Taboo Love in the West Part 1: A Heart Off-Limits (Wild West Adventures in Love Book 3) (3 page)

“And what do you think about my father’s idea?” Eliza asked Amitola gently. This young woman continuously surprised him. White people he had had experience with, to date, had not ever considered what he or his people really thought or wanted, and here she was ensuring the plan had his approval before she endorsed her father’s excitement. Reverend Gillespie, despite his wisdom, lived in the hope of a world where everyone could get along and live together amicably. While it was a wonderful goal, it wasn’t a realistic dream. He was pleased to see that despite her obvious kindness, Eliza was not so idealistic. She had a strong steak of pragmatism that tempered his excesses. It showed strength of mind and an intellect that was most intriguing to him. What a remarkable young woman
–
one he hoped he would be able to get to know better.

“Honestly, Miss Gillespie, I am not entirely sure what I think or what my people will. I agree with your father that we need a school on the reservation. If we are ever to be able to join this new world that you are bringing here to our old world we will need to be able to speak your language and know the things that you know. It can only help us if we can learn to work together in time.” Eliza nodded as he spoke, and he felt that his slightly more tempered words had resonated with her and with her father. “But, though we wish to find a way to integrate, we also need to be given the respect and rights to follow our own faiths and beliefs if we choose – and that is the concern I have, Reverend Gillespie.” He had expected the minister to be hurt by his candour, but was pleased to see he understood. He was nodding sagely, and in total accord.

“I can understand that. I do obviously have incredible faith that Christianity would bring so much joy and happiness to your people, Amitola, but I am not arrogant enough that I will try and force it upon you. I have made a point of not trying to build a ministry at the reservation, as you know, and have welcomed those who wish to be part of a Christian communion to join us here in Chapel. Eliza is the teacher, not me. I do not have the patience she does. She has been working as a governess for some time and ran our Sunday schools from a very young age. She is not as evangelical as I and will focus on what people need to know – their letters, how to read, write and how to speak our language.” His words convinced Amitola once more of what he already knew
–
that Reverend Gillespie was an uncommonly humble man for his times and understood what many of his contemporaries failed to
–
that faith comes to a man when he is ready and cannot be forced upon him, that when you take away a man’s lands, and try to strip him of his heritage and birthrights, that there are some things that are just too sacred to him to rip them up and make him abandon those, too.

“Then in that case I will act as your advocate for the school with the Council of Elders when we next meet Reverend Gillespie. I will do my best to encourage them to accept your generous and beneficial offer of a school. I will not promise that everyone will be as forward thinking as you and I, but I will present the idea with the utmost care to try to give it the best chance of coming into being. Now, I must get back to my own people and my work. Good day to you, Sir. A pleasure to meet you, Miss Gillespie.” He bowed his head respectfully and walked confidently from the chapel.

Chapter Three

Eliza was partly amused and partly highly impressed by her first encounter with a real Sioux warrior, but she couldn’t help but think that in the way her father was unusual amongst men of her own people, that Amitola was as unusual amongst his own tribe. His tolerance and desire to foster links with the town was admirable and so clearly what the region needed, but she hoped that it wouldn’t cause him any issues going forward. From what she had heard, the Sioux were no less accepting of their new neighbours than her kind were of the warrior tribes. She also hated to admit that she couldn’t help but notice what a fine figure of a man he was, and she found herself blushing even now at some of the thoughts that she had struggled to keep disguised during their brief encounter. He really was such a pleasure to look upon. It was the first time she had ever seen a man with a naked chest, and it had been surprisingly more attractive than she had been led to believe. The interplay of light and shade created by the firm muscles and the ripples that flowed across his pectorals as they flexed and jiggled with each movement he made had been quite deliciously enticing. She had expected from overhearing acquaintances talk about their husbands and their hairy backs and chests, that men’s bodies really weren’t that pleasing to the eye. Yet Amitola was possessed of nut-brown skin as smooth as silk, and all that thick, long and perfectly straight black hair that flowed past his waist would have had many a woman jealous. He was rather beautiful in a savage and unexpected way. All those sinewy muscles and the dark as night eyes that made you feel that you were the only person in the world when he looked at you were intoxicating. She didn’t realise, being an innocent in the ways of men, that she had just experienced her first fluttering of desire, but she certainly looked forward to seeing him again and being able to gaze upon his strong muscles and fine features to her heart’s content, as long as she could remember to disguise her curiosity well enough!

Her father had been chattering away at her for some time, and she came back to reality with a bump as suddenly the exhaustion she had been holding off for so long finally hit her with a bang. Nobody was made to deal with so much excitement all at once. She collapsed down onto the pew that Amitola had so recently left. It was still slightly warm from where he had sat so quietly and patiently waiting to speak with her father, and there was a slight sheen on the wood from his sweat. She felt a little shiver go through her as she thought about something so intimate as his sweat being on her hands and clothing, but strangely it didn’t feel as distasteful as she would have expected such a thing to be. She certainly would have been disgusted by even the thought of it, let alone the reality of such a thing when she was back in Boston – clearly the west was already changing her. Her father suddenly stopped talking, realising that she wasn’t following him as he had rambled on through his proud tour of his pulpit and the small altar. “Oh my child, I am so sorry. All of this can wait until tomorrow, or even later. We must get you home to bed and get you rested. I must take care of you after your long journey. I need you strong and healthy and ready to work,“ he said with a warm smile and a gentle squeeze of her arm. He helped her to rise and gently bustled her off to the small manse next door, where a smartly dressed young woman opened the door.

“Reverend Gillespie, Miss Gillespie I presume? Your bags are already unpacked, young Chett dropped them off earlier, Miss,” she said solemnly, bobbing a half curtsey as she did so.

“Thank you. You must be Alice. Father has been singing your praises. I am particularly looking forward to your stew. Father adores it!” She had clearly said the right thing, because the young girl flushed with pleasure at her words.

“Alice, could you please help Eliza upstairs and take her up some lemonade or some iced tea to refresh her. She is quite fatigued from her long journey, and is most definitely in need of your tender, loving care.”

“Of course, Sir, quite understandable,” she said, then turned to Eliza with a big grin on her face and began to head up the stairs. “Please, come with me, Miss. I will show you to your room. I remember my journey here. I was completely petrified the whole way for fear of Indian attack!” Eliza followed the now effusive girl up the wide staircase and into a room that was bright and a little sparse. What was there created an elegantly furnished room that she was very pleased she would be able to call her own. All of the linens were a bright and very clean white. Clearly Alice took a lot of pride in her laundry. Eliza felt strangely jealous of her. Here she had been taking excellent care of her father, while Eliza had been all alone in Boston. The relationship between the two was obviously close, and she suddenly felt almost superfluous to requirements. But, Alice was a servant, and Eliza was most definitely a beloved daughter. She need not fear how much love her father bestowed on anybody else; there would always be enough for her. She put her thoughts down to her exhaustion and decided it was best not to dwell on them.

“They do look fearsome when en masse,” Eliza admitted, glad that there was something that she and this woman could find to share in common. “What are the local tribes like?” she asked, her meeting with Amitola still fresh in her mind and her curiosity piqued. She wanted to know more about him, but felt that would be a difficult question to broach with anybody without them misconstruing her interest. She tried to convince herself it was purely academic and then realised that there would be no confusion; her interest was purely personal, and that simply would not be proper. She would need to remember to bite her lip and not give it away just how attractive she had found the clever and intriguing Amitola.

“Not many of them come into town, Miss, but those that do seem decent enough, though their English is poor and they obviously aren’t dressed right. It is very difficult to know where to look when you come near one in the summer months,” she giggled, clearly she rather enjoyed seeing the bare skin of their neighbours too, even if she found it a little disconcerting. “It’s easier in winter; they cover up a bit more, wear trousers and tunics. But they leave their hair loose all the time. Isn’t it glorious? I wish mine were more like it!” Alice had unwittingly tuned in on some of her own thoughts, but she didn’t want to have Amitola’s hair. She wanted to run her fingers through it, exactly where it already was. Alice seemed to not notice her blush again, busy as she was bustling around her, turning down the bed and laying out a nightgown ready for Eliza to sink into. “The women seem very quiet when they come into town, but that could just be that they don’t know the language that well. They are beautiful and their needlework is spectacular, I just often think they could maybe make a bit more of their clothes. They seem so shapeless – unlike your fine fashions, Miss,” the young girl continued, oblivious to anything but her tasks and her words. She was clearly envious of Eliza’s gowns, having unpacked her things, and it made her want to laugh out loud, knowing that her dresses, skirts and blouses had all been picked apart and re-sewn more times than she cared to remember. But, it made her thankful yet again that she had learned her mother’s skill to make much from nothing.

“I made them all myself, Alice,” she said quietly. “I can teach you how to make your own if you would like. Every one of them has been a different style at least three times!”

“Oh yes, Miss. That would be wonderful if you would,” she gushed excitedly and was glowing with happiness when she left the room, over the moon that within a few weeks that she may have a beautiful gown to wear for church on Sundays, with no cost but her own handiwork. Eliza undressed quickly and had never been so grateful to feel the sensations of the crisp, lightly starched cotton of her nightgown as she pulled it over her tired and aching limbs. She crawled under the covers of the comfortable iron framed bed and felt she had discovered the source of all God’s bliss here on earth as she sank into a deep and peaceful sleep for the first time in months.

The lodge was quiet, and Chief Iron Nation was glad of it. He was getting older and trying to manage the factions within his own small part of the
oyate
, let alone trying to represent them when he took his place amongst the Great Sioux Council of Elders from the other tribes was more tiring with each passing day. There was so much discontent since the treaty had been signed, and in his heart he wished that they had been in the position to have kept on fighting to keep their lands and their identities intact – but he was a pragmatic man and had been able to look at the bigger picture. He felt that the reservations were the only way his people had a chance to maintain their culture in some way, but to so many that had been perceived as weakness and a defeat at the hands of the White Man. But he had wanted to ensure there were some of his people left and had known that the White Man would have had no qualms about massacring each and every one of them if it suited their purpose. They were a people who lived by the values of greed and acquisition, so there would be no stopping them from trampling over everything good to achieve their aims. He saw the death of his kind as the real defeat, and so he had been instrumental in convincing so many others to sign and accept this terrible compromise – but at least it was something and they could still maintain some pride in their history and traditions. Nobody would be able to carry those on if they were all dead. Chief Iron Nation had been a leader for longer than many men spent in this world, and he knew his time to walk with his ancestors was drawing near. He was ready to stand down, to let a younger man take his place, to tackle the new challenges that reservation living would entail, to find ways to keep their culture alive and vivid moving forward. He was tired of the endless fighting, bickering and strain of leadership. It was time and he needed no vision quest to tell him so, though he would have liked to be able to spare the time to undertake one to be certain. Maybe he would be able to commune with his ancestors one last time before he joined them once he took his leave of the leadership role.

“You need to slow down a little, Chief,” a rich and laughter-filled voice came out of the darkness. The old man’s heart lifted as he recognised it and realised that while there were men such as Amitola among the
oyate
their way of life and their heritage would be safe. He smiled at the approaching figure of the son he wished was truly his own.

“I know, my son. Amitola, it is good to see you,” he said as the younger man he hoped would take his place when he stood down crossed the lodge to join him. “So much to do, and so many are hurting.” They embraced warmly – theirs was a relationship built through hardships and trials for their people, and for them both personally. Chief Iron Nation was the father figure Amitola had never known, having lost his own parents in the battle the White Men called the Little Bighorn. He was proud of his parents for fighting for what they had believed was right, but found it sad that since that final battle there had been continuing encroachments on their territories, and too many lives lost on both sides as the lines were drawn to segregate the two peoples. Chief Iron Nation had outlived his wives and had lost his sons and daughters in the many battles over the years. Amitola had become his ward, and though he had felt unwelcomed by his adopted siblings, the older man had always treated him as if he truly was a part of his own family and had mourned their losses alongside him. He was as proud of how the younger man had turned out as he would have been of his own true heir.

“I have news from Reverend Gillespie,” Amitola said excitedly. He could barely hide his enthusiasm, and the exuberance made Iron Nation smile. It wasn’t often that he saw the serious and thoughtful man so caught up in passion for something. “His daughter has arrived and will be setting up a school in the town. As you know, he had hoped that our people could attend if they wished, but it would appear there are as many divisions in the town as we have here. However, he has suggested that they also set up a school here on the reservation. I think it a wonderful idea, but as Chief it would of course be down to you and the advice of the Elder Council. Just think what it could mean to all of us.”

“It is a good idea,” he said gravely. There was a nagging doubt that the mention of a daughter had something to do with Amitola’s fire for this school, but hoped he knew his adopted son well enough that this would not become an issue. He knew better than to get involved with one of their women. Trying to block out the thoughts that crowded his mind so painfully with dangerous outcomes, he genuinely could see the benefit of a school, but was unsure how others might perceive it. He did not want anyone to feel that they were being offered charity from the White Man, and he wasn’t completely convinced that there would not be danger to a young woman from the more unruly and still angry members of the
oyate.
“Do you think that can we guarantee their safety when they are here?” Chief Iron Nation was saddened that he even had to ask the question, especially as it crushed the excitement from the younger man’s eyes. He could see that Amitola hadn’t even considered the safety issue, and this was so unlike him not to think things through fully. Iron Nation could see that he was kicking himself for being so blind. He watched as the realisation dawned on the younger man that the question was really the key to the entire success or failure of such a vital resource coming to them. He wished that he or Amitola could answer from a place of certainty that Eliza would be safe here, that her school could be a place where the
oyate
could leave politics behind and just accept it for what it was – a wonderful resource that would help to improve their lives, but he could see as the shadows crossed the younger mans eyes that he shared his fears now too.

Finally Amitola spoke. “I don’t know. I think that many would be easier that it is a woman coming, but I wonder if some of them may try to return to old habits and see her as fair game to kidnap and abuse. But I can only hope that wouldn’t be the case. She seems very young and kind. I think she could win hearts if she has time to build those relationships, and many of our
tiyospaye
at least hold Reverend Gillespie in some level of esteem.” Amitola was clearly finding it hard to keep his admiration for the courageous young woman who had braved the journey west completely alone from his voice. The change in his expression and the tone of his voice as he spoke was not lost on Chief Iron Nation. He sent a small prayer up that close proximity with one of their women, whom he clearly had such strong feelings for already, wouldn’t end in disaster for Amitola.