Eagle Who Flies High made another flying lunge at Jeremy. The two men went down.
The Indians gathered tightly around the circle. Christa couldn’t see anything. She tried to burst through the crowd. “Dear God, dear God, please! I’ll do anything, I’ll tend the sick, I’ll work for the poor—I’ll be nice to Yankees everywhere. Oh, God, please, I’ll never ask another thing of you, just let him live, please, please, let him live …”
She weaved her way through bodies, but was blocked again. She tried to twist through, and fell to the ground, plowing through the dust to land at the edge of the circle where the men were fighting.
A gasp escaped her. Tears welled into her eyes. Jeremy was down. A red gash had been cut across his chest; another sliced his shoulder. His eyes were closed; he lay on his side, prone, in front of her.
“Dear God, no!” she cried in pain and anguish. “Jeremy …”
From some distant fog, he heard her call his name. He fought the pain that seared through him. Fought the exhaustion. So much blood was draining from him now, it was making him weak. He had made a few strikes too. Eagle Who Flies High had to be hurting. Jeremy had cut him soundly about the hip and struck deeply into one leg.
But still, he hadn’t been able to fight the dizziness. Death had not seemed so horrible until he had heard her voice.
He could see her, yes! Christa thought. He was not dead!
His lip curled suddenly. “I won’t fail you, Reb!” he whispered.
He pulled up to his knees. Christa suddenly felt herself wrenched to her feet. She was being held back by one of the braves. She wasn’t going to be allowed to come close anymore.
“Please!” she cried. But the brave did not intend to release her. She could see the men moving again. Circling, coming closer and closer to one another.
A war whoop shook the air. Someone had lunged once again. She could see the bodies entangled upon the earth. Flailing, fighting, one man gaining an advantage, then losing it.
Damn! The bear grease made fighting nearly impossible. Every time Jeremy thought he had a good hold on Eagle Who Flies High, the man slipped between his fingers.
But then, the grease worked to his advantage just as well. He saw the warrior’s dark eyes on him, sizing him up as they both paused.
Jeremy grit his teeth. They were both losing blood. The blood dripping into his eyes from the wound on his forehead was blinding him. He had to win. He could see many things in Eagle Who Flies High’s eyes. The Indian hated him. Hated that he had come to him in peace so many times. He could be a war chief now. As powerful as Buffalo Run. This fight was over many things, with Christa the main prize. And the Comanche coveted the woman.
Eagle Who Flies High had chosen the weapons. He had known his own expertise with the knife. Just as he knew that most cavalrymen were adept with their swords and guns. He had known he had the weight advantage. He had known he was a proud, fierce, good warrior, a strong fighter.
But he hadn’t realized that weapons wouldn’t matter, that fear wouldn’t matter, that nothing would except Christa.
Love could be the strongest weapon of all.
He would not die.
“McCauley!” the Comanche taunted. “Come, McCauley, taste my steel. Taste it deep in your throat!”
He shook his head. “No, Eagle Who Flies High. You have chosen. You must taste my steel.”
For the last time, the two of them lunged for one another, knowing that it must now be to the death.
There was a jarring, sickening crunch as steel met flesh and blood and bone.
One wearied fighter fell.
The other, severely wounded, staggered back.
Christa couldn’t see them anymore. She heard an explosion of sound from the crowd of Comanche, and hands rose and struck the air, lances were raised, and loud cries sounded fiercely all around.
One of the combatants was down.
Down and dead, or dying.
She could not see which man.
“Please!” she shrieked, trying to tear away from the warrior who held her. He didn’t release her, but the squaw in front of her moved.
She saw the bronzed back of a man. He lay with his face in the dirt. He was covered with blood and grease. The hilt of a knife protruded from the side of his rib cage.
“No!” she whispered. She started to fall. It was Jeremy and he was dead and she really didn’t care what happened to her anymore. Her knees were too weak to allow her to stand, and she would have fallen if the Comanche warrior hadn’t held her upon her feet.
“Tall Feather! Buffalo Run!” She heard the words, and she gasped. It was not Jeremy who had fallen. He was alive, and he was speaking, and the Comanche who held her so rigidly was at last moving forward.
He was alive but just barely. He was covered in as much blood as he was covered in grease. Standing seemed difficult for him, but he was determined to do so. He was addressing the chiefs, Tall Feather and Buffalo Run, his friend and his brother.
“I am sorry that it came to this. I am sorry for the life of a fine opponent. I ask that it be the end. We have all been betrayed by men we thought to be our friends. And in this, Tall Feather, and my brother, Buffalo Run, we have all learned that there can be honor among our enemies. I have met Eagle Who Flies High in fair battle, man to man. The gray-coat, Jeffrey Thayer, is dead. Even the man who betrayed me, who sought to bring down my wife’s family, is now dead. I want to take my wife and bring her home. We can’t stop the great tide of violence that goes on between our peoples. We can remember the honor in one another. Let me take my wife and go.”
Christa felt the warrior’s hold upon her tighten as he awaited word from the head men of the band. Buffalo Run and Tall Feather exchanged glances. Tall Feather looked at Jeremy a long while, and then nodded. He lifted a hand.
The brave released Christa. Suddenly, she was free.
With a soft cry, she raced the distance to her husband. The impetus of her weight against him almost caused him to keel over. She straightened quickly, made painfully aware of how he had been cut and injured. She tried to support his weight upon her shoulders, yet he would not lean upon her.
“McCauley,” Buffalo Run said. “You are right. There can be honor among enemies. Take your woman and go home.”
Christa inhaled a ragged breath, looking to Jeremy. He smiled and took a step forward.
But they weren’t going home. Not quite yet. Jeremy took a step and fell flat into the dirt. Christa cried out, falling to her knees beside him.
Little Flower was quickly at her side. “Bring him!” she told the men gathering around. “Bring him quickly. We must stop the flow of blood.”
When Jeremy opened his eyes again, Christa knelt by his side. He heard the tinkle of water and realized that she was bathing his wounds and his forehead again and again.
He blinked, trying to see her. Her face was very white and drawn. He tried to smile, but the effort seemed too much. He tried to rise. There was powder on his chest. He frowned, trying to dust it off. She caught his hand. “Leave it!” she said softly. Her gaze wandered elsewhere in the tepee, then returned to his. “It’s all right. I really do know quite a bit. Before the war, I helped Jesse a lot, and he told me that a lot of Indian medicinal herbs were really very good. This is just a salve of yarrow, fine for cuts and bruises.”
He nodded. He wanted to talk to her. The effort seemed too much. He closed his eyes.
When he awoke again, he felt much stronger. There was warmth at his side. He half rose. Christa slept there.
But they were not alone. He heard a soft whisper, and saw that Little Flower had come to him. She brought a bowl of a thin-looking gruel. She smiled, offering it up to him. “It will give you strength,” she promised him. He sipped the substance. It was something made from buffalo meat, he was certain. He downed it all, determined that he would get his strength back.
She took the bowl from him. “Thank you, McCauley.”
“For what?”
&nbs
p; “For Morning Star.”
He nodded.
“It was only fair that you should have your wife in return. That is why the gods smiled on you.”
“Is it?”
“You should leave with your wife in the morning, McCauley. You mustn’t stay too long.”
“I’m not welcome here any longer?”
“You’re always welcome here. But our worlds are not the same, and there is more bloodshed to come. And you need to take her home and have a healthy child.”
“Yes, I will take her home.”
Little Flower smiled. “She has waited for you. She loves you very much.”
She disappeared. Jeremy lay back down, wishing he were still unconscious. They had survived. He closed his eyes. She was so warm beside him. He reached out, putting his arm around her, pulling her closer.
He slept again. When he awoke, it was morning. Christa was awake and watching him again, setting cool cloths on his head.
He sat up. “We have to go.”
Alarm touched her eyes. “You shouldn’t ride yet. You were seriously wounded.”
He touched his forehead and his arm and chest. He was well bandaged with strips of cotton from Christa’s old plain petticoat.
“We have to go,” he insisted. He staggered to his feet. She followed along with him, supporting him. He stepped outside of the tent. Buffalo Run stood just outside with Tall Feather.
“Thank you for your hospitality, my brother,” Jeremy told him. “We are ready to leave if we can take just the horses I came with.”
Buffalo Run nodded gravely. Dancing Maid brought up the two horses. She said something in her own language and Buffalo Run nodded. “There is jerky in the saddlebags and a canteen of water. It will take you some time to ride home. Your men will be at your Fort Jacobson now, won’t they?”
Jeremy nodded. “Yes. We will be there for the length of the winter.”
Buffalo Run nodded. “Perhaps it will be a peaceful season.” He reached out a hand to Jeremy. Jeremy grasped it.
Buffalo Run set Christa up on the army horse which Jeremy had brought Morning Star back on to the Comanche camp. He assisted Jeremy onto his own horse. Then Buffalo Run grinned and saluted. Jeremy saluted in return.
Following Jeremy, Christa slowly rode from the camp. She looked back. Little Flower was watching her.
“Thank you!” Christa called.
The Indian girl smiled. Christa turned again to continue following Jeremy. She didn’t look back.
They rode for several hours, not racing, but plodding along. Christa, worried, hurried up alongside Jeremy.
“You need to rest!”
“I need some distance between us and the camp.”
“But we’ve been freed—”
“I want more distance,” he said stubbornly.
A while later she tried to talk to him again. “Thank you, Jeremy.”
He didn’t reply.
“Thank you for coming. Thank you for risking your life for me.”
“Christa, dammit, you’re my wife. You’re carrying my child.”
“I’m grateful—”
“I don’t want you to be grateful!”
She fell silent and allowed her horse to fall back.
He was a very stubborn man and a very determined one. They rode until it was twilight. He dismounted from his horse, wincing at the movement. But before she could leap down from her own mount, he was beside her, reaching up to her.
She allowed him to ease her to the ground, but then she quickly broke away from his touch. Tears stung her eyes. How could they have come from the searing, intimate passion of just two nights ago to this?
They had stopped by a beautiful, bubbling little stream that was shaded by tall trees. Christa unrolled a saddle blanket and spoke to Jeremy behind her. “Sit, please. I’ll get some water and the jerky.”
He stood for a moment, but then he obeyed her. She brought him water in the cup from his saddlebag, then returned for more, drinking what felt like half the brook herself before coming back to him. She produced the jerky and he ate it hungrily, wincing when his back moved against the bark of the tree.
She stood and walked away from him.
Jeremy watched her. He realized that the pain from his wounds wasn’t half as great as that which now seared his heart. She was standing so proudly. Trying to talk. But what was there for her to say?
She was a Cameron. Camerons always paid their debts. But he didn’t want her owing him anything.
He wanted more.
“Jeremy, I don’t know if you can forgive me or not, or even believe me, but I’m sorry.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It does matter!” she cried suddenly, passionately. She fell silent, then spit out, “All right! If it doesn’t matter, I’m going home. Home to Virginia just as quickly as I can, and I will not let you stop me!”
Agony seemed to sear into him. His head was pounding; his flesh hurt.
His heart was tearing in two.
“You’re not going home.”
“I’m going home because of all that has happened—” she began, but he cut her off furiously.
“Dammit, Christa, it doesn’t matter!” he said fiercely. The scratches on his back were driving him crazy. He wanted to sleep, to ease the pain. The last thing he wanted now was another fight. His hands were trembling. What in God’s name was this over now?
He thought that he knew. The Comanche had really frightened her. She wanted no more part of Indian country, and maybe she was right. Maybe he should send her home just as quickly as was humanly possible.
“All right!” he snapped out harshly. “I understand. The Comanche frightened you. And if the hatred in your heart is too much—”
“Hatred!” she exclaimed. She had been standing by the stream, her back to him, a very noble pride to her stance, her hair free and falling down the length of her back, as if she were an Indian maid herself.
But now she spun around, staring at him. He knew he was having some difficulty with his vision, but he must also be losing his mind, for he was certain there were tears in her eyes. “You stupid, stupid Yankee!”
“Christa, I am in no mood for Rebel abuse at this moment—”
“Abuse! I don’t want to go because I hate you! I want to go because I love you. And I don’t want you being honorable anymore, or having to suffer for the things that I do—”
“What!” he exclaimed. Painstakingly, he got to his feet. He must have thundered out the word because she looked frightened for a moment, as if she would back away from him.
“Little Flower said it,” he told her. “Little Flower said that you had been waiting for me, that you loved me. But I didn’t dare believe. Tell me!”
“I—” she began, and faltered.
He took a step toward her, fighting for strength. His fingers suddenly curled around her arms, exerting a power he hadn’t known he possessed. “Tell me!” he exclaimed raggedly.
“You shouldn’t have had to come for me. You shouldn’t be bleeding and injured now. You shouldn’t—”
“Not that!” he thundered, shaking her, pulling her closer into his arms. “The other!”
Her eyes widened. She moistened her lips nervously with just the tip of her tongue. “I might well have ruined your career with Sherman—”
“Damn Sherman. Go on!”
“I—”
“Say it, Christa! Dammit, was I imagining things, or did you say that you loved me?”
“I—” She paused. “I said it!” she whispered.
“And you meant it?”
She lowered her gaze and then her head. “I meant it.” Then her gaze rose to his again, blazing blue. “It’s not that I mean to take anything from you, Jeremy. I just don’t want to stand in your way, or cause more horrible grief. I know that you would never have really wished me dead rather than someone else, but I’ve lain there some nights and wondered if you didn’t wish that I were your Jenny—”
&nbs
p; “Oh, Christa! Christa!” He closed his eyes tightly, wrapping her tenderly in his arms. “Christa, she was fine and sweet and gentle, and yes, I loved her, and dear God, yes, I’m sorry the war killed her, just as I’m sorry the war killed so many! But Christa, I have never wished that you were anyone but you, and I have prayed only that our child might survive. If you haven’t read my heart, Christa, then you are a stupid, stupid Reb as well!”
She jerked away from him, her gaze crystal and doubting.
He smiled. “You stubborn, wayward little fool!” he charged her, glad to see the sizzle of anger touching her eyes. It was the Christa he knew—and loved. “From the moment I was legally able to get my hands on you, I was obsessed. I wanted you so badly, Christa, that it didn’t even matter if you wanted to close your eyes and pretend that I was Liam at first.”
“I never—”
“I never wanted to let you, but it wouldn’t have mattered. More than anything in the world, I wanted you to respond to me.”
“I was afraid to!” she whispered. “Because I knew that once I did, I would have to admit to myself that I did love you. Oh, Jeremy! It is horrible in a way. I never, never wanted to love a Yankee!” She smiled ruefully. “It was one thing to have one for a brother, but to fall in love with one …” Her voice trailed away. She looked down to the ground once again. “Jeremy, I’m so sorry. I didn’t even think when I was so determined to release the Rebel prisoners. How can you forgive me?”
He lifted her chin. “Christa, I forgave you long before I came for you. I was furious with myself for not having understood how you would feel. I should have talked to you. If I had talked with you all along, you would never have doubted me. I never wanted you to know that I was afraid, but I was worried about you and about our child. Sometimes I was furious with myself for what I had done, forcing you out on the trail. And then I knew that I couldn’t let you go. That I couldn’t live without you anymore. Christa, we’ve been such fools, going in such ridiculous circles. I felt that I was competing with a ghost. And so much more. The past. The present. The war, and even peace!”
And One Rode West Page 39