Warrior's Prize

by Georgina Gentry

  Cheyenne dog soldier. Keso’s eyes opened abruptly and he slammed his fist against the ground in fury as cold reality returned. He was no Cheyenne warrior, he was Ute. Snide Cleve Brewster would marry Wannie without ever having to fight Keso to possess her. She was blind to everything but the fact that the civilized dandy dressed in the latest styles and knew which fork to use. Keso had never known such despair—not even when he was a starving kid on the streets of Denver.

  He didn’t know what to do or where to go. He couldn’t stay with the Evanses and watch his beloved Wannie marry that arrogant white snob. He wasn’t welcome among the Cheyenne and the Utes would think of him as an enemy. Although he’d been raised as a white, he wasn’t. He belonged nowhere.

  “Keso?” A faint, sweet voice called his name and it echoed through the mountains.

  Oh damn, he should have remembered Wannie would know where to find him.

  “Keso? Are you out here?”

  He tensed, thinking he would run even farther—far away from the sound of her voice, far away from her memory. They’d shared so many dreams in this spot. Maybe if he didn’t answer, she would give up and go back to the cabin.

  “Keso?”

  He could hide, but she’d always been able to find him when he humored her by playing hide and seek all those long years ago. Then he saw her running through the woods toward him, lithe as a doe, and it was too late to hide.

  NINE

  “There you are!” She raced into the clearing, breathless but smiling with triumph. “Are you all right?”

  “Of course, brat,” he said, once again her faithful older brother. “Why? What did you think?”

  “I—came out to the barn just as Cherokee told you about being Ute.”

  He stiffened, remembering rushing past her in his blind anguish. “That’s all you heard?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  He couldn’t bear to have her brush him aside absently again, or worse yet, laugh. “Nothing.”

  She plopped down next to him, breathing hard. “I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry because I turned out to be Ute?” His lip curled with sarcasm.

  “No.” She shook her head and the pins loosened, letting curls cascade down her neck. “Sorry because it’s so important to you.”

  “It doesn’t matter.” He looked out at the view so he wouldn’t have to look at her. How many times had he dreamed of tangling his fingers in those black locks, pulling her to him to kiss that soft mouth and the nape of her neck where those curls clung?

  “It matters to me.” She patted his knee. “I care about you—you know that.”

  But not enough, he thought, and not in the way I want. He must not reach out and touch her. If he did, he might not be able to stop himself from kissing her. He hungered to kiss her, passionately, deeply. “I’m okay—being Ute’s not important.”

  “I doubt Alexa would care. Does her opinion matter?” She looked up at him with eyes deep enough for a man to drown in. “You know, she could come out with Cleve when he comes to visit.”

  Cleve. Cleve. Cleve. He felt the muscles in his jaw tighten. He was tempted to tell her about how faithless Cleve was, about the shoddy tryst with the red-haired maid. But that would hurt Wannie and no one or nothing would ever hurt Keso’s beloved as long as he could raise a hand to stop it. In his mind, he slammed his fist into Cleve’s patrician face again and again. “I don’t think Alexa would fit in out here and I sure as hell didn’t fit in back East.”

  She frowned. I know that was a miserable trip for you, Keso, and I’m sorry.”

  He shrugged.

  “Maybe when you come to visit me after I’m married, I can help you choose a tailor and teach you proper manners so you won’t feel so uncomfortable.”

  “I doubt I’ll be making many trips back East. I don’t like it—too crowded and noisy.”

  “Maybe Cleve will build us a fine home in Denver. You don’t mind coming to Denver, do you?”

  “If it will make you happy, brat.” He forced himself to smile as he leaned over and did what was expected of him—he kissed the tip of Wannie’s nose. “It’s getting late. Let’s get back to the cabin.”

  She caught his hand and pulled him to his feet. He held on to her for a split second, fighting an urge to jerk her into his arms and kiss her as he had always imagined kissing her, as he kissed her in his dreams. She would laugh, he thought, and think he was joking or worse yet, be horrified that her brother was kissing her with such passion.

  She let go of his hand and the spell was broken. “Silver’s probably cooking something special for my homecoming—maybe spice cake. Wouldn’t warm cake be good with a glass of milk?”

  “Sure.” The silver ring he still carried in his vest seemed to burn through the fabric and into his flesh. Pour toujours. For always.

  She might marry and forget him, but for Keso, she was for always. There would never be any other woman for him. Now that snooty rich blue-blood would be tak ing her away and there was no way Keso could stop him because she was dazzled by Cleve Brewster. Keso would just have to endure the pain. “Want to race back, brat?”

  “I can outrun you!” she boasted. Lifting her skirts, she took off like a flash.

  “No fair—you didn’t say ready, set, go!” he called after her, enjoying watching her run, her hair streaming out behind her like a wild filly’s mane, her long, slender legs moving gracefully.

  She turned and yelled back at him. “Anything’s fair in love and war!”

  “It sure is!” He yelled and took off after her, caught her, and swung her up in his arms.

  “No fair, big brother,” she protested, “your legs are longer than mine!”

  “But you just said anything’s fair!” he chuckled as he carried her toward the house. Anything’s fair in love and war, he thought with sudden resolve. Wannie was worth fighting for.

  Keso was distant and said little as the hot summer days passed. Wannie decided she had to win him over before Cleve arrived. Otherwise, the visit was going to be awkward and tense. She valued her adopted brother’s approval and felt wounded that he didn’t like Cleve. Finally, one afternoon in mid-August, she caught him in the barn where he labored in the heat, stripped to the waist.

  “Keso, can we talk?”

  “Talk?” He kept forking hay and pitching it into a horse stall. “Sure, brat.”

  “I’ve had a feeling you’ve been avoiding me.”

  “I’m busy, that’s all.” He didn’t look at her, still pitching hay. “We’ve talked lots of times.”

  “No, we haven’t,” she insisted, “we exchange pleasantries, but we don’t really talk like we used to when we’d daydream up at Waanibe.”

  He grimaced. “Do me a favor and don’t mention that place to me again.”

  She’d never really noticed how he looked half-naked. He’d always been a lanky boy, but now he was a full-fledged man. She watched his dark, muscular body gleam with perspiration. His sinewy muscles rippled as he moved. There was no mistaking he was all male with those broad shoulders. Besides the mark where she’d hit him with a doll, the only other blemish on his body was a livid mark on the back of his right arm. Watching his sleek muscles ripple aroused a feeling that made her uncomfortable. “You—you never did tell me how you got that.”

  He paused, craning his neck to look at the scar. Then he shrugged and returned to work. “Frankly, I don’t know. It’s always been there. Look, Wannie, I’m busy. Don’t you have things to do with Cleve arriving in a couple of weeks?”

  “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”

  He grunted and kept working.

  “Will you stop and look at me?” She was exasperated as she caught his arm and whirled him around.

  “All right, I’m looking. What is it you want?” His dark eyes were as cold as his tone.

  As close as they were standing, she could feel the heat from his big, muscular frame. She had a sudden image of him throwing her down in that soft hay, pinning her w
ith his sweating body. Why, that wasn’t a decent way to think about her brother. Her thoughts unnerved her and she turned his arm loose and backed away, thinking he’d be appalled and shocked if he knew what she’d been thinking.

  “I—I want you and Cleve to be friends, that’s all.”

  He stared at her in a way that made her nerves come alive and scream a warning. No, of course he was her brother—it was only her imagination. “I’ll be polite to him, Wannie, that’s the best I can do.”

  “You haven’t changed your opinion then? I was hoping—”

  “Look, brat, as your big brother, I’m asking you not to rush into anything. Get to know him better before you set the date, okay?”

  “But I feel I know him pretty well,” Wannie protested. “I saw a lot of him when he came to school to visit Alexa.”

  “He was probably on his best behavior then.” Keso turned and strode away.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” she yelled after him.

  Keso didn’t answer but just kept walking, every line of his wide shoulders stiff and hostile. Well, Cleve didn’t seem to like him, either. Maybe they were just two such different personalities that they’d never like each other. Or maybe when Keso had flirted with Alexa, Cleve had been angry and they had had words over it. The aristocratic Brewster family might not think an Indian was good enough to marry into their fancy family. No, Cleve wasn’t like that at all—he was a wonderful man. “I said: what’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing, except maybe he’s not what you think he is.” Keso turned on her, eyes blazing like banked fires. “He’s not worthy of you, Wannie.”

  “You hate him because you didn’t choose him for me. If you’re about to tell me lies about him, forget it!” She ran at him and struck him hard across the face. He grabbed her wrist and they struggled, then went down on the hay with him half on top of her. She could feel the heat of his naked torso through the pink dimity of her dress.

  “Wannie, if you were a man, I’d kill you for that.”

  She looked up, suddenly afraid at the terrible emotion in his eyes and the dark red mark she’d inflicted across his high-cheek-boned face. But she was too furious to be cautious. “Then hit me back! Hit me back, you big liar!”

  “Wannie you’ve pushed me too far!” He jumped to his feet, grabbed her, sat down on a bale of hay, and turned her over his knee. “This is what I used to do when you were little!”

  Before she could react, he had jerked up her skirt and was paddling her bottom. She could feel the heat of his big hand across the seat of her drawers. “How dare you! I’ll tell Cherokee!”

  Whack! Whack! Whack!

  “Will you also tell him you slapped me cock-eyed?”

  “Ohh, You’re hurting me! I’ll tell Cleve when he gets here.”

  “I’m so scared!” He stopped paddling even as she twisted her slender body and sank her teeth into his leg. “Damn! You bite like a wolf bitch! I hope you don’t have hydrophobia!”

  “If I do, I hope you get it!” She sank her teeth in his leg again.

  “Stop that!” He smacked her bottom again. “You’re spoiled rotten, Wannie! It’s time you stopped acting like a baby!”

  “Then stop treating me like one.” She couldn’t hold back the tears any longer and broke into sobs. “You’re not only a liar, you’re beating me up just because you’re bigger than I am!”

  He stopped immediately. She had known he would, knowing he could never bear to see her cry. She sobbed for effect. Once he turned her loose, she was going to grab that pitchfork or a bridle rein or anything she could get her hands on and attack him for daring to hint that Cleve didn’t love her.

  “Wannie, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you.” He stood up and helped her to her feet. He reached out to wipe a tear off her cheek but she slapped his hand away.

  “You hurt me, all right! Why do you keep trying to turn me against Cleve?”

  He sighed. “I just wish you’d stop looking at him so starry-eyed and see what he’s really like.”

  “What is it you keep hinting at?”

  He hesitated. “I—I don’t reckon you’d believe me anyhow. Listen, Wannie, I would never do anything to hurt you, but I’m afraid he will.”

  Her anger was so strong that if she could reach that bridle, she would whip him like a dog. “You hate him so you’re trying to make me hate him, too—”

  “Wannie, believe me, he’s not a nice guy.”

  “Can you offer anything but your word for that?”

  “My word used to be good enough for you.” He took a handkerchief out of his back pocket and gently wiped her tear-streaked face.

  She slapped his hand away “I’ll ask Cleve when he gets here.”

  Keso shrugged. “He’ll deny it.”

  “So it’s your word against his?”

  “I reckon it is, Wannie. You’ll just have to decide which one of us you trust. I’m sorry I told you.” His handsome face was sullen; a soul as dark and deep as Black Canyon where the fast-flowing Gunnison River snaked between steep, narrow walls that never allowed sunlight to touch the bottom.

  “Perhaps I never really knew you at all,” she whispered, sad and weary. “I won’t forget you did this, Keso, not until you apologize.” She turned on her heel and marched out of the barn, glad that soon she would be marrying and leaving this place where she wouldn’t have to deal with this lying, arrogant male. In the meantime, she would be as cool and distant as Keso had been ever since they’d returned from Boston. If the older couple asked, she didn’t intend to discuss it; let that rotten brother tell them. Yes, the next several weeks were going to be very strained indeed.

  Silver, Cherokee, and Keso were seated around the table having a cup of coffee.

  “Drat,” Silver muttered, “this guy of Wannie’s is due to arrive tomorrow?”

  Keso nodded glumly. “I told her I’d drive her to the train to meet him.”

  “Maybe we’re not giving him a fair shake,” Cherokee drawled. “If she loves him, he must be a nice guy.”

  Nobody said anything for a long moment.

  “What I’m afraid of,” Keso said, “is that she’s dazzled by his social position and he thinks he’s getting a Spanish duchess.”

  There was a long pause.

  “What?” Silver blinked

  Keso looked around. “Where is Wannie, anyway?”

  “Down at the barn gathering eggs,” Cherokee answered. “What is this about a duchess?”

  Keso sighed. “I don’t know whether she really doesn’t remember or doesn’t want to recall her true past.”

  “Oh my,” Silver said and put her hands to her mouth, “this could lead to real trouble if he finds out—”

  “She was so little the night her mother’s place burned,” Cherokee defended, “maybe Wannie doesn’t remember her mother ran a ... well, you know.”

  The three of them exchanged looks.

  “And what’s this about Spanish?” Silver asked. “Her mother was Arapaho and her father—”

  “Yes, tell me about my father!” Wannie walked in suddenly from the porch, dark eyes blazing.

  Cherokee said, “Wannie, how long have you been listening?”

  “Long enough!” Wannie was so distressed, she wanted to scream. “Why didn’t you tell me all this before?”

  “Wannie,” Keso said as he got up and came over to her. She backed away from him. “Go ahead and finish it! What was my father?”

  The three exchanged looks as Wannie sobbed.

  “Wannie,” Keso whispered, “we’re sorry, we didn’t mean to hurt you.”

  “You were gossiping about me, about secrets. I want to know the truth.”

  “Well,” Silver shrugged, “I guess there’s nothing to do but tell you. Maybe we should have told you years ago. Your mother ran a bordello called the Duchess’ Palace.”

  “Oh,my God—worse than I even imagined.” Wannie buried her face in her hands.

  “Look, Wannie,” C
herokee tried to soothe her, “none of that affects you. You’re still the same person you always were—”

  “No, I’m not!” Wannie screamed at him. “The Brewsters say blood will tell. They talk all the time about inheriting traits from their fancy ancestors.”

  Keso tried to put his arm around her, but she was in too much anguish and slapped his hand away.

  “Wannie,” he said, “it’s not who your ancestors are—it’s what you make of yourself. That’s all that counts.”

  “Blood will tell—Mr. Brewster said so,” she wept. “How can I face Cleve tomorrow, knowing all this?”

  “Drat it all, Wannie,” Silver said, “he doesn’t have to know any of this.”

  “Maybe,” Cherokee suggested, “we should contact young Brewster and get him to postpone his trip.”

  “Don’t you understand?” Wannie paced up and down in an agony of indecision. “He’s already on his way. He won’t want me when he learns this.”

  “Brat, if he doesn’t want you because of who your parents were,” Keso said, “he’s not much of a man.”

  He tried to put his arm around her shoulders but she brushed him off. “You don’t understand. The Brewsters are nobility—they set a lot of store on pedigree.”

  “Look, Wannie,” Silver said, “you aren’t responsible for your parents and we can’t change history.”

  “And what about my father?” Wannie confronted her. “What were you about to say when I walked in?”

  Silver hesitated, her pale aqua eyes full of agony.

  Cherokee stood up. “Wannie, this has gone far enough—”

  “Don’t try to protect me, Cherokee,” Silver said and held up her hand. “Maybe we should have told her before.”

  In that moment of silence, Wannie had a terrible, sinking feeling that she was opening a Pandora’s box that she was going to regret, but it was too late now to close it. “Tell me what?”

  “Wannie,” Silver took a deep breath and faced her, “your father was a Georgia cracker who had been in prison.”