Reckless Heart (11 page)

I saw the struggle in Pa’s eyes as his hatred and distrust of Shadow and all Indians crumbled beneath his love and concern for me. Shadow had once remarked that he thought Pa would see me dead before he’d let me run off with an Indian, and I had agreed. But we were both wrong, for Pa pulled me to my feet and said, gruffly, “Go with him, Hannah.”

“I can’t leave you, Pa!” I protested. “I won’t!”

“You’ve got to go, Hannah. Shadow’s right. We haven’t got a snowball’s chance in hell of getting out of here alive. Now go on, get out of here while you can.”

“Pa!” I sobbed, throwing my arms around his neck.

“There’s no time for tears, Hannah,” he said sadly. His big, work-worn hands patted my back. “No time for long goodbyes. Give me a kiss now, like a good girl.”

His cheek was cool beneath my trembling lips, rough with the stubble of a day’s growth of beard.

“She’s coming out, Shadow,” Pa called gruffly.

And then, with gentle determination, my father pushed me out the door.

“I will take good care of her, Kincaid,” Shadow promised.

“Thanks,” Pa murmured.

Blinded by my tears, I stumbled out into the yard. I heard Pa close the door behind me, and the sound was like a death knell in my ears.

I would have fallen then but for Shadow. Wordlessly, he grabbed me by the arm, steered me to where Red Wind stood patiently, helped me mount—and I hated him! I hated him because my Mother and David were dead. Hated him because my father and the others were going to be killed, and he couldn’t do anything about it. Hated him because he was an Indian.

And even as I hated him, I loved him.

With ease, he swung up behind me and walked Red Wind out of the stockade. I could feel his arm tighten around me as we approached the gates, and I realized he was not as calm as he looked.

Glancing over my shoulder, I saw the Indians watching us. A few of the warriors were stroking their rifles, and I knew suddenly why Shadow was so tense. I could almost feel their anger and hatred as he carried me out of harm’s way. I knew it would only take one small, hostile move to ignite that hate into action.

I was holding my breath when we cleared the stockade gates and reached the cover of the trees outside.

We had gone only a short distance when he reined Red Wind to a halt. Dismounting, Shadow retrieved his weapons—bow, arrows, knife, and rifle—from behind a large boulder.

He was swinging aboard Red Wind when the first gunshot sounded behind us, quickly followed by a heavy barrage of rifle fire as the Indians renewed their attack against the trading post. Sensing my distress, Shadow put the stallion into a gallop and held him there until the sound of gunfire was no longer discernable above the quick tattoo of Red Wind’s pounding hooves. We were across the river and well into the trees on the other side before Shadow reined the lathered stallion to an easy canter.

We rode without saying a word, with only the sound of hoofbeats and the whisper of the rising wind to break the awkward silence between us. I shed bitter tears for the loss of my family, glad that I had not looked at Mother’s body, glad that I would always remember my parents as they had been in life and not in the still, eerie pose of death. I remembered the sweet patience of my dear mother as she taught me to read and write, remembered her serene beauty as she knelt at my bedside while I dutifully recited my childhood prayers. And Pa… Like all little girls, I had once planned to marry my father when I grew up. I’d thought him the most perfect, wonderful man in the whole world, and he had never done anything to tarnish that image.

At dusk, Shadow reined the stallion to a halt in a fragrant grove of juniper that grew along a shallow underground spring. Dismounting, he spread his buffalo robe on the ground and gazed at me speculatively as I slid from Red Wind’s back and dropped onto the blanket.

“I am sorry, Hannah,” he murmured compassionately. And kneeling before me, he held out his arms.

I knew then that I had a decision to make. Shadow had promised my father to take care of me, and I knew he would keep his word. I also knew that if I asked, Shadow would take me to Steel’s Crossing. Pa had friends there who would take me in.

I stared hard at Shadow. He had not moved a muscle. He still knelt before me, arms outstretched, face impassive, and for the first time since I had fallen in love with him, I saw him not just as a man but as an Indian. The hideous red paint on his face, the eagle feather in his long black hair, the wolfskin clout that covered his loins—all bespoke Cheyenne blood, Cheyenne ways.

How could I spend the rest of my life with this man, this stranger? How could I ever forget that he was Indian, and that it was an Indian who had killed my mother, an Indian who might even now be taking my father’s scalp?

I thought of John Sanders, of Florence, and Kathy. I thought of all the people in our little valley who were now dead because of Indian hatred and Indian vengeance.

I gazed deep into Shadow’s eyes, but I saw nothing there—no trace of love to persuade me—and I knew this was a decision I had to make entirely on my own. Only Shadow’s outstretched arms betrayed his inner feelings.

For endless seconds, I did not move. My parents were dead, killed by Indians. My friends, everyone I had ever known, had been killed by Indians, and hate for the whole red race churned in my breast. But wrestling with that hatred was my love for Shadow, for love him I did. And I knew that no matter what happened, my love would remain unchanged. Our people might turn the sun-kissed grassland red with blood in their efforts to slaughter each other, but I knew our love for each other would survive.

With a sigh, I went into Shadow’s waiting arms, and he held me close while I cried again, deep, racking sobs that tore at my throat and scalded my eyes. And yet, even as I wept, I felt a curious sense of warmth and peace steal over me, a wondrous feeling of contentment that permeated my soul whenever Shadow took me in his arms.

I cried until I was empty inside and Shadow held me all the while, lovingly stroking my hair and comforting me with his gentle touch and reassuring presence.

That night there were no words spoken between us, no promises of undying devotion and loyalty. There was only the silent communication of Shadow’s heart speaking to mine, and mine answering. And from that night on Shadow was not an Indian, and I was not white. We were simply a man and woman desperately in love.

Chapter Ten

1876

When I awakened, it was morning, and I was alone. Frightened, I sprang to my feet, only to go weak with relief when I saw Red Wind grazing peacefully nearby. A warrior might desert his woman, I mused drily, but never his prized war horse. Shadow would be back, I thought, and then he was striding toward me, a young deer slung over his shoulder.

“Breakfast,” he remarked as he began skinning the buck. “When we reach the Cheyenne, you will have to do the skinning and the butchering and the cooking,” he reminded me.

“I remember,” I said. “A warrior never does squaw work when there’s a woman nearby.”

“Right,” Shadow said, grinning. “I am only making an exception this time because I am too hungry to wait while you butcher the meat. As I recall, you usually did it with your eyes closed.”

“I’ll get better,” I promised. And all at once I realized what I was saying. And where we were going. I could not help but feel apprehensive at the thought of living with Indians. Sitting there, watching Shadow skin the deer, I was suddenly filled with doubts. What if my mother had been right? What if Shadow’s people would not accept me? Much as I loved Shadow, I had no desire to live as an outcast among alien people, scorned and mocked because I was the enemy.

“How far is it to the Cheyenne?” I asked tremulously.

“Three or four days from here. Do not worry, Hannah,” he said, reading my mind as he always did. “My people will welcome you as warmly as your mother once welcomed me. And they will love you because I do, if for no other reason.”

It was the first time he had ever said he loved me. The words filled my heart with a warm glow, and all my doubts vanished as I threw my arms around him.

Laughing softly, he put me away from him long enough to wash the blood from his hands and arms, and then he drew me back into his embrace and kissed me.

How was it possible for one kiss to arouse me so completely? Shamelessly, I removed his buckskin shirt, boldly running my hands over his broad shoulders and chest.

Shadow stretched out on the ground, pulling me down beside him. He grinned with pleasure as my hands roamed over his flesh. I laughed aloud as a sudden telltale bulge appeared beneath his loincloth. When he reached for me, I scrambled to my feet.

Still laughing, I ran away from him, anticipating the thrill of the chase and the joy of surrender. But when I looked over my shoulder, Shadow was still stretched out on the grass, arms folded behind his head.

Pouting, I walked toward him, stopping out of reach of his long arms.

“Come here, woman,” he called softly. “I have something to show you.”

“No.”

Shadow’s eyes danced merrily. “You have started something,” he mused, glancing at the bulge swelling under his clout, “and now you must finish it.”

“Then you come to me.”

“Hannah.”

Smiling seductively, I began to undress, until I stood naked before him. The sun was warm on my skin, but not as hot as the desire in Shadow’s eyes.

With a wordless cry, he bounded to his feet, grabbed me around the waist and fell to the ground, carrying me with him.

We wrestled playfully beneath the bright blue sky, and then, like wild things, we made love there in the tall grass. I rejoiced in Shadow’s touch, purring like a kitten as his powerful hands gently stroked my eager flesh. I murmured his name as our two bodies became one, and we soared high above the earth in heavenly ecstasy, everything else forgotten in the magic of our love.

It was much later, after a quick breakfast of venison and berries, that we broke camp. While I smothered the fire, Shadow wrapped the remaining choice cuts of meat in the deer hide and draped it over Red Wind’s withers.

That done, he swung aboard the horse, sheathed his rifle, gave me a hand up, and we were on our way.

It was an eerie feeling, riding over the vast rolling plains, just the two of us. We might have been Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden, for the only other living creatures we saw were animals—buffalo and deer and once, far in the distance, a grizzly scratching itself against a tree. We never lacked for food or water, for Shadow knew every waterhole and was a skilled hunter with rifle or bow.

The morning of the fourth day I spied what appeared to be a long black snake undulating across the plains. As we drew nearer, I saw that it was a tribe of Indians on the move.

“The Tsi-tsi-tsis,” Shadow exclaimed, urging Red Wind into a lope.

Tsi-tsi-tsis, I had learned, meant “those related to us—our people”. The Dakotas called Shadow’s people the Sha-Ye-Nas, meaning people of alien speech. It was the Dakota name the whites picked up, pronouncing it Cheyenne.

An Indian village on the move was a colorful sight. The warriors rode at the head of the column. Dressed in their finest robes and feathers and mounted on their best ponies, they were a magnificently wild, proud, and fearsome sight.

Young braves dashed up and down the line, hanging precariously over the necks of their fleet ponies as they showed off for the maidens.

The pack animals and travois ponies came next, laden with camp gear, lodge covers and poles, blankets, cooking utensils, extra weapons, robes, dried meat and pemmican, and whatever else the Indians owned. Children and squaws walked among the animals, while the very young and the very old shared seats on the travois ponies.

And behind all this came the Indian pony herd, which must have numbered in the thousands, churning up great clouds of dust and noise as they squealed and kicked, lashing out at the dogs that ran barking and snapping between their legs.

I had never seen so many animals and Indians in one place at one time, and it was a sight I never forgot. They were a wild, free people, and I knew, intuitively, that they would never be happy tucked away on a reservation, that the Army would never subdue them without a fight.

I recognized Shadow’s father, Black Owl, riding at the head of the long, winding column. He was mounted on a flashy spotted stallion. Red Wind snorted and laid his ears back as Shadow drew rein alongside Black Owl’s mount, and for a taut moment I thought the two studs would fight, but soft commands from their riders brought both animals quickly under control.

Black Owl smiled fondly at Shadow, and they clasped hands. After exchanging a few words with his father, Shadow dropped back to where the women were, and the next thing I knew I was walking between Fawn and New Leaf, trying to choke back my indignation at being forced to walk while Shadow rode in comfort with the warriors.

I had much to learn!

That night I discovered that the squaws did not eat until after the warriors were satisfied, and that they were expected to keep silent if their husbands were entertaining guests. I also learned that the women always prepared more food than was necessary, and that it was considered an insult to refuse an invitation to sit down and eat.

Indeed, I learned a good many things in the days that followed, primarily that Shadow had told me the truth when he said the women did all the menial tasks. Menial tasks included gathering the wood, washing everything that needed washing, including his war horse, cooking, sewing, mending, erecting and dismantling the lodge, tanning hides, drawing water, raising the children, butchering the meat, and a dozen other, equally distasteful chores.

Though Shadow and I had not been formally wed according to Cheyenne custom, it was assumed that I was his woman. As such, I was expected to do all the things a squaw did for her man—which was practically everything! And what did the warriors do while the women were breaking their backs? Why, they spent their time parading around in their finest feathers, smoking, visiting, and gambling.

Daily, small hunting parties rode away from the main body of the caravan to locate meat for the tribe. It was the only work I saw the warriors do, and I wondered if the other women resented the apparently carefree life of the men as much as I did.

By the end of the second day, my feet were swollen and sore. New Leaf, Black Owl’s first wife, gave me a pair of her moccasins. They were ever so much easier to walk in than my own shoes, and so much more comfortable that I vowed then and there never to wear shoes again. Fawn was also generous. Seeing how awkward and cumbersome my long skirt and petticoats were, she gave me a lovely doeskin dress beaded and fringed in the manner of the Cheyenne. It, too, was a great improvement over what I was accustomed to wearing, though I felt somewhat naked without my petticoats and chemise.

Dressed in my new Indian garb, and with my long hair hanging in twin braids down my back, I began to feel as though I’d been born in a lodge myself!

Speaking of lodges, since Shadow and I had neither skins nor poles with which to make one of our own, we moved in with his father. Black Owl and his wives treated me with unfailing kindness and respect, and I soon grew to love them dearly. Black Owl’s wives were years apart in both age and temperament.

New Leaf was about forty, with a wide, expressive face and a tendency toward plumpness. I assumed she and Black Owl had been married for years and years and was surprised to learn they’d been married less than five years. In that time, she had borne him two sons. Both had died before they learned to walk. Her eyes were always sad, even when she smiled. New Leaf was quiet and soft-spoken, but she had a quick mind. Often, late at night when Fawn was asleep and the lodge quiet, I overheard Black Owl discussing tribal affairs with her.

Fawn was quite young, no more than sixteen or seventeen. Much too young, I thought, to be married to a man close to fifty! She had married Black Owl only a month ago and seemed quite pleased with her husband, even though she had to share him with New Leaf, which I thought was not only shocking but downright immoral. However, after I’d been with the Cheyenne awhile, I noticed several of the warriors had more than one wife. Plenty Beaver had three. Elk Dreamer, the decrepit old medicine man, had four!

Being close in age, Fawn and I soon became good friends. She was a changeable creature, her moods shifting rapidly from merriment to anger. I often saw Black Owl scowl at her, as if he were trying to decide whether to scold her or hug her. When Fawn and I were better acquainted, I asked her if she really liked being a second wife.

“Why should I not like it?” she asked. “Black Owl is a brave warrior and a good hunter. We always have meat in our lodge. And the work is not so hard when there are two to do it.”

Well, sharing the work seemed like a good idea—I hadn’t thought of that—but sharing your husband? I thought that was going too far, but of course I didn’t say so. After all, it was none of my business.

When I’d matured enough to put my prejudices aside, I realized there was nothing sordid about a warrior having two wives. It was, in fact, a practical solution to a major problem. Women far outnumbered the men, and a warrior often married an old squaw or a widow merely to provide her with food and shelter and protection.

Living five in a lodge offered very little privacy, and I was deeply touched when Shadow’s family purposefully stayed out of their home an hour or so each day so that Shadow and I might have some time alone. How I cherished those moments we shared under the buffalo robes—kissing and touching until I knew every inch of Shadow’s powerful, lean body as well as I knew my own. What joy, what bliss—to lie in his arms, to feel his mouth on mine, to know he loved me as I loved him.

As we traveled, I frequently caught one of the maidens staring at me. She was a lovely young thing, tall and slender, with thick black hair that fell to her waist and luminous black eyes. When I smiled at her, thinking perhaps she wanted to be friends, she scowled and turned away. Puzzled by her attitude, I asked Fawn who she was.

“Oh, that’s Bright Star,” Fawn said airily. “Two Hawks Flying used to play his flute outside her lodge. Everyone expected them to marry, but he suddenly lost interest in her and began spending much time away from the village.”

I felt my cheeks flush as Fawn threw me a knowing look. Mumbling some inane excuse, I dropped back to walk with New Leaf. I experienced a curious stab of jealousy as I thought of Shadow courting Bright Star. I wondered if she had invited him inside her blanket and if he had held her close.

Curious as to our destination, I asked New Leaf where we were going and learned that the Cheyenne were headed for the Rosebud River to join their Sioux allies led by Sitting Bull and Crazy Horse. We passed through miles and miles of beautiful country along the way, and I began to understand why the whites coveted this land, and why the Plains Indians were so determined to hold on to it. The grass was tall and thick, waving ahead of us in an endless sea. Scattered stands of timber bordered crystal clear rivers and cascading waterfalls. There were groves of cottonwoods and box elders, chokecherries and wild plums. Game abounded. We saw white-tail deer and antelope, bears, wolves, rabbits, foxes, coyotes, eagles, elks, hawks, and more. I marveled at a great herd of shaggy brown buffalo that covered the prairie like an enormous furry blanket. Shadow remarked, bitterly, that the really big herds were gone, slaughtered by the whites. He told me how, years ago, the northern herd had been so big it took a warrior three hours just to ride around it. I found that hard to believe, yet I could tell by his expression and tone of voice that he was telling me the truth, and I began to understand why the Indians hated the white man.