When there was no response, she shook him again, harder. “Please don’t be dead.”
Toklanni’s eyelids fluttered open at the sound of her voice. Though he had not spoken the language of the white man in years, it came readily to his tongue. “Not…dead,” he gasped.
Sarah reared back in astonishment. “You speak English,” she exclaimed, which was a perfectly ridiculous thing to say.
The Indian grunted in reply.
“Can you stand up?” Sarah asked.
He grunted again and she hovered over him as he got his feet under him. He swayed unsteadily and she slid her arm around his waist to keep him from falling. Step by slow step, they made their way into the house and then, as if the effort had cost him all the strength he had left, he collapsed on the floor in front of the fireplace.
Closing the door, Sarah yanked off her cloak and covered him with it, then stood staring down at him, wondering whatever had possessed her to bring a mud-covered stranger, an Indian, into her house. She looked at him closely, a little apprehensive at his nearness, though he hardly seemed to be in any condition to do her harm. Still, one couldn’t be too careful.
Well, she’d brought him inside, now what? He was obviously hurt but he didn’t seem to be bleeding. The logical part of her mind told her it would be necessary to wash away the mud before she could determine the extent and nature of his injury. The squeamish part of her mind balked at the mere idea.
She hadn’t realized she’d made a decision until she found herself in the kitchen filling a basin with hot water from the coffee pot, gathering a rag to use as a washcloth, pulling a clean towel from the cupboard, tucking a roll of bandages under her arm.
Returning to the wounded man, she saw that he was asleep, or perhaps unconscious. It was just as well, she thought. It would be easier, and much less embarrassing, to look after him if he wasn’t watching her.
Working quickly but carefully, she removed his hard-soled moccasins, then began to wash the mud from his chest. There was no blood beneath the layers of mud and leaves, only firm, copper-hued flesh. The area near his rib cage was swollen and badly bruised, as if he’d been hit with a club.
Sarah was not unfamiliar with the male form. She’d been married for eight years, she had a son, but she couldn’t help admiring the stranger. His body was long and whipcord lean, perfect except for the grotesque scar that cut across his cheek, down his neck and across his chest to his thigh. She felt the bile rise in her throat as she stared at the hideous scar, wondering how he had survived such an awful wound.
It took all her strength to lift him enough so that she could bandage his ribs, which were badly bruised but didn’t seem to be broken. He had a large bump on the left side of his head, more bruises near his shoulders.
It was near midday when she finished. For a moment, she stared at the Indian lying on the floor in front of the fireplace. There was no way she could carry him into the bedroom and lift him onto the bed. Instead, she covered him with a couple of spare blankets, put Vern’s pillow beneath his head. Then, after a silent battle of modesty versus cleanliness, she reached beneath the blanket and removed his clout. Taking it into the kitchen, she dropped the mud-stained garment in a pail of water.
Returning to the parlor, she added some wood to the dwindling fire in the hearth. She was exhausted by then and with a last look at the stranger, she went into her bedroom and crawled into bed, fully clothed.
There was an Indian in the house. Was it possible he was the answer to her prayers? She smiled into the darkness. Of course, she would take care of his wounds and he would accompany her into town so she could get help to find Danny.
She fell asleep with that thought in mind.
Toklanni awoke slowly, immediately aware of the dull ache in his head. He lay still for a long moment, feigning sleep while he listened for some sound that would tell him where he was, but he heard only the crackling of flames.
Satisfied that he was alone, he opened his eyes and looked around, surprised to find himself in the white woman’s house. How had he gotten there? Vaguely, he remembered stumbling down the hill, crawling toward her house. After that, he didn’t remember anything.
He started to sit up and knew immediately that it was a mistake. Pain slashed through his right side and his head began to pound like old Nana’s war drum, throbbing relentlessly, mercilessly.
Lying back, he closed his eyes and surrendered to the darkness that beckoned to him once more.
* * * * *
Sarah sat up, stretching. For a moment, she thought it was just another day and then she remembered the Indian in the other room.
Slipping out of bed, she hurried toward the parlor, pausing in the doorway as she saw that he was still sleeping. No doubt he’d be hungry when he woke up, she mused, and went into the kitchen to see what she could do with the last of the rabbit and wild vegetables.
Toklanni’s stomach rumbled as the rich aroma of stewing meat reached his nostrils. Eyes closed, he inhaled the smell, felt his mouth water at the prospect of a hot meal. And then another scent reached out to him. The scent of woman.
He opened his eyes to find the white woman standing beside him. She was even more beautiful close up, he thought. Her hair was as gold as the metal the white men craved, her eyes a deep clear blue, her skin smooth and unblemished.
Sarah stared at him for a moment, wondering if she’d done the right thing in bringing him inside. Just because he hadn’t hurt her before didn’t mean she was safe now. He was a savage, untamed and unpredictable for all that he spoke English. And then she thought about Danny. This man was her only hope of getting to town for help.
“How do you feel?” she asked, speaking slowly and distinctly.
“Like I was kicked by a buffalo.”
Sarah smiled. “That’s how you look, too,” she remarked, and then, staring at his scarred face, she flushed in horror at what she’d said. “I didn’t mean…” She raised her hand and let it fall, helpless to explain that she hadn’t been referring to the scar but to the awful bruises that marred his right side, back and shoulders.
Toklanni shrugged. He had expected her to be repulsed by his scarred cheek. Everyone was. Why should she be different?
“Are you hungry?” she asked.
“Yes.”
He watched her walk out of the room, wondering what she’d say if she knew his brother had killed her husband and taken her child, wondering what she’d do if she knew he was the man who had almost attacked her in the root cellar.
The woman returned minutes later carrying a large bowl of fragrant stew and a cup of hot coffee. She placed them on the hearth, then knelt beside him and helped him sit up, his back braced against the fireplace.
Sarah picked up the bowl of stew.
“Shall I… Can you…?” Sarah stumbled over the words. Vern had liked being coddled occasionally, but the look in the stranger’s deep brown eyes told her that he would not take kindly to being mothered. And she was right.
“I can do it,” the warrior said tersely. He took the bowl from her hands, bit back a groan as every muscle in his body protested the simple movement.
“Are you sure?” Sarah asked doubtfully. “That stew’s hot…”
Toklanni grimaced, readily understanding what she’d left unsaid. If he dropped the bowl, he’d be sore in a whole new place.
“Maybe you’d better do it,” he allowed grudgingly, though he hated to acknowledge he was too weak to feed himself. The Apache had little tolerance for weakness in themselves or anyone else.
Sarah took the bowl from his hand and offered him a spoonful of broth. She looked away while he swallowed it, sensing that he was embarrassed to have her wait on him.
Toklanni ate slowly, savoring the taste of the stew, sipping the coffee, which was hot and black, letting its warmth spread through him.
“You’re the one, aren’t you?” Sarah asked. “The one who’s been bringing me food all this time.”
It was in his mi
nd to deny it, but then he nodded.
“Why have you befriended me in such a way?”
“You’re alone.”
“I wouldn’t be alone if Indians hadn’t killed my husband and taken my son,” she retorted bitterly.
Guilt sliced through Toklanni, as sharp as an Apache skinning knife, but he kept his face impassive as he said, “This is Apache land.”
“We weren’t hurting anyone.”
He had no answer to that, nothing he could say that would comfort her, or excuse what Noche had done. He was relieved that it didn’t occur to her to ask how he knew she was alone.
Sarah felt a twinge of regret as she saw the weariness in the Indian’s eyes. What was the matter with her, browbeating the man who had put food on her table for the last four months? She had no business blaming him for what someone else had done.
“Would you like some more?” Sarah asked when the bowl was empty.
Toklanni shook his head. The mere act of eating had drained him of what little energy he had and he wanted only to sleep, to escape from the pain of his injuries. Every movement, every breath, was an effort.
He was about to ask her to help him lie down again when a new need made itself known. Gritting his teeth, he looked at the door. Though it was only a few feet away, it seemed like a mile.
Seeing that her patient intended to get up, Sarah laid a restraining hand on his shoulder.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
“I need to��to go outside.”
Sarah stared at him blankly for a moment and then blushed as she understood what he was saying. “I don’t think you should get up,” she said firmly. “I’ll get the…” She looked away as she felt the heat climb into her cheeks. “I’ll be right back.”
Toklanni stared at the white enamel pot the woman offered him when she returned, then looked up at the woman, a question in his eyes.
“You use it instead of going outside,” she explained, and fled the room.
Sarah’s cheeks were still flushed when she returned ten minutes later. She told herself it was silly to be embarrassed. After all, it was a perfectly natural act, but it was one thing to handle such matters when the man involved was your husband and quite another when he was a complete stranger and a heathen to boot!
Eyes averted, she picked up the chamber pot and carried it outside.
She stayed outside longer than necessary, letting the night air cool her cheeks, taking deep breaths to calm her rapid heartbeat.
Returning to the house, she left the chamber pot within his reach, then went into the kitchen to eat her own dinner and wash the dishes.
When she went into the parlor again, the Indian was asleep.
She stared at the horrible scar that marred an otherwise handsome face. He had long arms ridged with muscle, large hands with long, strong looking fingers. No matter that he was an Indian, she was glad for his company, appreciative of the bounty he had provided for her in the past. But, more than that, she had hope for the first time in months. Hope that the Indian would take her to Pepper Tree Creek. Hope that the Army would be able to hunt down the Indians who had kidnapped Danny. Hope that her son would soon be returned to her.
“Soon, Danny,” she whispered. “We’ll be together soon, I promise.”
That night, as she said her prayers, she prayed that the Indian would be all right.
It was the first time she’d ever asked the Lord to bless an Indian with anything less than the ten plagues of Egypt.
Chapter Six
He woke to the sound of singing. For a moment, he listened to the words that were somehow familiar and then he realized it was a song his mother used to sing, a song he’d heard in the big white church where she’d taken him on Sundays. He hadn’t liked the white man’s religion, or the grim-faced man clad in black who spoke of hell and damnation. He hadn’t liked anything about living with the whites.
He sat up slowly, one arm wrapped protectively around his ribs, as the white woman entered the room. She wore a dress of dark blue. It had a high collar, long sleeves, a full skirt, yet it clearly defined every curve.
She smiled as she handed him a cup of tea. “I’m sorry, I don’t have anything else to offer you,” she said, making a gesture of apology. “I’m out of food.”
Toklanni grunted softly. Lifting the cup, he sipped the tea. It was hot and black and bitter, but it took the edge off his hunger.
When he’d drained the cup, the woman placed it on the hearth, then bent to examine the wound on the side of his head.
“Does it hurt very much?” she asked.
“Enough.”
“You’re not seeing two of me, are you?”
“No.”
“No spots in front of your eyes, or anything?”
“No.”
“Good. I’d like to ask you a favor.”
“Ask.”
“I want you to take me to town,” she said, speaking rapidly. “I need to get someone to help me find my son. Will you help me?”
“Perhaps, when I am stronger. It is a long walk and I have no horse.”
Sarah smiled, relieved that he hadn’t refused, and then frowned as he started to get up. “Where are you going?”
“We need food.”
“You shouldn’t get up yet,” she admonished, wondering at the warm glow that spread through her when he said “we”, as if they were more than strangers. “Your ribs are badly bruised.”
“If I don’t get something to eat, I won’t live long enough for them to heal.”
Sarah grinned, unable to argue with his logic. She put out her hand, intending to help him to his feet, when she suddenly remembered he was naked beneath the blankets.
“Don’t move!” she cried, and hurrying into the kitchen, she grabbed his breechclout from the back of the chair where she’d left it to dry.
Toklanni grinned as the woman thrust his clout into his hand, then quickly turned her back so he could put it on. She had bathed him and treated him wounds, but now she was afraid to look upon him. It was very strange. Such modesty was uncommon among the Apache.
Her cheeks were flushed when she turned to face him again.
“Let me help you up.”
It was in Toklanni’s mind to refuse, but every movement sent bright shafts of pain darting through him. Mouth drawn in a tight line, he took hold of her arm and let her help him to his feet.
“How will you find food?” Sarah asked, then smiled. “There’s fish in the stream. I tried making a fishing pole, but I never had much luck. Maybe you’ll do better.”
“Apaches do not eat fish.”
She looked at him a moment, wondering if it had been Apaches who had killed Vern and taken Danny. Of course, it could have been Comanches. She didn’t know one tribe from another. She started to ask and then, inadvertently, she changed her mind. Instead, she said, “Why not?”
“My people do not eat anything that lives in the water.”
“Well, you can’t hunt. You don’t have a gun.”
“There are ways to catch game without shooting it.”
Sarah watched him walk slowly toward the door, his left arm wrapped around his middle. He shouldn’t be up yet, she thought ruefully, then moved ahead of him to open the door.
“Look!” she exclaimed.
Toklanni peered over her shoulder, then grinned as he saw his big gray stallion trotting toward the house. The rope around the horse’s neck had been chewed in half.
“I guess he’s yours,” Sarah remarked as the horse nuzzled the Indian’s shoulder.
“Yes.”
“Now we can go to town!” Sarah exclaimed.
Toklanni backed away from the joy in her eyes. He could not take her to town to find help. If the Army got word that the Apache had kidnapped a white child, there was sure to be a battle. People would be killed on both sides.
“I am in no condition to make such a ride,” he said. “And we have no weapons.”
“But…”
“When I am stronger,” he said firmly.
It was in her mind to argue, to say that she’d take the horse and go by herself, but the harsh look in his eyes stilled her tongue.
Turning his back to the woman, Toklanni removed the rope from the gray’s neck, deftly fashioned a hackamore and slipped it over the horse’s head. For a moment, he contemplated trying to swing onto the horse’s bare back, but the mere thought of putting any undue strain on his bruised ribs was enough to make him break out in a sweat. Instead, he swallowed his pride and asked the woman for help.
Sarah obligingly locked her hands together and gave him a leg up. He sat there for a moment, his eyes closed, his face pale, and then he was riding out of the yard, his body rigid with pain.
She wondered where he was going and if she’d ever see him again.
He was gone so long Sarah was certain he wasn’t coming back.
She lost track of the times she went to the window and looked out, hoping to see the stranger riding into the yard.
Resting her head against the sill, she closed her eyes. She didn’t understand her eagerness to see him again. After all, he was a stranger, an Indian, a heathen. Was she so hungry for companionship that she could overlook the fact that it had been an Indian who killed Vern, an Indian who had kidnapped Danny? Yet it was also an Indian who had kept her alive all this time.
She opened her eyes and stared out the window again. She wished the Indian would come back. The Indian, she mused. She didn’t even know his name, but it didn’t matter. She was lonely, so lonely. It had been months since she’d had someone to talk to, someone to care for. She’d slept the night through for the first time and all because there was someone else in the house. No, she thought, not someone else, a man. Though he was injured, he’d made her feel safe, somehow, protected.
She gazed into the yard and pictured his face in her mind, wondering again how he’d gotten those awful scars, wondering why they didn’t repel her. Instead, she felt angry because such masculine beauty had been ravaged and with that anger she felt a rush of sympathy for the pain he must have suffered, both physically and emotionally.
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