Native Gold (20 page)

His chin was straight, and despite the fact that it was without stubble, like a youth’s, his jaw was strong, capable, masculine. His mouth was straight and wide, his lips spare but supple. She liked the way they could curve into a crooked smile. She wished he would smile now. And she wondered, in her most secret heart, what those lips would feel like upon her brow, her cheek, her mouth.

She gave her head a small shake. Where had her concentration gone? Focus was the key to drawing a respectable portrait. She couldn’t let herself be distracted.

The cords of the Indian’s neck were broad, and she could see the beat of his heart in the hollow of his throat. A tiny nick marred his collarbone, a small scar from some past mishap, and she carefully pencilled it in.

Last, she added his hair. Much of it had come loose from the rawhide tie now, and it hung like shredded silk about his face. High on one side, where the sun struck, it shone in the rainbow colors of a raven’s wing. Mattie remembered combing Hintsuli’s hair. Did his older brother’s feel as soft, as lush?

As a final touch, she lightly shaded the whole face, using her thumb to smudge the pencil strokes, giving his skin a dusky finish. Then she scribbled the title, MR. INDIAN, at the bottom and signed it.

When she flipped the drawing around to show him, he didn’t move a muscle, but only stared at the portrait, silent.

"You can move now," she told him.

When he did, it was to lean back skeptically and fold his arms across his chest.

"It doesn’t look like me," he groused, though she could tell by his face that the picture did indeed impress him.

"Of course it does. It looks
just
like you."

He gave the work his harshest scrutiny, and one hand went up to touch the scar on his collarbone, but he only grunted.

"Well, if you don’t like it," she said, pretending to be miffed, "I’ll just keep it myself."

She wasn’t prepared for the speed at which he snatched the sketchbook from her hands. He brought the drawing close to his face, scowling all the while.

"I’ll take it," he announced, "in payment for saving your life."

She would have liked to think her life was worth a bit more than a sketch. But she supposed it was definitely worth the look of grudging amazement on his face to show him the picture.

"The next time," he told her, "draw the rest of me, not just this...head."

Before she could recover from her shock at his mention of a next time, he rose in one fluid movement to his feet and, taking her under the arms, lifted her till she stood before him.

He was a formidable man, and the fact that her chemise, nearly dry now, constituted no more than a few fragile threads between them made him seem that much more formidable. How easily those strong arms had plucked her from the ledge, carried her through the wood, picked her up from the ground. And how easily they could crush her in their embrace. But instead of inspiring fear, the thought sent a thrill of desire through her. How would it feel to have his arms enclosing her bare shoulders, to feel his hands splayed across her naked back?

The thought burned her cheek and made her eyes grow heavy. Her gaze settled on his lips, parted enough to glimpse the tips of his white teeth. What would he taste like? Bay? Mint? Smoke? She absently ran the tip of her tongue across her own lips.

They had been silent a long time now, and yet he hadn’t dropped his gaze from her. His eyes had darkened, if that were possible, turning a deeper shade of black. As Mattie plumbed their depths with her own stare, she sensed danger for the first time. Not dread. Not menace. But a profound, exhilarating power that threatened to insinuate itself into her heart, to seize her soul.

The quick flash of a doe’s ear through the trees alerted Sakote, dragging his attention from the white woman. Over Mati’s shoulder, two deer boldly advanced toward the water. Sakote stared in mute surprise. For the first time in his life, an animal had crept up on him.

He frowned. What was wrong with him? He was the best hunter in his tribe. He’d made his first kill when he was no older than Hintsuli. And at the
Simi
, the deer dance, he was always given a place of honor. How, then, had the pair of does caught him unawares?

It was the woman. She stole his eyes and ears from him as simply as she’d drawn them on the paper. And she stole his sense from him as well.

For one moment, he’d looked at the woman, truly looked at her, and he’d seen a destiny—afternoons swimming together, nights lying entwined in her arms, seasons of sun and snow and children and laughter. In the blink of an eye, a whole lifetime had seemed not only possible, but certain.

Now he knew it was only deception.

The woman wasn’t a shaman. She had no knowledge of even the simplest herbs. But she had power, dangerous power, power to blind and deafen him to the things of the Konkow world. He must break her control over him.

"Come," he said roughly, startling the deer.

Mati turned at the sound of rustling leaves. "Oh, look!" she whispered. How innocent her voice was, like a child’s. Her face lit up with delight. "
Tem-diyoki
."

That wasn’t the right word. They weren’t fawns. And though it impressed him that she knew something of the Konkow language, it was best that she forget. Without another word, he laced his moccasins tight and prepared to take her home.

"You must return to your camp." And I to my people, he thought.

He saw a brief longing pass over her eyes, the same longing Hintsuli showed just before he begged to play the grass game for just one more finger of sunlight. She was happy here, as he’d known she would be, and she didn’t want to leave.

But they both had responsibilities. He had to repair his fishing net and chip a new arrowhead. And she had to pan for her precious
oda
.

He helped her pull the dress over her head. How ugly it was. The brown sack concealed her beauty like the soap root hid the tender white bulb within. Mati sighed when she saw the garment’s ragged hem, but said nothing. She pulled on the boots, which seemed too large for her tiny feet, and gathered her sketchbook and drawing sticks.

He knew she couldn’t walk all the way to her
hubo
. The knee wound would begin to throb and bleed again, and the fall might have given her injuries she wouldn’t feel until tomorrow. It was a grave risk he took, walking to the
willa
’s camp with a white woman in his arms, but he had no choice. Bowing his back, he lifted her to nestle against him.

Her hair was wet against his chest, but he liked the smell of it, fresh and clean like the creek.

"Mr. Indian, I assure you, I can walk on my own." The softness of her voice belied the stiff words.

He ignored her, flicking his head to toss his hair over his shoulder.

And then she touched him, spread her small white fingers across his chest. He felt her imprint like a tattoo.

"You needn’t..." She broke off her words as her gaze halted on his mouth.

He stopped breathing.

She took her hand from his chest and lifted it with the stealth of a wildcat. Her fingertips brushed his lower lip, tracing it with fire, then came to rest lightly on his cheek. Before he could utter a sound, she leaned forward, so close he could feel her breath upon his mouth. Then she closed her eyes and pressed her lips to his.

He couldn’t move. He couldn’t speak. It was that thing, that rite that made Towani sigh with joy. His lips tingled where Mati touched him, and he felt a bolt of current stab through his body like lightning, straight to that place where desire resided. It was wondrous and powerful and terrifying all at once. He wanted to answer her with his mouth, to breathe her breath, to drink her like manzanita cider.

But she suddenly broke off from him, blushing and shielding her eyes with her lashes, and he was left with the gnawing hunger of the bear awakening from his winter sleep.

He was silent all the way back, but his thoughts chattered on. Over and over they told him he must forget Mati. He must forget her serpentine eyes and her tawny hair and her delicate hands. But most of all, he must forget her soft lips and the way they’d almost sucked his soul from him.

She, too, was quiet, and he couldn’t guess her thoughts, but their journey through the woods would be over soon. Then he’d no longer trouble himself with her.
Akina.
It was over. He’d saved the white woman’s life. The bad
kokoni
would not return. Now Towani would be safe. The Konkow would be safe.

"Look. Someone’s at my—“

It was all Sakote allowed her to say. With one hand, he buried her face against his chest, muffling her voice, and froze, staring at the figure on her doorstep. Mati struggled in his confining embrace until he hissed at her for quiet.

Through the meager veil of pine branches, Sakote studied the visitor at Mati’s house. He had curly hair the color of dead wood and skin as red as salmon. The man had no flowers, but his arms were full of tins, and Sakote knew the tins were full of things to eat. More courting. He curled his lip. How easy it was for the white man to bring her food. He didn’t have to perform the hunting dance or make his own bow and arrows. He didn’t have to pray for the animal’s spirit or give thanks to Wonomi. He didn’t have to hide in the brush all morning and cut meat all afternoon.

Mati pushed up from his chest with a frustrated shove and a harsh whisper. “What’s the matter with you?" She followed his gaze. "You’re afraid of him?"

He shot a glare of disdain at her. Afraid? How could he be afraid? The man on her doorstep couldn’t even hunt his own food.

And yet, in a sense, she was right. He was terrified of the white man. Of what the
willa
brought to the land of the Konkow. Not just the disease that had killed his father and half of his tribe, but of his relentless hunt for gold and his love of strong drink. And of what he would do to Sakote if he caught him with a white woman.

Mati slid from his embrace like a seed slipping from its hull, leaving him empty and cold. She straightened her skirts, shook her hair back from her shoulders, and looked up at him with eyes as clear as the summer sky.

"Wait here," she breathed. "I’ll be back."

He let her go. Even though his heart grew heavier with each step she took away from him. Even though the same light that brightened the man’s face when he caught sight of Mati cast a shadow over Sakote’s spirit. Even though he knew he wouldn’t be waiting when she returned.

Getting rid of Ned Buttram was no easy chore. He’d brought her supplies, after all. Though his motives may have been selfish, Mattie couldn’t very well turn him away, especially when he began to go on at length about his dead wife. The self-involved man didn’t seem to notice her damp hair, her cracked forehead, her bandaged hand, or her ripped hem, apparently distracted by his own determination to prove his suitability as a suitor.

When he finally got to the crux of his conversation—whether Mattie would allow him to call on her—she was beside herself with anxiety, her thoughts a thousand miles away. Would the Indian still be waiting for her? Would he come inside her cabin? Would he have supper with her? Would he stay the n-...

"That is, if you don’t mind, ma’am."

Mattie shook herself from her daydreams. "Mind?"

"If you don’t mind me comin’ to call." He rolled the brim of his doffed hat in his fingers and pursed his lips, awaiting her reply.

"Um, well, to be perfectly candid, Mr. Buttram," Mattie said uncomfortably, racking her brain for some plausible excuse, "I’m still, well, my husband only recently...er..."

"Well, you say no more, ma’am," he replied, taking her hand and patting the back of it in a fatherly manner. "I can see you’re still aggrieved about Doc Jim. Just put it right out of your mind then." He blinked sympathetically and turned to go. Then, glancing at the half dozen tins he left behind, he thought better of his investment. "You prob’ly better bear in mind, though, ma’am, bad weather’s not far off. In the gold fields, there ain’t much time for nothin’, not grievin’ or marryin’ or gettin’ braced for winter."

Guilt washed over Mattie like rain. "Mr. Buttram, I’d like to pay you for the food you’ve brought."

He snorted. "I won’t hear of it, ma’am. It’s the least I can do for a purty lady."

Mattie stifled a chuckle. She’d never been called "purty" before, and at the moment, she couldn’t deserve the compliment less. "Then let me give you something in return," she offered. "Would you like your portrait sketched?"

He beamed, and after a little hemming and hawing, was convinced to take her up on her offer.

She whipped out her sketchbook, sharpened a pencil, and proceeded to render the fastest, most careless drawing of a person she’d ever done. Ned didn’t know the difference. He was, in his own words, as pleased as punch, and she managed to get him out her front door in a matter of minutes.

Mattie was disappointed, but not surprised to discover the Indian had left. The day had grown late. He probably had to return to his village before dark. Still, she wished he’d waited for her. She wanted to look at him once more, to speak with him. She gazed up at the plum-colored sky and wrapped her arms about her. Lord, she wanted to kiss him again.