Destiny's Bride (10 page)

Which would Walt want? A son or a daughter? He’d said he wanted lots of children, but was she up to the challenge? If this sickly feeling was part of it, she didn’t much like it.

She poured herself a cup of coffee from the pot simmering on the back of the stove. It was bitter from having sat for so long, but at least it was hot; she didn’t feel like making a new batch. She tired more easily of late so she went back to her rocking chair, longing to see her mother and get answers to the million questions spinning in her mind. More than anything, she wished Walt would come home so she could share her suspicions with him—with anybody, really. Why did her new friend, Hilda Stinson, live so far away?

Cecile rocked back and forth, pondering the possibility of motherhood.  Footsteps on the porch interrupted her thoughts. Funny, she hadn’t heard the rumble of wagon wheels in the yard, but then she'd been preoccupied.  Her heart fluttered in anticipation. Walt was finally home! Her lips spread into a wide smile.

Tossing her crocheting aside, she prepared to jump up and welcome him home, but before she got out of the chair, the front door flew open and hit the wall, vibrating the whole house. In staggered a stranger…an Indian. Fear seized her throat. Frozen to her chair, she wondered if this was her time to die.

The man before her was a mirror image of the red-skinned people she’d seen before only in storybooks and magazines, and those tales didn’t portray them kindly. This one wore fringe-trimmed buckskin leggings and shirt, and had long ebony braids. He towered over her; his cold, steely black eyes bored through her.

Cecile stared back, her mouth agape, trying to accommodate the scream rising in her throat. Strangely, she couldn’t make a sound. Escape entered her mind, but even if her trembling legs supported her, where would she run?

As quickly as the Indian entered, he fell to the floor at Cecile’s feet. She remained seated for several minutes, dazed, confused, and frightened, waiting for him to move. When he didn’t, she slowly slid off her chair and knelt beside him.

Was he dead? She gently poked him, and then quickly drew her hand back. Seeing no reaction, she rolled him onto this back and gasped. A spreading crimson stain colored the front of his shirt. He was hurt, and she had to do something. But what? How she wished she wasn’t alone.

She pushed aside her fear and tried to assess the nature of his injury.  Maybe if he survived he’d be grateful enough to let her live.  That niggling voice in her head that piped in at the most difficult of times suggested she just let him die to assure her safety.  One look at the softness of his brow reminded her he was a human being in need of care, and she was the only one available. She had to chance trying to save his life.

Cecile took a deep breath and pressed her ear to his chest, listening for a heartbeat. It wasn’t strong, but the thumping was still there. Before doing anything, she needed to determine how he’d been hurt and what action to take. Tugging at his shirt, she lifted it enough to find his injury. Blood oozed from a nasty lesion just below his left shoulder. Since she’d never seen a bullet wound, she wasn’t sure if she dealt with one. A closer inspection led her to believe the jagged injury looked more like a stab wound. Hopefully, her amateur evaluation was correct, for if indeed a bullet remained in him, there was little she could do. Frustration surged through her as she hurried to find something to use for bandages. After finding an old petticoat in her trunk, she tore it into pieces.

“Damn you for leaving me here alone, Walt Williams,” she mumbled. Her nausea and thoughts of pregnancy were forgotten.

Using water from the pitcher, she washed the wound, trying to be gentle, cleansing the area around the gaping hole. She folded a piece of cotton cloth torn from her undergarment and placed it directly on the injured site.  The remaining strips she wrapped around his chest to secure the bandage in place.

That’s the best I can do, she thought, sitting back on her heels. His smooth, well-muscled chest rose and fell with each breath, so totally different looking than her husband’s fur covered skin.  Dared she risk a touch to compare?  She resisted.

She couldn’t move the injured man, much less get him onto the sagging bed, so she covered him and put a pillow under his head. Exhausted from the ordeal, she collapsed back into the rocking chair to rest and wait. Dozing in and out of sleep most of the night, she kept a watchful eye on her patient lest he awaken. What would she do when he did?  She had no idea.

At sunup, he still hadn’t stirred. The blanket covering him moved with each breath, so he still lived. She gazed at his bronzed face and wondered who he was and why he’d come.

Although stiff and sore from sitting in a chair all night, she forced herself to rise and get more fuel for the fire. She silently called upon God to let Walt come home before the stranger woke, but as she added another log, the Indian’s long steady moan proved her prayer fell on deaf ears. He moved around restlessly.

Cecile knelt at his side, and again, with trembling hands, checked his wound for bleeding. She breathed a sigh of relief at seeing no fresh stain on the bandage. His forehead felt cool to her touch, indicating no sign of fever. Her heart seized a beat when his eyes fluttered.

The Indian’s half-lidded gaze showed his confusion.  He struggled to pull himself up, but she urged him back on the pallet. “Lie still. You’re hurt, you mustn’t move.”

He gave a knowing nod and relaxed, though his breathing seemed labored.

“Who are you? Do you understand English?” She cocked her head to fully see his face.

He nodded again and opened his eyes. “I am Lone Eagle of the Sioux.”

Although his halting words were weak and heavily accented, she understood them.

“How were you hurt? How did you find this place?”

Still groggy from his injury and loss of blood, he dropped back into a restless sleep.

Her shoulders sagged. “Oh Lone Eagle, please wake up. Please!”

What if he died? What would she do? She inched back up into her rocking chair and silently prayed again that Walt would come home soon.

***

She came in from another failed attempt to gather the eggs and, forgetting her sleeping patient, slammed the door behind her. “Damn that rooster! I ought to ring his neck.” A laugh begged to explode at the absurdity of her ranting. There was no way she’d risk getting that close.

Lone Eagle had somehow gotten himself into the rocking chair. Her cheeks warmed at her unladylike display.

“Oh, you’re up! At least I wasn’t the one who woke you.  Sorry about the door.” For unexplainable reasons her fear of him was gone. She placed her empty basket on the table and turned to him. “How do you feel?”

“Not strong. There is much pain in my shoulder.”

“I’m sure.” She nodded. “You have a very nasty wound. What happened?” Eager to hear his answer, she pulled the bench closer to him and sat.

“I hunted for members of my tribe who travel to our winter lodge and came upon a white man camped on the prairie. I hid in tall grass and watched him for a long time. Three on horses rode into the man’s campground and began to cause trouble. When I realized his danger, I went to help. I fought until I felt a knife pierce my skin, and that was the last I remember.” His face showed his anguish.

“How did you end up here?”  She pressed for more.

“When I woke the next morning, everyone was gone. There was no trace of the man I tried to help; he and his wagon were gone. I think they all thought I was dead, and that was a good thing for me.” His full lips curled into a smile. “I’m sorry if I frightened you, but you surprised me, too. I thought no one lived here.”

As Cecile listened to Lone Eagle’s story, fear gripped her heart. His words played over and over in her mind. One man and a wagon. She silently prayed it wasn’t Walt.

“Lone Eagle,” she said, panic edging her voice, “what did this one man look like? What color was his hair? How tall was he?” She posed question after question without taking a breath.

His brow furrowed and he shrugged. “His hair was dark like the night, the rest I do not know.”

Such a vague description could apply to anyone. Why assume it fit Walt?  At least that’s what she tried to convince herself. She changed the subject. “Are you hungry?”

He nodded.

She concocted a stew made from the few canned goods left in the cupboard; if nothing else any food would help Lone Eagle regain his strength. When the mixture bubbled with heat, she sampled a spoonful only to find it had no taste. With no spices left to add, she filled a bowl and sat it on the table, hoping he was polite enough not to mention her lack of cooking skills.

Lone Eagle stood on legs that appeared too wobbly, looking weak and disoriented. Sensing his reluctance to admit weakness, Cecile placed her arm around his waist and helped him to the table.

Lone Eagle didn’t exhibit the reaction she expected, instead the way he spooned the bland soup into his mouth, one would think he liked it. Either that or he hadn’t eaten in days.

While he ate, Cecile sat across from him. “After listening to your story, I fear that the man you tried to help was my husband. He’s been gone for several days and should have been back by now.” Although she put her worst fear to words, if Lone Eagle retold his story, perhaps he’d remember more of what happened and put her mind at ease.

“I did not get a good look at any of them,” he said apologetically.  Except for overemphasis on some words and hesitation here and there, his English was nearly perfect.

Cecile wrestled with reality. There was a chance Walt wasn’t the ambushed man at all, but just in case, she closed her eyes and sent up a silent prayer for his safety. Lone Eagle interrupted her thoughts. “Is there more soup? Stomach still hungry.”

***

Three more days passed. The waiting and wondering was an endless torture. Deep in her heart Cecile knew Walt wasn’t coming home, but she fought with all her might to hold on to the slightest belief he would.

Lone Eagle, feeling stronger, insisted on staying to help with the lighter chores. Cecile was more than happy to let him, since her bouts with nausea had intensified. The water bowl turned into a permanent fixture next to the bed; as soon as her feet hit the floor in the morning, she became violently ill. If Lone Eagle noticed, he politely pretended not to. His presence eased the burden of running the farm, but did nothing to take away her pain. Day after day she waited and prayed for Walt’s return.

Just as she had every night since he left, Cecile held Walt’s pillow close, but tonight it dampened with tears of reality. With each passing day, the belief that Walt was gone for good became harder to accept. Here she was in the middle of nowhere, with no idea how to find her way back to Silver City. What was she to do?

She should have paid attention during the trip here. Could she possibly find her way back to the Stinsons’? Another reality to face. The answer was no. It was unbelievable that at nineteen, she'd married and was now almost certainly a widow stranded in the middle of nowhere…and expecting a child. Thank God for Lone Eagle. At least, he kept her company and acted as though he understood her pain.

As he readied his bed next to the fireplace, she stilled her crying enough to tell him again how she’d met and married Walt and came to this desolate place. Lone Eagle offered no advice, but instead shared stories about his people.

Cecile curled on her side, welcoming the distraction. Anything to quell the hurt in her heart.

“In the summer, my people camp on the flatlands, near rivers and streams, to be closer to plentiful food. We spend the summer building stores of game, fruit, and berries to carry us through the winter. When the leaves turn colors or begin to fall, we travel to the land sheltered by mountains and trees to shield us from winter winds and other tribes who want to steal what is ours. On the prairie there is no protection from mother earth and there is no place to hide.” His mood turned somber.

“One young girl became sick and unable to make the journey to our winter camp. Her family stayed behind until she is well. I traveled to make sure of their safety, that was when I came upon the man on the prairie.”

The fear flooded back, seizing Cecile’s heart in its icy grip. She collapsed into tears again and turned to face the wall. There was no need to hear this part of the story again; it was embedded in her mind.

Chapter Seven

Lone Eagle opened the cracked shutters and peered at the orange glow in the sky. The rooster Cecile feared perched atop the corral fence and crowed, and flapped his wings. The tip of the sun crested the horizon, reminding Lone Eagle of the fire’s reflection in the white woman’s hair, and he smiled, not knowing if it was the thought of her or the feel of the brisk morning air on his bare chest that brought him fully awake. It had been over two weeks since he’d come here, and now he had a decision to make.

The winter snows fast approached. His wound had healed and his strength returned. His responsibility to the woman who had nursed him back to health kept him from leaving…that, and the feelings he experienced whenever he looked into her green eyes. But he had to go; he had only to decide how to convince Cecile she must come with him. He could not abandon her here, trusting fate she would survive a winter alone. Her food supplies were almost gone, and she was with child. The climbing sun moved higher in the cloudless sky and he decided that within ten more risings they would leave for his village. The remaining days should be enough time for her to see the wisdom in his words.