“Wind Dancer?”
He turned toward her and let his eyes slid from the top of her strawberry-colored hair down to her naked legs and feet. Yep. He is definitely feeling better, she reasoned as his gaze lingered on various portions of her body. He still shivered, as did she.
“We need to drink something warm. I’ll make some decaf tea.”
He nodded as if he understood.
The condo-apartment complex built each unit with an open concept. So, as Cleo made the tea in the microwave she remained in his view. His brow creased when the timer dinged, but then moved toward the gas fireplace in the corner.
“We need to build fire to stay warm. Starting to rain again.”
Not thinking it would be an issue, Cleo lifted the remote control from the counter and touched ‘On.’ Flames flashed up, like it should, sending Wind Dancer backward until he fell across an ottoman then the floor with the blanket in serious disarray.
“Oh! Sorry.” She hit ‘Off’ and laid it down on the tray where she’d placed the mugs of tea. He continued to stare in horror at the fireplace for a few seconds then at her.
“Here. Let me show you how we make fire.”
He frowned at each on-off click, while she tried not to grin.
“You try. Electronic. Not magic, although I guess that is up for discussion.”
He relieved her small rectangular object and pushed buttons until he declared he felt safe doing so. “Lights magic, too?”
“As a matter-of-fact, yes.” She picked up another device from the couch and dimmed the lights then brightened them. He drained his cup before he took the new toy.
Cleo wrapped her quilt around her a little tighter and leaned against the couch. The sheepskin rug felt warm against her feet, and the tea made her drowsy. As her eyes grew heavier, the lights dimmed to complete darkness and the fire burned brighter. Something whispered in her subconscious that things needed to be done, friends to find and a Pawnee to dress, but someone warm gathered her close, and everything faded to oblivion.
When the first rays of dappled light seeped into the condo, Cleo woke, cradled in Wind Dancer’s arms, beneath his blanket. If she moved, he would wake up. Better to lie still and think this through. It had been a while since she’d had a man in her bed, or floor in this case. More like several years. After the last experience, she’d sworn off double-crossing, cheating handsome men who thought they were god’s gift to the lonely.
His dark skin offered such elegant contrast to her pale never-in-the-sun complexion. With utmost care, she lifted the blanket to scrutinize the rest of him. Living outdoors with nothing but his survival instincts certainly worked for this guy. She lowered the blanket again and discovered Wind Dancer watching her. Her face grew feverish with embarrassment.
Wind Dancer then lifted the blanket and gazed at her body. He laid his hand across her bra and tugged. “Is this some kind of weapon?”
She felt paralyzed with his hand in such an intimate place. “Some people think so.” She chuckled, knowing the response sounded lame.
His hand slid down to her cotton undies. “And this? Another weapon?” This time, she tried to move his hand, which touched her hip, causing her to jump. His smile matched the mischief in his eyes. “You are ticklish.” He let his hands explore her entire body causing her to burst into laughter as she tried desperately to remove herself from his touch. His laughter matched hers until he rolled her on top of him. “Thank you for last night.”
She tried to remember what exactly he might be thanking her for. Wouldn’t she remember if they’d had sex? “I’m sorry. What?”
“You brought me here. I was dying from the cold. You saved me.”
“Oh, that,” she said in an almost-disappointed tone. “I think we’re even. The Osage wanted to kill us both. What did you do to tick him off?” She managed to free herself as she found her own quilt. Standing proved a clumsy effort at best.
He shook his head. “Tick off? I don’t understand.” Standing up buck naked didn’t appear to affect his modesty, but he wrapped the blanket around his body nonetheless.
“He is angry. Why?”
“Where are my clothes?” He searched the room with dark eyes the color of Hershey’s Kisses. Moving toward her bedroom, Wind Dancer disappeared.
“Wait. Where are you going?”
“Need to…” He stopped and appeared confused again as he pointed down to his privates.
“Oh. Bathroom?” She led him to her small restroom and lifted the toilet lid before grabbing a cup off the sink. After filling it with water, she poured it into the bowl. He watched her closely as she flushed.
He nodded toward the door. “Understand. Cleopatra, wait out there. Don’t need help.”
“Thank heavens for small miracles.” The words came out a mumble as she closed the door. She resisted rushing in when the shower squeaked on because the intercom from the front desk sounded. With a glance to the bathroom, Cleo threw up her hands and went to answer the call.
“Ms. Sommers, your two friends are on their way up with a police officer.”
The doorbell buzzed as she signed off. With a quick dash into the bedroom, she slipped on the yoga pants crumpled in a chair along with the plain buckskin shirt she’d laid over a barstool to dry.
The doorbell buzzed twice.
“Hey, guys!”
“Hey, guys?” Erica snapped storming inside. “Where did you go? We were worried sick.”
Julie chimed in. “Yeah. Got any coffee and Danish? I’m starved.”
Cleo continued to hang onto the doorknob as Jacque Marquette strolled in with bloodshot eyes and a scowl imprinted on his narrow face. “We meet again,” he said so casually she imagined their conversation involved the weather rather than lost artifacts. Could this be nothing more than a big scheme to confuse her?
He raised his chin at the two ladies helping themselves in the kitchen. “I tried to tell your friends one of my officers took you downtown to go through some pictures of known art thieves. Because of our”—he locked eyes with her— “conversation dealing with Indians, identical twins—”
“Oh, yes. Of course, Detective.” He sounded as if he might be protecting her.
“Sorry, ladies, but last night my life went a little sideways with the storm knocking out security at the museum again. I handed you off to a few young officers to get you home. When I realized you hadn’t arrived here, I sent another car for you. Totally my fault. However…” Cleo watched him pause as he stared at her friends.
She realized their mouths had dropped open and their Danish suspended in midair as they stared at something across the room. When she and the detective followed their gaze to Wind Dancer in the bedroom doorway with nothing but a towel, a rush of heat crept up her neck and face.
He focused on her for what she thought might be guidance in this situation. Rushing to stand in front of him, she caught a whiff of cucumber-melon body soap. “Everyone, this is my friend, Joseph Wind Dancer.” All eyes seemed to lose their ability to blink. Their stares bordered on rudeness except for the detective who appeared to be evaluating the latest turn of events. “Ahh, Joseph is a staff sergeant for the Royal Mounted Police.”
“Interesting,” said Detective Marquette. He extended his hand toward the man as his eyes narrowed in the way suspicious police officers possessed.
“It is good to see you my friend.” Wind Dancer grabbed his hand and pumped it vigorously. “I worried you did not make it.”
“Yeah. I’m good.” The detective spoke slowly, brow furrowed.
Wind Dancer whispered in Cleo’s ear. “You’re wearing my shirt.”
“Oh. So I am.” A nervous laugh ensued. “Look in the box in the closet. I think you’ll find what you need.”
Wind Dancer’s eyes went to the two women staring at him from the kitchen, and he frowned before disappearing into the bedroom.
“Honestly, Cleo, you could have let us in on your little secret.” Julie took a big bite of her Danish, c
hewed then continued. “I guess the interrogation went better than expected. Why doesn’t anything like that happen to me?”
Erica set her Danish on the counter and moved forward. “Okay. I guess I can forgive you for not coming to get us. You deserve a little fun in your life, considering everything you’ve been through.”
“I think you misunderstand the—”
Erica held up a hand. “No need to explain. It’s nice to know you can loosen up a bit. We’ve both got planes to catch, and there is an officer downstairs waiting to whisk us off to O’Hare.” Erica kissed her on the cheek. “Thanks for a great weekend, kiddo. Gives new meaning to ‘mounted police,’ I think.” The joke didn’t register with Cleo at first.
“It’s not what you think.”
“Good. Because my thoughts went pretty bland concerning you.” She led Julie out of the kitchen. “Let’s get our bags and leave Cleo to her handsome policemen.” Erica shifted her eyes to Jacque and winked, which drew zero response.
In less than five minutes, they headed out the door, begging for a full report by the end of the week.
Chapter 4
Cleo leaned against the door and sighed. “Why didn’t you tell them about the museum?”
“I don’t know anything yet,” Jacque quipped. “They knew nothing when everything came alive last night. Care to tell me what happened to you?”
“I’m not sure what happened. One minute I entered the earth lodge and the next the guy in my bedroom tied me to his chest. He sent both of us plunging into the beluga pool at the Shedd Aquarium.”
“That explains the ruckus over there this morning when the whales were found playing with shoes in their tank. Didn’t take long to identify the moccasins from the display at the Field Museum. I need a favor.” The detective moved to the bedroom door and stole a glance inside.
“Name it.”
“The other fella, my twin…” His quiet tone drew Cleo closer.
“Where is he?” she asked.
“In your ER under a John Doe. I told him to keep quiet and pretend to be homeless, although I’m not altogether sure he grasped the concept. He was shot.”
“How bad?”
He shrugged. “He’s breathing. He tried to dig it out with his knife. Tough old coot.”
Cleo headed into her bedroom as Wind Dancer came out and knocked her off balance. He steadied her with a strong arm around her.
The Pawnee smiled over at the detective. “Jacque, this is the woman I told you about. Cleopatra Sommers.” His welcoming expression suggested he believed him to be the Frenchman. As he released Cleo, he pointed at the detective. “Where did you get those clothes? They are strange on you. And your beard is gone. Why?” He stepped away from the two and held his arms out, showing his own new outfit. “Do you wear these clothes, Cleopatra?”
“Please call me Cleo. They belonged to my father.” The denim shirt and blue jeans fit the Pawnee much better than they had her father. Besides being a little too tight, the jeans hit him at the ankle. “I kept them thinking I would find him some day.”
Wind Dancer opened his mouth to speak then appeared to think better of it. He looked down at the floor. “My feet are cold in this strange place, but the air in here is warm.” He shifted his eyes to the detective. “Where do I get moccasins like yours, Jacque?”
“These are boots.” Jacque continued to eye the Pawnee. “Cleo, do you have your father’s shoes until I can get this character something better? While I’m at it, are you the one from the case at the museum?” His voice followed Cleo into her room.
“Yes. You know this. We talked about it for a long time. Cleo’s father sent us. I didn’t tell her he is alive.”
She managed to find a pair of jeans of her own and a sweatshirt with the Chicago Bears logo on the front. She wiggled into them before returning to the men with the shoes and socks. “These belonged to my dad as well. I hope they fit. Sorry. What did you say about my father?”
Wind Dancer sat down on the floor. He put on the socks and shoes as if he’d done it before. Surprising. “Yes. Fit. I don’t like how they feel.”
Cleo touched his arm. “Wind Dancer, this isn’t the Frenchman Jacque you knew. This is a policeman. Do you know what a policeman is?”
His eyes shifted to the detective and he frowned.
“Your friend is hurt. We need to go to the hospital. Okay?”
He nodded, a kind of acceptance, but stepped in between the detective and her.
~~~~
The three entered the emergency room, winded and disheveled. Cleo had tried to explain things about the Frenchman on the way. Thanks to the detective’s suggestion, she’d ridden in the backseat with the Pawnee. The flashing lights, sirens, and other chaos, a fact of life in Chicago, kept him moving in the seat. He wouldn’t wear a seat belt. Between jerking around to see where they’d been, dodging oncoming cars like they would plow into them, he kept grabbing her as if he could protect her. Cleo felt exhausted by the time they’d reached the hospital.
“The John Doe I brought in last night. Where is he?” Jacque flashed his badge at the receptionist.
Her eyes went to Cleo, not him. “Surgery. Two hours ago.”
“I thought you said it wasn’t bad?” Cleo asked.
They all started down the hall, Wind Dancer trailing behind as he tried to take it all in. “I said he was breathing and tried to dig the bullet out,” Jacque muttered.
“Where did he get shot?”
“His abdomen, I think.”
“Good lord,” she moaned. “You guys wait here. Who shot him by the way?”
“I did,” Jacque said straight-faced causing her to whirl around as Wind Dancer realized the weight of his words. “He pointed a musket thing at one of my officers as he emerged from the frozen state. I told him to drop it. The officer tried to take it from him. I tried to intervene by getting in the fray. It went off.” His words sounded so callous and cold, Cleo could do nothing but stare at him in disbelief. “I couldn’t let my officer get hurt.”
“Accident?” Wind Dancer asked as his brow furrowed and his voice deepened. When Jacque raised his chin in acknowledgement, the Pawnee shifted his attention to Cleo. “Go. Save my friend. Accident.”
“Wind Dancer, you need to stay with this man. Don’t do anything stupid or crazy. Understand?”
“How would you know if I did something like that in this place?” He grimaced.
She laid a hand on his arm. How strong he felt compared to most men she’d touched. “I see your point. I’ll see what I can find out.” She located the attending surgeon and pulled him aside. “Doctor, what can you tell me about the shooting victim?”
He shoved his hands in his coat pockets. “I’m not optimistic for John Doe. We did everything possible. He rested in recovery then was taken to his room. The man also had some infection from some old stab wounds. We tried to clean it up, but he might lose his leg over it. Who is this guy?”
Cleo promised to catch him up to speed later as she rushed out to find the Frenchman. Along the way, she stopped to retrieve the two new men in her life.
Once inside the room, she stepped up to his bed to examine the chart.
She inspected the beeping monitors, checking his stats then laid a hand on his wrist to take his pulse. When his eyelids fluttered open, she spooned ice chips into his mouth, suppressing a twinge of pity at his parched, cracked lips.
“Hello again, Cleopatra. I’m glad I finally got to meet you.”
She leaned in, as if nearness could help her understand his thick French accent.
“The other man, the one who shot me…?”
“He is with Wind Dancer.”
His eyes widened.
“It’s okay. He is safe. The police officer didn’t mean to shoot you.”
“I know. The Osage?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know. He tried to kill us.”
“Your father says he is very sick.” He coughed, his face twisted into a grimace. “
The Osage must be stopped.”
She gasped. “My father is sick?”
“I am dying. Bring me Wind Dancer,” he whispered.
“I am here, old friend.” Wind Dancer’s voice made her body jump as he moved to his friend’s bedside. Jacque stood nearby.
He shrugged at Cleo then nodded at the Pawnee.
“I’m dying,” the Frenchman repeated and touched Wind Dancer’s hand. “Do what is needed.”
Wind Dancer lifted his hands, palms up then chanted a singsong verse, drawing the unwanted attention of several nurses. Cleo held her hand up to stop their intrusion, but the flash of the detective’s badge halted them outside the door. When the chanting stopped, Wind Dancer lowered his ear to his friend’s lips. After a few moments, he straightened.
“Go with time, Frenchman. I will see you beyond someday on the Morning Star if not before.”
The Frenchman sucked in a rattling breath and dropped back. As the monitors behind him blared their alarm, hospital staff pushed into the room. They were in charge now, and a badge wouldn’t stop them. Cleo tugged on Wind Dancer’s arm, but it took Jacque’s assistance to drag him out of the room.
The sounds of reviving a heart had never impressed Cleo until she observed the Pawnee’s blank stare through the window into the room where doctors and nurses applied paddles to the Frenchman’s chest in an attempt to restart his heart. She tried to explain the procedure, but it sounded like voodoo magic even to her trained ears.
“I’m sorry, Joseph.” The detective picked up on the fictional name she’d given. Cleo thought for a second the detective actually meant what he said. “I feel like I shot myself. I don’t understand any of this. We need to get to the bottom of it.”
Cleo heard the dreaded words. “Let’s call it. 10:57 a.m.” Her heart ached for some reason. Had he known her father? Did he know where to find him? She watched Wind Dancer. If so, maybe he knew, too.
“I have a shift in two hours. Can you take Wind”—she corrected herself as one of the attendants wheeled a cart past her— “Joseph with you, Detective? I can’t leave him to wander the streets of Chicago.” She fished a credit card from her jean pocket. “Take this and buy him some clothes and shoes. And some”—she motioned around her waist— “you know…he is going commando right now. Probably not a good idea.”
Dark Side of Morning (Wind Dancer Book 1) Page 4