Tender Ecstasy

by Janelle Taylor

  “I’m ashamed to admit that I might be too cowardly and selfish to do something so noble and dangerous. It could be a trick and then we’d both be captured and killed. Even so, I think I would risk anything for someone I loved, especially a child I had borne.” She craftily added to prevent any hints of deception, “Could we go now? I’m very tired.” She did look extremely weary.

  “Sure, lass, an’ ye can now tell our children that ye’ve met the notorious Bright Ar’er, son o’ the infamous Gray Eagle,” he stated wistfully.

  “Our children?” she innocently echoed.

  “I hae nae doubts ye’ll agree tae marry me in one week. An’ naturally we’ll have lots of babies.” He grinned roguishly.

  “Babies?” she echoed fearfully.

  “’Tis naught an unknown word tae ye, is it?” he teased.

  “No. I just never thought about love and marriage or babies,” she shyly confessed.

  “Well, lass, ye hae one week tae think plenty. I wanna allow ye tae say nae,” he whispered, half-serious, half-jesting. A wife, a home, and babies…Why not?

  Her head jerked up and her eyes widened. “There go those night-birds again! They remind me of those dark hours when I was running and hiding in the forest.” She shuddered.

  “Time tae go inside. Ye be chilled.” He took her hand and led her away, unaware of the jet eyes which drilled into his body, then softened as they shifted to the dainty girl who was hurrying to keep up with his lengthy strides.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Bright Arrow apprehensively paced the close confines of his prison. His thoughts warred with each other as he tried to figure out how Rebecca had entered the fort. He could not imagine his father trusting this white captive enough to allow her to come here and attempt to free him!

  Yet, he had discerned her messages in her deceptively innocent words. A thought more inconceivable flashed across his mind. Her words could only mean that Gray Eagle had communicated with her in English! That also meant she now knew he understood and spoke English! He wondered why she did not feel betrayed and vengeful. In her place, he would! Such a risky mission was highly dangerous, even more so for such a young and inexperienced girl. Why had his father allowed her to come here? How could she possibly free him? He knew…she already had that smug Bluecoat beguiled by her beauty and innocence. But for his father to trust her this much?

  Calling to mind certain words which she had spoken within his hearing, he smiled. She actually loved him enough to forgive his silent betrayal, to risk her own life to save his, and to challenge any danger to free him. But if the Bluecoats caught her trying to release him…her resulting fate was too awful to consider. It was too late; she was here. Her plan, or his father’s, was already in motion. Without alerting others to his knowledge of the English tongue or to his closeness to her, he could not plead with her to drop this charade.

  Speculating upon this unique woman he loved and desired, he wondered if she was cunning and daring enough to carry off such a far-fetched plan. Why had she clearly hinted at his leaving her here? How could he possibly ride off and leave his love behind to face the results of his escape?

  Did she plan to escape herself later and return to him? Was there another side to this brazen scheme? Did his father have other plans in mind for her, for her eventual return to his side?

  Dread washed over him. Had they made some deal: his rescue in exchange for her freedom? Did she want to remain here with her own people? But she loved him! She had proven this in countless ways. Did she wish to call a halt to their forbidden love which only tormented both of them? Was she here to free him in more than one way?

  His muscles grew taut and strained. He clenched his jaw in suppressed rage. His father had no right to make such a deal: she was his captive! It couldn’t be true. She loved him and had pleaded never to leave him. She could never return to the whites; they would never accept a used squaw. He paced the small confines of the nearly airless cell.

  Rebecca had come to help him. That fact alone was staggering. If only he knew the terms of their agreement. If only he knew if she truly wanted to part with him. But even if that thought had not crossed her mind before, now that she was back with her own kind she might wish to remain here. Doubtlessly, freeing him was nearly impossible. If so, at least she was safe and free. Safe! he furiously scoffed. Safe in the grasping claws of another man!

  Rebecca demurely sat across the table from the Scottish rogue who ruled the fort. Baffled by the stew she was eagerly consuming, she questioned Timothy about the vegetables. Timothy chuckled gleefully as he told her about the potato eyes which a farmer had brought with him and planted inside the fort wall outside the spiked wooden fence. The farsighted Irishman had also planted carrots and a variety of other vegetables. The venison stew had been simmered for hours and was delicious. She relished each mouthful as she politely listened to his talk.

  When Timothy offered her a small cup of Irish whiskey, she wisely refused it, saying, “Papa never allowed we womenfolk to partake of strong spirits, but thank you, sir.” She presented him with a feigned look of sadness at the recall of her fictitious father, as would be expected of a girl who had so recently lost her family.

  “Dinna look sae sad, lass,” he encouraged. “Ye’ve naught tae fear. I know ye heart be filled wi’ loneliness, but ‘twill pass in time. Ye mus’ think o’ yeself now. Ye people be gone. Life goes on,” he concluded solemnly, not wishing to appear unfeeling.

  “I know, sir…Timothy. But it’s so hard to adjust to sudden losses and changes. I can’t help but worry what my life will be without my family. You’re a man; men know nothing of being a helpless female. We’re not allowed to exist as you do. If I were a strong man, I could help myself.”

  “If ye were ae strong man, ye’d be ae dead one. Ye wad hae fought them Injuns lik’ the others and died along wit’ them. Hae ye nae joy in being ae bonny lass?” he queried her earnestly.

  She mused over his sincere and serious words in light of her shameful deception. “I honestly don’t know. Perhaps in time I will.” She sighed heavily as if totally exhausted. She was, but from the mental stress of this game.

  “Ye be tired, lass. It’s off tae bed wit’ ye. We dinna hae tae linger o’er dinner sae long. Ye sleep in my room an’ I’ll bed down out ‘ere. Ye hae nothing tae concern ye lovely head wit’. I’ll protect ye frae now on,” he gallantly promised, then flashed her an engaging grin.

  She smiled warmly and bid him goodnight. She went into his room and lay down upon the hard, but inviting, bunk. She tossed for a while, then fell into slumber.

  It was a while before the excited Timothy could fall asleep upon his bedroll in his office. His amorous thoughts lingered upon the beautiful girl occupying his bedroom. Having Rebecca Kenny dropped into his lap was a sheer stroke of luck! She was totally alone, helpless, and emotionally vulnerable…or so he believed.

  Most of the following day was spent under the watchful eye and in the intriguing company of Timothy Moore. He made certain his rough men showed her the proper respect and courtesy. Each time she appeared sad or thoughtful, he would draw her from her pensive or somber mood with colorful tales of his past adventures.

  He told her how he had received this commission and how he had studied the failures of the last commander to prevent committing his same mistakes. He spoke of the notorious Gray Eagle and his daring exploits. In awe and surprise, she learned of the recent unsuccessful siege upon this fort. She intently listened to his explanation of this bloody and endless warfare. Knowing both sides, her mind instantly debated each one.

  Yet, Timothy won himself a measure of respect from her. It was clear he presented Gray Eagle with a worthy opponent: cunning, alert, steadfast, and daring. Tragically, there could only be one victor in their final skirmish. She was forced to admit that Timothy Moore was a most unusual and arresting male. He was ruggedly good-looking and extremely charming. In spite of her cautions to herself, she discovered herself laughing merrily at his st
ories and gaily quipping back before she could catch herself. She fretted over this vivacious and serene conduct in a girl who had just faced unmentionable horrors.

  She needn’t have worried at all. A smug Timothy viewed it as his doing. He continually congratulated himself on his great prowess and disarming manner. Despite her recent losses and heartache, she could not resist his wit and magnetism! He prided himself on being able to lure her from her self pity and misery. After all, she was very young and susceptible. To those of her age, death was like a bad dream, an illusion. The present moment was reality. Soon, she would no longer withdraw from him.

  Each time they strolled around the fort, Rebecca would nonchalantly study its interior for any weakness. By mid-morning of the second day, she knew where each hidden gate was located; she knew where the men slept and worked; she knew their schedules and names. This familiarity had a certain disadvantage. Before she came here, they had all been anonymous enemies who were imprisoning her love. Now, they were names and faces. The only thought which compelled her to carry on this farce was the reality that no life would be taken during her rescue of Bright Arrow.

  Bright Arrow…she had not been given any opportunity to get near him since that first day. Wanting her to forget her painful experience as quickly as possible, Timothy did not take her near the blockhouse again. Nor did he mention the illustrious brave who was held within it. Fearing suspicion, Rebecca wisely withheld all questions about him. Yet, each time she strolled upon the arm of Timothy Moore, she could feel the force of those ebony eyes upon them. How she longed to gaze into them! How she hungered for his kisses and caresses! Hopefully this nightmare would soon be over.

  * * *

  Rebecca was accurate; Bright Arrow witnessed every meeting she had outdoors with his fearless white foe. As he restlessly lay upon the thin, dirty blanket, he inwardly raged at what might be taking place between that lovestruck white man and his own beloved Rebecca, the woman who would do anything to secure his freedom and survival. How he yearned to break out of this restricting tepee, to slay his self-appointed enemies, and to rescue his woman. Could he bear the humiliation of being released by a mere white captive?

  If he was to live to love and to fight another day, he would have to deny his pride and accept Rebecca’s assistance. He desperately needed to be free of this imprisoning stockade. With only one small window and the July sun beating down without mercy during the long day, this place was tormenting. There was little room to exercise and to keep his lithe body in shape and to keep his reflexes sharp and alert. He had been given little edible food to maintain his strength and vigor. But why waste food and water on a dying man? These past four moons had sluggishly passed without sufficient food, water, sun, and fresh air; the heavy toll on his spirit, energy, and patience was rapidly increasing.

  He had not been permitted outside the hewn walls of this timbered place since his arrival. What little air there was reeked of urine from past prisoners and this present captive. He craved fresh food a walk in the cool forest, a dip in the refreshing stream, an intake of crisp air, a clean blanket, a vengeful retaliation, a night of love with his woman, a look at his camp and parents: freedom and all her wondrous faces.

  He hung his head in shame, tasting his degrading defeat and display of weakness. Surely the Great Spirit would not allow him to die in this shameful manner; a warrior should die in battle, defending his lands and people. His last words should be ones of greatness. He should not start his walk upon the ghost-trail with the taunts of white enemies singing within his ears. His life should not end with ropes binding his body. How could he face the Great Spirit with this stain of dishonor?

  He went to the small opening and inhaled several breaths of air, noting the guard on duty. His heart was heavy; his little one could not defeat a powerful man who watched over him sun and moon. It was futile; he was certain to die soon. Yet, dying did not frighten or distress him; it was the manner of his death which tore at his troubled mind. If only Moore would place him within a tight circle of armed enemies and allow him to die while battling his foes, even without a weapon of any kind. If only he could die honorably. But what did white-eyes know of honor!

  He walked over to the left side of this keep and picked up the nasty blanket. He shook it and spread it upon the hard ground. He lay down upon it. He could not sleep; his mind helplessly returned to the scene of his defeat. He closed his dark and stormy eyes to envision what had taken place a few moons past, to discover what he had done wrong, to learn why he was the white man’s captive, to determine if this defeat could have been avoided…

  The Oglala warriors had gone to the camp of the Brule and Cheyenne with a message of the new war council to be held in the Oglala camp. They had ridden to the Sisseton village to deliver this same invitation. Chief Night Hawk and three band leaders had mounted up to return with him and his two warriors.

  As they had travelled along, the Sisseton warriors had been relating their recent battles with the Bluecoats. Bright Arrow had been in the lead with Deer-Stalker close behind him. They reached a point where the trail between the Sisseton and Oglala villages passed between two large groupings of boulders and lofty rock formations. There were only a few scrub trees, prickly bushes, scattered clumps of buffalo grass, and slender cottonwoods in view; nothing large enough to conceal a hidden enemy.

  Since crafty Indians were known to secret themselves amongst such groupings of rocks, most Bluecoats and settlers did not venture near them.

  Their band had been elated and relaxed, unaware of the peril before them. They had laughed and joked as they had dauntlessly entered the narrow trail which traversed the middle of this canyon. The moment they had exited at the other end, the Bluecoats had fallen upon them: armed men against unsuspecting, weaponless foes. The following moments were a blur to Bright Arrow, for things had happened quickly.

  A large unit of Bluecoats had instantly surrounded them from both sides. With loud shouts, slashing sabers, roaring gunfire, and deep-rooted hatred, they had charged forward to slay his entire band. The Indian war cry had seared his ears from several directions at once. There had been only enough time for a few of them to draw knives and tomahawks to defend themselves. The battle had been lost from the first moment.

  He shuddered at the recall of Deer-Stalker’s body which had suffered jagged gashes from more than one strike from the Long-Knives’ deadly sabers. Talking-Rock had received two gaping holes from destructive fire-sticks. One of the Sisseton warriors had a crushed skull from the forcefully delivered blows from the butts of those same fire-sticks. It had been a gruesome, bloody sight which had greeted his gaze as he had sat motionless in the midst of five wellarmed foes, their weapons trained upon his rage-taut frame. His own knife had been knocked from his grasp during his previous battle.

  He rubbed his still smarting hand with its bruised flesh. He was extremely lucky it wasn’t broken. It needed some herbs upon the cuts; but these hateful white-eyes had neither cared for his injury nor offered him a bandage.

  He had sat proud and erect upon his mottled Appaloosa. His face had remained impassive and contemptuous of his danger and enemies. Only his turbulent gaze had exposed his inner rage, which was tightly leashed. He had appeared to calmly await his own death. None had been offered him! A stalwart man in blue and yellow had approached him the moment the skirmish had been decided.

  Bright Arrow’s keen gaze had pierced this white man who had ordered the wanton slaughter of his warriors and his allies. This Bluecoat’s carriage had revealed pride and confidence in his own prowess and position. His feet were clad in shiny black boots, then covered in dust. Many yellow slashes decorated his uniform’s sleeves. A yellow bandanna was knotted loosely at his throat. Upon his hat was a circle which surrounded two crossed sabers, a likeness to the shiny weapon which swung from his narrow waist. Fieldglasses rested upon his chest from a strap around his neck. His hair was flaming red, hanging to his collar, coming from beneath his cocked hat to grow upon the sid
es of his face to where his strong jawline began. His face was smooth and clean-shaven in the white man’s custom.

  Lines of cruelty etched his face. His eyes were brittle blue, cold and unfeeling. As he reined in his mount, a look of surprise crossed his face, followed by irate disappointment. Bright Arrow had observed this mighty foe with great intensity and intrigue.

  “The infamous Bright Ar’er,” he had sneered in contempt and annoyance. “Frae ae distance, ye look lik’ ye father. I hae hoped tae entrap the Eagle himself,” he confessed, telling Bright Arrow this man had been lying in wait here to capture his father. His fieldglasses had deceived him!

  “Nae matter,” he concluded. “Ye be just as guid as ye father. ‘Tis ae wonder wha’ he’ll trade fur ye…,” he pondered aloud, his mind considering this delightful situation. “Wad ae man exchange his life fur tha’ o’ his son?”

  The lilting burr in this white man’s voice was difficult for Bright Arrow to interpret. Yet, he understood enough to discern his plans. Two soldiers had wrestled with the Indian brave as they attempted to bind him with several ropes. Once bound, their leader had taken his reins and ordered his troop to move out and back to the fort.

  It was that moment when Bright Arrow had been given the chance to view their bloody triumph. Only he and Chief Night Hawk remained alive, but the older chief was wounded badly. He had not seen his elder friend since their arrival here, nor had he heard his name or state of health mentioned. Had he died or been killed? Maintaining his silence, Bright Arrow had not asked. He had continued to present an unaffected, stoic expression and dauntless air.

  Moore had tried to question him several times. He had even called upon the fort’s scout to interpret his words; Bright Arrow had responded to neither. His scornful gaze had swept both men before he had turned his broad back upon them. Moore had snapped, “Ye be an arr’gant devil! Just lik’ ye papal But ye be ae man, son, and ye’ll die lik’ one.” Bright Arrow had wondered at the irrepressible tone of begrudging respect in Moore’s voice. Was it possible that the white-eyes also respected a worthy adversary? This conclusion was new, perplexing!