue thick and unwieldy. Dominique glared up at the Indian's shadowy figure, but her eyes crossed as she strained to make out his features. She shook her head, then warned, "Either you tell me what's going on here, or I shall have to—"

  With a sigh, Redfoot reached down and gripped the back of the buckskin dress. Leaning farther away from the animal's neck, he gave a mighty tug, then draped her flailing body across the horse's withers as if she were his kill for the day.

  When he gave the rope hackamore a sharp tug, the stallion wheeled around to the right, then reared before it took off at a dead gallop. As he'd hoped, the combination of surprise and speed stilled the fiery woman's tongue and ended her struggles as she clung to the horse with a death grip.

  Knowing sunrise was near, Redfoot urged the horse on, never slowing the speed as they crashed through a thick stand of trees, and not even as he neared their final destination. When the clearing between the trees and Fort Lincoln was finally in sight half an hour later, Redfoot reined the stallion to an abrupt halt and slid off the animal's rump in the same movement.