Tales of Western Romance (11 page)

Eagle Woman looked at her husband
suspiciously, her hands fisted on her hips. “And who will care for
him until then?”

“
My obedient wife and daughter,” Elk
Hunter replied, ending the discussion.

Eagle Woman let out a sigh of resignation.
“Very well, my husband. Tie him up behind the lodge, then come
inside and eat. Winter Star, you will care for the
vehoe
after you have taken care of your father’s war horse.”

“
Hahoo, nakohe,
” Winter Star
agreed reluctantly.
Yes, my mother
.

After removing the blanket from her father’s
horse, Winter Star tethered the sturdy paint stallion alongside the
lodge where it could graze on the sparse grass that grew there.
Humming softly, she brushed the dirt from the animal’s coat; then
giving the horse a pat on the neck, she walked around the lodge to
look after the white man’s wounds.

It was unfair, she thought irritably. Her
friends were gathered outside Red Blossom’s lodge, flirting with
some of the young men, and she had to stay home and look after her
father’s prisoner!

Culhane groaned softly as he felt hands
probing his torn flesh. He tried to brush the annoying hands away,
but his arms were tightly bound behind his back.

Muttering an oath, he opened his eyes to find
a young woman bending over him. Culhane studied the woman as she
carefully peeled his shirt away from the blood dried around the
wound. She had large black eyes, a fine straight nose, high cheek
bones, a sensuous mouth, and long black hair. She was beautiful for
a savage, he mused, very beautiful indeed.

He gasped as she pressed a handful of damp
tree moss over the gaping wound in his side. She held it there
until the bleeding stopped and then, using a long strip of cloth
torn from his shirt-tail, she wrapped it over the moss and tied off
the ends.

“
Who are you?” Culhane asked, his voice
edged with pain. “What’s going to happen to me?”

The girl looked at him as if she didn’t
understand.

“
Water,” Culhane said distinctly. “Can
you bring me some water?” He swore softly as he tried to remember
the Cheyenne word for water.
“Na-mane-tano,”
he said, hoping
he was pronouncing it right. “Water.”

The girl lifted one delicate brow as he
attempted to speak her language, then rose gracefully to her feet
and walked away without a word.

* * * * *

Winter Star could not sleep that night. Every
time she closed her eyes, the face of the
vehoe
rose in her
mind. He was a handsome man, for a
vehoe
. He had a strong
square jaw, a nose that was not quite straight, a high forehead,
and dark brown hair. But it was the color of his eyes that
intrigued her. They were as gray as the sky before a
thunderstorm.

Killing and death were an integral part of
the life of the Cheyenne, yet she had never been able to look upon
the pain or suffering of others without feeling it herself. Man or
beast, friend or foe, she could not bear to see any living creature
suffer needlessly. Winter Star knew her mother worried about her
tender feelings. Life was difficult, often cruel, occasionally
brutal. The winters were often hard and unforgiving. Babies and old
ones easily succumbed to the harsh weather. Her mother believed it
was better to expose one’s self to pain and hardship early in life,
to expect the worse, and then be grateful if it didn’t happen.

But Winter Star could not build a wall around
her heart. She could not watch babies cry without crying herself.
She could not see women grieve for a lost husband or child or
parent and not feel their pain. She could not watch one of the
ancient ones willingly die of hunger so that another might live and
tell herself it was just a part of life.

And tonight she could not sleep, not while
the
vehoe
lay outside, hungry and hurting.

Rising, she drew a buffalo robe around her
shoulders. Taking up a waterskin and a thick slice of dried
venison, she tiptoed out of the lodge.

Riley Culhane woke at the sound of muffled
footsteps. Peering into the darkness, he saw the girl who had
bandaged his wound moving quietly toward him.

“
Did you come to make sure I’m still
here?” he asked with a rueful grin, even though it was obvious he
wasn’t going anywhere. His hands were lashed behind his back, his
ankles tied together, and the rope around his neck was secured to a
strong tree.

The girl did not answer as she knelt beside
him. Lifting the waterskin, she held it to his lips while he drank
deeply, quenching a thirst that plagued him relentlessly since he’d
been wounded.

“
Hahoo,”
he rasped. Thank
you.

Laying the waterskin aside, the girl tore off
a piece of dried meat and offered it to him.

I feel like the family pet,
Culhane
thought as he obediently opened his mouth.
Perhaps she’ll teach
me to sit up and beg.
He ate the venison, took another drink
when she offered it to him, draining the container.

Culhane eyed the girl warily as she placed a
hand on his brow. “No fever yet,” he told her, “but I’m cold as
hell.”

She stared at him for a long moment; then,
wordlessly, she removed the robe from her shoulders and draped it
around him. It was soft against his bare skin, still warm from the
heat of her body.

Winter Star rose to her feet. She gazed at
the white man for several moments, wondering where he learned to
speak her language, admiring the width of his shoulders as she
might have admired good conformation in a horse. But he was not a
horse, he was a man, a disturbingly handsome man with incredible
eyes - deep gray eyes filled with pain.

With a sigh, she turned away and left him
there, alone, in the dark.

* * * * *

In the morning, Winter Star hurried through
her chores. She did not stop to talk to the other maidens as she
knelt at the riverbank to fill her waterskin. She did not pause to
speak to Little Blue Girl as she headed into the forest to gather
wood.

As soon as she finished her chores, Winter
Star went behind the lodge to check on the white man.

The moment she saw him, she knew he was sick.
His eyes were closed, his skin pale, damp with perspiration. He did
not stir when she removed the bandage from his side. The wound was
swollen and ugly, streaked with red.

Brow puckered with worry, Winter Star drew
the robe over the white man and then went in search of her
grandfather, the tribal medicine man.

She found him sitting before his lodge, his
eyes closed, his head bowed. Reverently, she touched his shoulder.
“Namshim?”

Yellow Shield raised his head slowly. A warm
smile touched his lips as he saw his granddaughter standing before
him. “
Nish’a
, I am glad to see you. Come, sit here beside
me.”

“
Not now,
Namshim
. I need your
help.”

“
You have but to ask.”

“
I need a poultice for a bad
wound.”

“
Is my son hurt?” Yellow Shield asked
anxiously. “Why did you not tell me sooner?”

“
No,
Namshim
. It is not for my
father.”

The old man’s relief was clearly visible on
his weathered face. “Help me up, child,” he said, reaching for her
hand. “Who is the poultice for?”

Winter Star took hold of her grandfather’s
hand and helped him to his feet. He was not a terribly old man, but
a bullet fired by a French trapper years ago had shattered his
knee, making it hard for him to get around without help.

“
The poultice is for the
vehoe
my father brought home.”

Yellow Shield nodded. He had heard of the
white soldier-coat who killed three of their young men.

Winter Star helped her grandfather into his
lodge, waited as he rummaged around in one of his parfleches until
he found the herbs necessary for healing.

“
Mix this with warm water and a little
bear fat,” he instructed, handing her a small bag filled with
crushed herbs. “Spread the mixture over the wound then cover it
with a hot cloth. Do not touch it for one full day.”

“
Yes,
Namshim
. Thank
you.”

Returning to her own lodge, Winter Star mixed
the herbs as directed then went to the white man. He was tossing
restlessly, his head rolling from side to side.

Compassion filled Winter Star’s heart as she
lifted his shirt and spread the thick paste over the angry wound
before covering it with a cloth she had soaked in boiling water.
The man groaned low in his throat as the hot cloth touched his
inflamed flesh.

Winter Star sat beside the white man all that
morning, replacing the robe when he tossed it aside, wiping the
sweat from his brow with a cool cloth, spooning water into his
mouth. Observing that his wrists and ankles were red and swollen
from the constant chafing of the rawhide, she removed the thongs
binding him. His hands were big and brown and looked capable of
breaking her in half without any trouble. Yet she was not afraid of
him. With a shrug, she removed the noose from around his neck, as
well.

Delirious from the fever, the man mumbled
incoherently. She wondered what he was saying. Was he calling for a
loved one? Once, wracked with pain, he reached for Winter Star, his
big hand swallowing hers as a big fish might swallow a little one.
He clutched her hand tightly, his body rigid as the poultice sucked
the poison from the wound. A great shuddering sigh surged through
him and he began to shiver convulsively despite the heavy robe
covering him.

Taking her lower lip between her teeth,
Winter Star looked around to see if anyone was watching. Seeing no
one in sight, she slipped under the robe and drew him close.

His arms went around her and he pressed
himself against her, his long, lean body instinctively seeking the
warmth of hers. Almost immediately, his shivering stopped and his
breathing became slower and less labored.

Winter Star stared at him. She had not
expected the
vehoe
to cling to her, had not expected to find
herself so moved by his touch. He held her close, as a man might
hold the woman he loved, crushing her breasts against the hard wall
of his chest. One of his long legs flopped over hers, and she felt
her cheeks grow hot at such intimate contact with a man.

Pulling back a little, Winter Star studied
his face. This man was the enemy, yet she found him undeniably
attractive. His dark brown hair was as straight as her own. His
mouth was full and wide.

Slowly, she lifted her hand and ran her
fingertips over his lower lip. It was warm and firm. Quickly, she
jerked her hand away and slid out from under the buffalo robe,
frightened by the liquid heat which had suffused her from head to
toe when she touched him.

Shaken to the core of her being, she fled to
the river. Finding a secluded spot, she stripped off her doeskin
tunic and moccasins and plunged into the cold clear water. She swam
briskly for ten minutes, her mind closed to everything but the feel
of the chill water on her flushed skin, the sound of the breeze
sighing through the trees, the bright blue sky overhead.

Stepping from the river, she shook herself,
then stood in the sunlight, letting its warmth bake her dry. After
dressing, she stretched out on the downy grass and stared up at the
leaves of the trees overhead. With a sigh, she closed her eyes.
Instantly, the face of the white man appeared behind her closed
lids.

Grimacing, Winter Star opened her eyes and
sat up. Why did the
vehoe
haunt her so? What was there about
him that stirred her blood and made her think of things no maiden
should be thinking? Still, she was of an age to be married, and no
stranger to men.

Young Hawk was her most ardent suitor. He
played his flute outside her lodge on many a warm summer night,
brought presents to her father. Many times she and Young Hawk stood
close under the courting blanket. Sometimes they touched, their
hands and fingers exploring each other’s faces and arms, never
trespassing into those areas that were taboo.

But Young Hawk’s touch had never fired her
blood or her imagination as did that of the white man. Young Hawk
had never made her heart pound like that of a rabbit caught in a
trap. Yet the touch of the
vehoe
filled her with a strange
longing, a deep-seated yearning for more. Was there something wrong
with her? Some awful taint in her blood that made her heart cold
towards the men of her own tribe, yet caused her blood to flow like
warm honey at the touch of a man who was a stranger to her, an
enemy to her people?

Rising, she vowed never to see the white man
again. Yet when she returned to the village, her feet moved
steadily toward the rear of her lodge. He needed her. She could not
ignore him.

Drifting in a hazy world of pain and
darkness, Culhane was nevertheless aware of the young woman’s
presence. Reaching out, he sought her hand. Grasping it in his own,
he squeezed it tightly as a fresh wave of pain washed over him. His
grip tightened when she endeavored to pull free. He could not let
her go. She was his only solace in a maze of strange sights and
sounds, his only comfort in a foreign world of pain and shadow.

Winter Star looked after Culhane all that
day, feeding him warm broth, tending his personal needs, wiping the
perspiration from his body with cloths soaked in cool water,
holding his hand when the pain became unbearable.

Elk Hunter and Eagle Woman did not try to
dissuade their daughter from spending so much time with the white
man, nor did they chide her for being so concerned about the
prisoner’s welfare. It was in her nature to do so. Everyone in the
tribe knew of Winter Star’s tender heart and unfailing compassion.
It was a part of her, as natural to her as the color of her hair
and eyes. Many thought that one day she would be a powerful
medicine woman. Not only did she have great rapport with both man
and beast, but she had been endowed with her grandfather’s gift for
healing, as well.