Gray Hawk's Lady: Blackfoot Warriors, Book 1

by Karen Kay

  “That’s just the point, Genny: in the names of their fathers. Besides, the duke must have anticipated this. He made me promise him your work too.”

  “Father!”

  “But look at what I had to win.”

  “Or lose.”

  “Genny…”

  She sat still, her mind in a whirl, though conversely, she couldn’t seem to think at all. Suddenly, she frowned and looked up. “We have very little time, then, don’t we? Perhaps you had best forget the Blackfoot Indians and the studies of their culture and language. If we begin work right now, we have barely enough time to catalogue and put onto paper all we have learned. Perhaps it is best, then, if we set sail back to England at once.”

  Her father slumped his shoulders, his head down. “I can’t, Genny,” he said. “You read the letter. Without a study of that tribe, I can’t even begin to submit the manuscript for publication, especially not now that Catlin is making ready for a trip into Blackfoot country himself.”

  Silence. “I see,” Genevieve said at last, although she wasn’t certain that she did. She scowled. “Father, I’m not quite sure that I understand. How does your finished manuscript fit into this? Did you merely bet the duke that the Indians were people, or does this somehow relate to the finished work of this project?”

  He gulped. “To the finished work.”

  Genevieve gasped, her breathing becoming more pronounced, more difficult. She said, “Tell me exactly how it is that this wager is based on your work.”

  Her father shrugged. “Since I had to finish the project anyway, and you know what an ‘authority’ the duke is on anthropology, I wagered that I would find the Indians with culture, language and a way of life of which to be proud, each and every tribe, and that he could use the completed work as his proof.”

  She nodded her head. “I see. And there is only this Blackfoot tribe left to study, and then the whole project is finished—at least from a research standpoint?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you have all your notes and observations already written about the other tribes?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you sure this Blackfoot band is the only major tribe left for you to study?”

  “Certainly.”

  She rose slowly, pushing down at the material of her skirts as she did so. Her hands shook, and she found herself unable to meet her father’s gaze. At length, though, she said, “I will have to think about this, Father. It seems as though we are in an unsolvable dilemma. I will have to see if there is some way for us to resolve this. In the meantime, I would not rely on William Toddman for any more of your projects. There is something wrong with the man, more than just his wasteful gambling, but I can’t quite ascertain what exactly. While it’s true that he has spent most of our money at the gaming tables, I fear there is something undisclosed that is driving him…something I can’t quite…” She lifted her shoulders slightly. “I do not trust him, Father, and I do not believe you should either… I—”

  A knock on the door interrupted her, and a few seconds later, the local doctor stepped into the room.

  “Hello, Dr. Gildman,” Genevieve said, extending her hand toward the man. “I’m so glad you were able to come and see my father.” She turned then, and gazing down at the worried countenance of her father, she smiled, even though it was a wary smile at best. “Don’t worry, I’ll think of something. You just concentrate on getting better.” She bent down to press a kiss to her father’s forehead. “I’ll be up to see you tonight, Father. Dr. Gildman,” she acknowledged, and, shifting away from the two men, she quietly left the room.

  Stunned. No, that wasn’t quite the word: numb, startled, jolted…that’s how she felt. Genevieve sat in her room some hours later, having not moved from this one spot in all that time. She stared straight ahead of her.

  This couldn’t be happening to her…to them. It was all so dramatic—so histrionic. And yet…

  How could her safe, secure world have turned stark in such a small amount of time?

  Her father was a wealthy man. Surely he hadn’t needed the money the duke offered. So why had he done it? Had the duke pressured him somehow?

  The Duke of Starksboro? Why the Duke of Starksboro? The man was old, decrepit and…

  A shiver of pure revulsion swept over her. When she thought of the man—

  No. She could not let this happen. There was something evil about this, about the duke…

  Certainly, the man was her father’s most vocal rival, jealously seeking to acquire the same sort of fame that her father enjoyed—a fame her father rightly deserved, a fame the Duke of Starksboro did not.

  It would be different, she admitted, if the duke would take the pains to explore the world, as she and her father did, before commenting upon it. But he did nothing of the sort, seeking instead, time and again, to buy his way into prominence…literally.

  And now the duke was trying to do the same thing to her father.

  She shivered.

  She had to do something about this.

  She couldn’t ask her father for help anymore—he was part of the problem. And Mr. Toddman? Out of the question.

  She puzzled over it. What they needed was a Blackfoot Indian. One mere Blackfoot Indian.

  What they really needed, what she really needed, was to ask someone she trusted to go into Blackfoot country, to go there and make notes on the habits and customs of the people, then to come back.

  But who?

  They had already tried to hire men to do it. For ten long months, she and her father had been trying to do this.

  Certainly they had found people to hire. But those men had disappeared, along with the money paid to them, never to be heard from again.

  Besides, she had several times talked with the trappers and traders in this area. Most could barely even speak proper English. What made her think such men could write it?

  Perhaps if she appealed to Mr. Catlin himself?

  She groaned. George Catlin had his own people supporting him—and one of those people had gone to a rival publishing house with news of Mr. Catlin’s project.

  Kind though she knew Mr. Catlin to be, she doubted he would be willing to give her father the necessary information to finish his book. Although—

  An idea took hold within her. Her head came up, and suddenly she swung her weight up onto her feet.

  She began to pace back and forth, over and over, finally padding over toward her window.

  She touched the cold pane of the window there as she stared unseeingly out into the garden, whitewashed now with snow. Her moist breath, shown at first as a fog on the glass, began to crystallize even as she watched it, and suddenly an idea materialized before her. All at once, she knew what she had to do.

  It was a whim, a flimsy, stupid idea, most likely impossible…and yet this might be her only chance. Their only chance.

  She would go.

  That a steamship was traveling there soon made it all the more imperative that she leave. It was almost as though she were destined to go there.

  True, she might be a novice at survival along the frontier, and certainly she held a healthy respect for her own life, but what sort of life would it be if she and her father failed at this project?

  She would rather die than return to England defeated, there to lose reputation and, worse, to have to cater to the Duke of Starksboro.

  She shuddered. Yes, she knew what she had to do.

  Turning, she stepped toward her door to ring for their servant, Robert.

  Robert would help her. Of this she was confident. In fact, she was counting on it.

  Chapter One

  Fort Union

  Northwest Territory

  Mid-June 1832

  Fort Union lay on a high bank, nestled between the Missouri and Yellowstone Rivers. To the east, across one river, rose hills and mountains, while a forest of cottonwood trees lined the river’s eastern shore, and the sandy banks glowed golden under the sun.

  On
the western side, the fort stood proud, surrounded by a beautiful, open plain, stretching northward for some distance. Encircling the fort were tepees, some of them white, some yellow and brown, all painted in multicolors of reds, blues and yellows. They looked grand, these primitive dwellings, lying in a field of green grasses that was itself surrounded by hills, valleys and dales. Off in the distance, to the north and east, ran a deep ravine, appearing to drop off where sky met land.

  Indians traversed back and forth from their encampments into the nearby fort. Several tribes had come to this place to do business—a very healthy business for the fort, the Indians trading a wealth of furs and hides for the steel blades of the white man, for the pots and pans he offered, the blankets, the beads and trinkets.

  Lady Genevieve had stood upon the fort’s rampart the previous night, looking out over the Indian encampments, hoping to get some insight, from a distance, into the character and life of the tribes present. It had been her first night at Fort Union and, gazing out over the encampments, with the dry wind upon her face and the grass- and pine-scented air smelling more foreign than anything she had ever imagined, she had felt enchanted.

  It was an unusual and wonderful sight—the primitive dwellings, the fires lit both inside and out, the music of the drums and singing from the camps below playing accompaniment to the very sounds of the night: the crickets, the locusts, the nighthawk, the wind itself.

  This is what her father lived for, what he had longed to see, and she’d wished last night that he could have been there. But it was just not possible.

  She had traveled here on the steamship the Yellow Stone, it having taken almost three months to complete the journey. She and Robert had made the trip, leaving her father back in St. Louis to recover from his illness.

  Her father had objected to her coming here, of course, but he’d had no sway over her. She’d made up her mind what had to be done; nothing would stop her.

  But now, in the light of day, she was discovering much about this place that she could barely tolerate.

  “Mr. McKenzie,” Genevieve said to the heavy Scotsman who seemed to be in charge, “is it necessary that all these trappers and traders remain here in my quarters while I try to do my work?”

  “Aye, lass, that it is. That it is. If ye’ll be needing to talk to the Indians, then ye’ll be obliged to have the protection of these men.”

  “Protection?”

  “Against the savages, lass.”

  “I see. And will the savages protect me from your men?” Genevieve fanned her face with one of her gloves. “Truly, Mr. McKenzie, the looks your men give me make me feel uncomfortable. I require only the interpreter that I have hired from you. My manservant, Robert, will give me all the protection from the Indians that I will need, I promise you.”

  McKenzie had only laughed at her, at what she’d said, but it appeared she had made her point. Within only a few moments, he had taken his leave of her, and he had grabbed most of his men to go with him.

  She breathed out a sigh of relief. “Robert,” she called, “please ensure that none of those men come in here without your knowledge.”

  “Yes, milady.”

  “Good. Now let’s see what can be done to these quarters to make them more…livable. If I am to work here for the next few days, I will require a few things. Is there a maid I can hire?”

  “I will see to it, milady.”

  “Good, then,” Genevieve said. “Notify me as soon as this room is clean, so that I might interview the Indians.”

  And to Robert’s “Yes, milady,” Genevieve strode out the door, her umbrella held just so over her head to shield her complexion and her hair from the glaring rays of the savage summer sun.

  Why didn’t the savage look away? And why didn’t he join in the laughter? Laughter the others in his tribe were enjoying…at her expense.

  Genevieve shuddered and glanced away from the window, her gaze catching on to and lingering over the simple, hand-carved furniture that had been given to her for her “use.”

  The room was clean, but that was all it was.

  There was nothing in the room to recommend it—no feminine touches here and there, no lacy curtains to cushion the windows, no crystal or china to brighten each nook and cranny, no tablecloths, no rugs…no white women, period. Except for her.

  She groaned.

  She had thought, when she and her father had reached St. Louis, that she had come to the very edge of civilization, but she had been wrong. At least there, she and her father had been able to rent a house where they had enjoyed all the comforts to which they were both accustomed.

  But here, away from any sort of civilization, she felt destitute.

  Genevieve sighed, her white-gloved hand coming up to bat at a fly hovering around her face.

  “Robert,” she spoke out. He bent toward her where she sat at the crude wooden table at one side of the room, and she said, “Go ask Mr. McKenzie if there is any truth to the rumor that these Blackfoot Indians are leaving today. Oh, and Robert,” she added as her manservant rose to do her bidding, “please ask Mr. McKenzie if those two half-breed trappers I met yesterday are still in residence at the fort, and if they are, please tell him that I wish to see those men at once.”

  Robert nodded, and as he set off to carry out her wishes, Lady Genevieve turned back toward the window and looked out at the Indians, her gaze riveted by the dark, ominous regard of that one mysterious Indian man, but only for a moment.

  She averted her glance, a certain amount of healthy fear coursing through her.

  And why not? These Indians, though dignified enough in their savage appearance and dress, wielded enough untamed presence to instill terror into the hearts of even the most stouthearted of trappers and traders.

  A shiver raced over her skin, the sensation bringing with it…what? Fear? Assuredly so. She had been gently raised. And yet…

  She lowered her lashes, again studying the Indian in question, her head turned away and her hat, she hoped, hiding her expression. The man stood there among his peers, all ten or eleven of them. All were here at the fort to trade; all had come to this room to see—what the interpreter had said they called her—the mad white woman.

  But none of the other Indians affected her like this one Indian man. He, alone stood out; he alone captured her attention. Why?

  Perhaps it was because he was too handsome by far, primitive and savage though he might be.

  Was that it? She concentrated on him again. Perhaps it was the energy that radiated from him…maybe…

  She tried to look away, to fix her gaze on something else, someone else, but she found that she couldn’t. No, she examined him more fully.

  He wore a long skin tunic or shirt, generously adorned with blue and white geometric designs. His leggings fell to his moccasins, and everywhere, at every seam and extending down each arm and the length of his tunic and the leggings themselves, hung scalp locks, hair taken from the human head. Though black was the main color of those locks, now and again she saw a blond or brown swatch of hair: white man’s hair. It made her shiver just to think of it.

  The Indian’s own black mane hung loose and long, the front locks of it extending well down over his chest. His eyes were dark, black, piercing, and he seemed to see past her guard and defenses, peering into her every thought. In truth, she felt as though he glimpsed her very soul.

  Genevieve tossed her head and looked up, the brim of her fashionable hat sweeping upward with the movement. She tried to pretend she hadn’t been staring just then, hadn’t been inspecting. It was useless, however.

  Had she but known, the sunlight, pouring in from the open window right then, caught the green chiffon of her hat, accentuating the color of it. And her hair, the auburn-red locks of it, glowed with a health and vitality equally appealing, and there wasn’t a savage or civilized gaze in the place that didn’t note the lady’s every move, her every expression. She, however, tried not to notice theirs.

  She forced he
rself to look away…from him. She didn’t want to think about him. She needed to concentrate on her own purpose for being here. She hadn’t made such a long, grueling journey to sit here and gawk at one Indian man, compelling though he might be.

  She had to find some Indian child or maiden here, now, today, willing to come back with her to St. Louis. She must.

  She would not accept defeat.

  It should have been a simpler task than it was turning out to be. Hadn’t she made it plain that she meant no harm to these people? That she and her father would only detain the person for a few months?

  Hadn’t she told these people that she would return the person who volunteered back to their tribe at the end of that time, handsomely rewarded?

  She had thought, back there in St. Louis, to lure one of the Indians with a trinket or two, a gown, a necklace for the women, money—anything, but something that no one could ignore. It should have been simple.

  She had reckoned, however, without any knowledge of the dignity of this tribe, the Piegan or Pikuni band of the Blackfeet: a grave miscalculation on her part.

  If only she had been more prepared to offer them something they might consider valuable. But how could she have known this?

  Wasn’t that just the problem? No one knew the Blackfoot Indians.

  It was this fact and this fact alone that made her father’s manuscript so valuable.

  Genevieve sighed. It got worse.

  She had such a short time in which to work, too. Only today, perhaps tomorrow.

  She had tried to convince Mr. Chouteau, the part-owner and captain of the steamship, to stay at Fort Union a little longer. She had argued with him, using every bit of feminine guile that she possessed, but to no avail. He had remained adamant about leaving on his scheduled date.

  The river was falling, he’d said. He had to get his steamship, the Yellow Stone, back to St. Louis before the Missouri fell so low that the ship would run aground.

  It was not what she wanted to hear.

  It meant she had only a few days to accomplish her ends. It also meant that she might be facing failure.