After breakfast, Veronica helped Maggie into the bathtub, then went into the laundry room to put in a load of wash. Alone, Hawk wandered through the house and then, on an impulse, he went into Maggie’s room and sat in her wheelchair. He thought of the years she had been imprisoned in the chair by her inability to walk, and tried to imagine what it would be like if he were crippled. Would he want to live if he couldn’t chase the buffalo across the vast sunlit prairie, or feel the wind in his face as he raced Ohitika across the plains? Would life be worth living if he couldn’t stalk the wily elk, or stand beside Red Arrow and Crooked Lance to fight against the Pawnee?
Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath, breathing in the faint scent that was Maggie’s alone. Sitting there, his hands fisted around the arms of the wheelchair, he seemed to feel Maggie’s essence surround him. He felt her loneliness, the emptiness in her life. She was a beautiful woman, vibrant and alive. She should have a husband to cherish her, children to love. With all his heart, he wished he possessed the power to restore the strength to her legs, that he had the gift of healing that would allow her to walk again.
He looked up, feeling a little sheepish, as Veronica entered the room.
“It’s all right,” Veronica said. “We all do it.”
“Is there nothing that will help her?”
“The doctor says she could walk if she wanted to.”
Hawk ran his hands over the big black wheels. “I do not understand. If she can walk, why does she stay in this chair?”
“It’s her guilt that keeps her there,” Veronica explained. “The doctor says she feels responsible for her sister’s death and that her refusal to walk is her way of punishing herself.”
Shadow Hawk frowned. “I do not understand.”
“I don’t either. But when she wants to walk badly enough, she will. Now, I need the chair.”
Wordlessly, Hawk stood up, wondering what he could do to make Maggie want to walk again.
Shadow Hawk stood alone under a starlit sky, his head back as he gazed at the heavens. For a moment he thought of his people, his mother, wondering what had happened to them, frustrated because there was nothing he could do to help. Thinking of them, worrying about them, availed him nothing. He would go back to the cave when the moon was full and hope he could return to his people.
He let out a deep sigh as he closed his eyes, his spirit reaching out to Bobby. The boy had been gone for three days and Shadow Hawk yearned to know if he was well, if Wakán Tanka would grant the young man a vision.
Standing there, he heard the wind whispering through the pines that covered the Black Hills. He heard the gentle swoosh of wings as an owl skimmed the air in search of prey, heard the rustle of underbrush as a deer made its way toward a shallow pool to drink. His nostrils filled with the fragrant scent of the pines, of freshly turned earth where a skunk had dug a hole for the night. He felt the caress of the night wind on his cheek. And then, eyes still closed, he saw Heart-of-the-Wolf. The old man was dressed in white buckskins. White moccasins covered his feet. A single white feather adorned his hair, a thin slash of white paint bisected his left cheek.
As from far away, Hawk seemed to hear the sound of drums. He heard the rapid beat of an eagle’s wings, and then Heart-of-the-Wolf was speaking to him.
Bobby Running Horse will now be known as Proud Eagle. It is because of you, Shadow Hawk, that this young warrior’s dreams will come true. You have given him a new sense of pride in our people; you have set his feet on the Life Path of the Lakota. From this day forward, the Eagle will follow the Hawk.
The words were so clear that Hawk opened his eyes, expecting to see Heart-of-the-Wolf standing beside him.
Instead, he saw Maggie coming toward him, her wheelchair enveloped by a bright shaft of moonlight that seemed to follow her as she crossed the yard toward him.
For a moment, Hawk stared at her, the woman of his vision. Was she flesh and blood? Or a Spirit Woman he had summoned from the depths of his heart?
“Are you all right?” Maggie called softly. “You’ve been out here a long time.”
“I am fine.”
He couldn’t take his eyes from her face. Shafts of silvery moonlight caressed her skin and danced in her hair, and suddenly he knew he must hold her or die.
He crossed the distance between them in three quick strides. Lifting her from the chair, he cradled her to his chest, afraid to hold her too tightly for fear of hurting her, afraid to let her go for fear she would vanish from his sight.
“Hawk…”
Slowly, he lowered his head toward hers, his lips finding hers in a kiss that was infinitely tender.
Maggie drew back, frightened by the power of his touch, intoxicated by the mere taste of his lips. Had he been as shaken, as moved, by what had just happened as she was?
She had a quick image of Hawk surrounded by women, beautiful Indian maidens with dark luminous eyes and smooth tawny skin.
“Have you kissed many girls?” Maggie asked brashly, and then wondered whatever had possessed her to ask such a question.
Hawk gazed down at her, his dark eyes alight with a fierce inner fire. “You are the first.”
She couldn’t hide her smile. “Truly?”
“Truly.” His mouth descended on hers again, his kiss more ardent this time.
And Maggie kissed him back. She forgot all her fears, all her arguments that he was too young, that she was too old. Wrapping her arms around Hawk’s neck, she forgot all about Frank and how much he’d hurt her, and thought only of the pleasure of Hawk’s mouth moving over hers. Boldly, she traced his lips with her tongue, heard his low groan, felt a tremor ripple through his body as his arms tightened around her and his tongue singed hers.
Thrilled by the rough magic of his touch, she tightened her hold on his neck, wanting to be closer, closer. She tangled one hand in his hair, loving the way it felt against her skin. He had beautiful hair. Long and thick, it fell to his waist like a black waterfall.
She closed her eyes as his lips moved over her face, placing light butterfly kisses on her eyes and nose, her cheeks and forehead, before returning to her mouth. She’d never known a kiss could be so intoxicating, or so arousing. She was warm all over, especially where his body touched hers.
Hawk began to tremble as their kisses grew deeper, more intimate, more impassioned. Her scent rose all around him, warm and womanly, inflaming his desire. Her skin was smooth and soft as new grass, her hair tickled his cheek, he could feel the heat of her breast against his arm. She tasted of apple pie and coffee laced with cream and he knew he’d never taste either again without remembering this moment when he stood in the moonlight with the woman of his dreams cradled to his chest.
Maggie let her head fall back over Hawk’s arm so she could see his face. His eyes were like black pools of fire. His lips, slightly parted, issued a silent invitation and she placed her hand behind his head and drew him toward her, wanting to savor the taste of him again and again.
Neither noticed as the minutes slid by. Hours might have passed, or only moments, but for Maggie there was nothing else in all the world, only Hawk and the sweet sorcery of his touch, the tenderness in his eyes, the strength of the arms that held her as if she weighed no more than a feather.
Soon, they’d have to go back to the house. She’d remember that she was too old for him, that he might disappear at any moment, that he could never be hers. Soon, she thought, but not now.
She was hardly aware that he was moving until he placed her on the damp grass beside the quiet pool on the west side of the house.
Silently, he stretched out beside her and took her in his arms again, holding her close. She breathed in the heady male scent of him, let her fingertips trace the muscles in his back and shoulders as she rained feathery kisses along his neck.
She was drowning in pleasure, floating on an ocean of sensation, and he was doing nothing more than holding her close. Her breasts were crushed against the unyielding wall of his chest, her f
ace was buried in the curve of his neck. She could feel the warm whisper of his breath in her hair as he murmured her name, his voice filled with the same wonder she was feeling, his body trembling with the same passion that was turning her blood to fire.
Releasing a long shuddering sigh, Hawk loosened his hold and drew back a little.
“Mag-gie.” He murmured her name, dazed by the unfamiliar emotions her nearness aroused. He had never made love to a woman. To defile a Lakota woman was unthinkable; to lie with one of the captive women who sometimes exchanged their favors for food and clothing had been distasteful. In truth, he’d had little time for courting or women. He had been too busy learning to be a warrior, a medicine man. And always, in the back of his mind, had been his vision of the Spirit Woman, making all other women seem uninteresting and unimportant.
Abruptly he drew her close and stood up, carrying her with him, afraid if he lay beside her any longer the tight rein he had on his desire might snap, that he might force himself upon her and destroy the bond between them.
Maggie didn’t argue as he carried her back to her chair. Her feelings, the depth of the emotions swirling through her like a restless tide, were too deep for words. She had a terrible feeling that if Hawk hadn’t let her go, she would have willingly surrendered her body, and her heart.
The thought frightened her more than she cared to admit.
Chapter Fifteen
It was mid-afternoon the following day when Bobby returned to the ranch.
Hawk met the weary would-be warrior on the front porch, quickly taking in the lines of fatigue on the young man’s face. He knew Bobby’s vision had not come quickly or easily, but it had come.
“It was wonderful,” Bobby said as he joined Hawk. “I don’t know if I can explain it…”
“But you’ve been chosen by Wakán Tanka to be the next medicine man.”
Bobby stared at Hawk, a look of amazement on his face. “How did you know?”
“Come,” Hawk said. “Let us walk awhile.”
They made their way out past the barn to a flat stretch of ground bordered by slender pines. Sitting cross-legged on the thick grass, Hawk motioned for Bobby to join him.
Bobby closed his eyes a moment, trying to calm the excitement welling within him. “I did everything you told me to do. The first two days were hard. I couldn’t concentrate. I was hungry and thirsty, the sun was hot.” Bobby shrugged sheepishly. “My mind kept wandering to other things.
“The third day was worse. That night I almost came home. But this morning! Hawk, this morning as the sun climbed over the Hills I saw an eagle. It seemed to come out of nowhere, and I heard it speak to me, telling me that the Eagle would follow the Hawk and finish the journey to the North Country. It was the strangest thing, but I knew somehow that it meant I would follow in your footsteps, that I would become a holy man.”
Hawk smiled, feeling a warm sense of satisfaction as he saw the look of happiness on Bobby’s face.
“But the strangest thing was that, for a time, I felt like I was an eagle. And I flew, Hawk, my spirit left my body and I could see for miles, and I felt different. Light. Powerful. It was…” He shook his head. “I don’t know. I can’t explain it. I flew over the Black Hills, and then I was flying northward, and then the strangest thing happened, I passed you and then I was flying toward Canada and I found a nest there, and I knew it was going to be my home. But that doesn’t make sense, does it?”
Hawk shook his head, baffled by the boy’s vision. How could Bobby be the next Lakota medicine man unless he stayed here in the Paha Sapa?
“I saw the old man again, the one we saw in the sweat lodge. He said I’m to have a new name.” There was a note of awe in Bobby’s voice. “I’m to be called Proud Eagle.”
“Wear it well, my brother. It is an honorable name.”
“You knew all this before I told you, didn’t you?” Bobby said. “How?”
“The old man you saw is Heart-of-the-Wolf. He was a powerful medicine man in our village. I think his spirit has followed me through time. Or it may be that he has come to help you know your own heart. But I feel that he is nearby.”
Bobby nodded. “Do you think…I mean, would it be all right to tell Miss St. Claire about my vision?”
“I think she will insist.”
Maggie watched Hawk’s face, her mind racing, as Bobby related his experience. Imagine, an Indian in the twentieth century receiving a medicine dream! Who would believe it? It sounded so bizarre. And yet, as she searched her heart, she knew that Hawk believed every word. And so did she. One had only to look at Bobby to know that something extraordinary had happened to him.
“I’m happy for you, Bobby,” she said, taking his hand in hers. “I know it’s what you’ve always wanted.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he replied, his dark eyes shining with excitement. “I…would you mind if I took a few days off? I’d like to go home and tell my little brother what happened.” A sad smile played over his lips. “My father probably won’t believe me.”
“Take all the time you need, Bobby,” Maggie said, squeezing his hand. “You haven’t had a vacation since you came to work for me.”
“Thanks, Miss St. Claire. If it’s all right then, I may stay for a week or two.”
“Of course.”
Bobby clasped Hawk’s forearm. “Pilamaya, Hawk. I never would have found the courage to seek a vision if it hadn’t been for you.”
“You did not need courage,” Hawk said. “Only someone to point you in the right direction.”
“Maybe. Anyway, I’m more grateful than I can say.”
Somewhat shyly, Bobby gave Hawk a quick hug, kissed Maggie on the cheek, and hurried from the room before they could see the tears welling in his eyes.
“He’s a good boy,” Maggie said.
Hawk nodded. “He would have made a fine warrior.”
“He’ll make a fine doctor. Veronica’s going to be sorry she didn’t get to say goodbye.”
It was Sunday, Hawk realized. Veronica didn’t come to the ranch on Sundays, but stayed home to catch up on her own chores and go to church with her white husband. Hawk thought it odd that the white man felt the need to go to one of his square houses to pray to his God. But then, perhaps the god of the wasichu could not be found in the Paha Sapa. The white man’s religion, like everything else, was hard to understand.
“Well,” Maggie said, “I don’t know about you, but I’m getting hungry. Shall we go see what Veronica left us for dinner?”
“If you wish.”
Hawk sat at the table watching as she warmed up the pot of beef stew Veronica had made, noticing for the first time that everything in the kitchen was built low so Maggie could reach it. It did not occur to him to help her. Lakota men were not accustomed to doing women’s work.
Maggie hummed softly as she poured two cups of coffee, filled two big bowls with beef stew, buttered two slices of bread. Two, she thought. It was such a lovely number. She felt very domestic as she pulled two soup spoons from the drawer, placed napkins on the table. For a moment she found herself pretending that Hawk was her husband and they were sitting down to Sunday dinner like any other married couple.
But then she looked at Hawk and all pretense fell away. He would never be like any other husband. He was a man from the past, a warrior, with a warrior’s inborn pride. He would never hold down a nine-to-five job, never be the kind of husband who helped with the dishes and the laundry. She couldn’t imagine him diapering a baby, or mowing the front lawn, or driving the kids to soccer practice. He’d been born to hunt, to roam the plains in search of the buffalo, to fight the Crow and the Pawnee. And the white man. Trying to domesticate him would be like trying to turn a zebra into a riding horse. It simply couldn’t be done.
“What will you do when Bobby goes away to college?” Hawk asked after a while.
“I don’t know.” She guided her wheelchair up to the table and spread a napkin in her lap. “I guess I’ll have to hire someone to t
ake his place.” It shouldn’t be too hard, she thought. There were always young Indian boys who were anxious to work. She was only sorry she couldn’t hire more of them.
“I will look after the animals while I am here,” Hawk offered.
Maggie smiled her thanks. It would not offend his dignity to care for the horses, or feed the chickens, or keep her supplied with firewood.
She cleared the table after dinner, rinsed the dishes, and left them in the sink. Veronica would wash them and put them away in the morning.
When she’d finished in the kitchen, Maggie went into the living room. Hawk was stretched out on the sofa, watching an old Western on television. She placed her chair beside the sofa, thinking that maybe he wasn’t so different from modern men after all. Her father had always gone in the den to watch TV while she and her mother did the dishes, and Westerns had been his favorite shows. He had loved watching Bonanza and Wyatt Earp and The Rifleman.
Hawk liked to watch Westerns too. Sometimes they made him angry and sometimes they made him laugh.
Now he sat up, pointing at the television, as a horde of screaming Indians attacked an Army patrol. “How is it that when the Indian wins the battle is called a massacre, but when the white man wins it is a great victory?”
“I don’t know, but that’s the way it always seems to be.”
Hawk grunted, annoyed by the way his people were portrayed. Always, the red man was ignorant, savage, brutal, while the white man was heroic and noble. The whites who made the movies didn’t seem to know one Indian from another, and he had seen movies where Indian warriors wore Pawnee scalplocks, Lakota war shirts, Cheyenne moccasins and spoke Arapaho. But the message was always the same: the fort, or the ranch, or the woman would never be safe until the Indian was destroyed.
“Would you mind lighting a fire in the fireplace?” Maggie asked, hoping to draw Hawk’s thoughts from the movie. “It’s a little chilly in here.”
The Spirit Path Page 9