White Owl (24 page)

He removed the black headband from around his head and tucked it into his pack. He twisted his long hair into a tight rope and pulled it up on top of his head. He had an old tan floppy-brimmed hat in his bag that he had taken from a raid on a homestead by Cripple Creek last year, and he arranged the hat down low on his head over his thick hair.

He pulled out his bear coat and put it on over his buckskin outfit. Bears were sacred to his
people, so he hoped the coat would bring him luck today. It was his hope that from a distance he would look less like an Indian and more like a trapper or a mountain man, since he knew they were fond of wearing their fur coats year-round to show off their killing skills. But most of all, he hoped that he would be able to reach Wild Rose without encountering anyone who would question him.

Under the cover of darkness, White Owl carefully made his way through the quiet streets. He saw only a couple men from a distance, and they paid him no attention. Finding the Platte River, however, was not as easy. From the time that he had spent here as a child, he vaguely remembered the river. His days back then had been spent learning to read, write, and speak the white man’s language or studying their religion and customs. The rich family he had stayed with was more concerned about saving the soul of a heathen and the belief that they would be rewarded in the white man’s heaven for this great deed than allowing him to explore the area.

He kept stopping to listen for the sound of running water, but his ears could not detect anything other than the unfamiliar sounds of the city, which for this late hour seemed strange to him. For the remainder of the night, he wandered down the streets and alleys without finding the river. The sun was beginning to peek over the distant horizon when he came upon the river unexpectedly.

He couldn’t believe he had not found it sooner, because it cut a wide path right through the middle of the city. The spring runoff from melting snow in the higher mountains had turned the deep waters a dark brown. He paused along its muddy banks and debated which way to go—upstream or downstream? He decided to head down. It felt as though he had already been paddling against the current for the past several months.

The light of the rising sun, however, was making him more than a little nervous. Even with his disguise, he could not chance wandering around in the broad daylight. Before the massacre at the White River Agency, his presence in the city would have drawn mild curiosity, but now, he would probably be shot on the spot. He stayed as close to the river as possible and tried to walk at a leisurely pace so as not to attract too much attention. The houses along the river were similar in size and structure, but it was not until he spotted the little red schoolhouse that he realized his desperate quest was about to come to an end.

Beside the school, in the same fenced area, was a small, white two-story house. The windows were trimmed in the same red paint as the exterior planks of the schoolhouse. White Owl was reminded of Wild Rose’s vibrant red hair and its sweet, fresh scent. He was reveling in the idea of those memories soon becoming a reality when the front door of the house suddenly swung open. The only thing that he could do was stand as still as possible and hope that the woman who exited
the house would not pay attention to him, because he was standing almost directly in front of the house.

She was another redhead, but her hair was more of a blonde shade than Wild Rose’s fiery hue. She was undoubtedly Wild Rose’s aunt. The resemblance was striking even from a distance. At this early morning hour, the spring temperature was cold, and the woman pulled her woolen shawl tightly around her shoulders and hurried toward the schoolhouse. Once she was on the front stoop, she took a key out of the pocket of her calico dress and unlocked the door. She disappeared inside the red building.

White Owl waited until the door slammed shut at the schoolhouse before entering the front gate of the white picket fence. He stood at the front door and breathed deep. Rose was so close now that he was overwhelmed by the thought of seeing her again. Gulping hard, he reached up and knocked on the door—softly the first time, then harder a second time.

The door had an oval window of etched glass, but a white lace curtain covered the window. Through the lacy veil, however, he could see her walking toward him. Her hair was loose around her shoulders, the way he loved it. She was wearing a long white nightdress, and a heavy blue knitted shawl was draped around her shoulders. He sucked in his breath.

As she neared the door, her footsteps slowed and then came to a stop. She remained rooted to
the spot, staring back at him through the lace of the white curtain. White Owl knew she recognized him, even in his ridiculous outfit.

He could only wait for a few seconds before he had to grab the doorknob . . . thankfully it was not locked. He pushed the door open and looked into those eyes—eyes the color of the summer sky, and the loneliness and heartbreak of the past few months were wiped completely out of his mind.

He stepped over the threshold, but she did not move. Her mouth was open and her eyes wide as if she could not believe he was real. She clutched the shawl in front of her long flowing gown. A smile began to turn up her lips.

“You found me,” she said in a voice filled with awe. She stepped a little closer and gazed up into his eyes.

White Owl smiled back. “I was prepared to go to Ireland to find you.”

A confused look filtered through her face. “Ireland?” she whispered.

White Owl couldn’t stand being this far away any longer. He closed the door behind him and crossed the short distance to where she stood. “They said you went to Ireland because you wanted to get far away from me.” He reached out and with a trembling finger touched the side of her smooth cheek. She was not a dream. He saw tears filling the rims her eyes.

“They lied,” she said quietly. “I have been counting the days until I could return to you.” She touched his face as if she needed reassurance that
he was real, too. “Then how did you know to find me here?”

White Owl breathed in the delicious scent of her hair before he answered her. “Donavan,” he said.

A poignant smile came over her soft pink lips as she continued to touch his cheek, his nose, his mouth, his chin.

Her touch was like a curing tonic. He felt the hole in his gut beginning to heal. He encircled her waist and pulled her up to him. She did not resist, and the feel of her in his arms made him complete once more. He breathed in the scent of her hair again, and then leaned down to kiss those pink lips. But as his head bent and his eyes closed, he felt a strange presence. His eyes flew open and looked at her face. In anticipation of the kiss, her lids were closed and her mouth pursed and ready. “Wild Rose?”

Her eyes flew open, and her brows drew together quizzically.

White Owl leaned back and looked down at her midsection, where he had just felt the hard little ball that he knew hadn’t been there the last time he had seen her. His mouth opened, but no words came out. He looked back up at her face. She was smiling at him as she grabbed one of his hands and placed it on her swollen stomach.

“Your child is excited to meet his father. Feel how he kicks with happiness.”

The feel of little thumps against his palm made his legs grow weak, and the awe of realizing that
she was carrying his baby was a joy he could not even find the words to describe. He looked at her again. Her radiance illuminated her beautiful face. In the long winter months he had spent alone in the cave at Vermillion Basin dreaming of the day that he would see her again, he had never once imagined that their meeting could be so wondrous.

The realization that she had already been with child when they had been torn apart only increased his hatred of her father. He could only be grateful that they had found each other before the birth of the child, or else White Owl had no doubt that he would have made Paddy Adair regret the day he had ever come between him and his Wild Rose.

“Are you happy about the baby, White Owl?” Rose asked after his long silence. A worried expression had replaced her smile.

“I-I cannot even begin to put my happiness into words. If we had not been together when this child is born—”

Rose placed her finger against his mouth. “But we will be, so let’s just remember the love that created this miracle and concentrate on our future.”

“The rest of our lives begins today.” He placed his hand against her stomach again. A tender grin touched his lips, and he was overcome with emotion again at the realization that he was going to be a father. He pulled his wife close and claimed that much-awaited kiss.

Rose’s lips responded to his kiss with an unquenchable thirst; they had been deprived for far too long. She reached up and shoved the floppy hat from his head, releasing his hair from its hold. As the long mass tumbled free she immersed her fingers in its long abundance. She pressed against him with all her strength, fearful that if she let go, he might disappear from her life again.

Much to her dismay, breathing became a necessity, and they were finally forced to part. “I love you, White Owl. And my love grows more with every breath I take.”

“And I will love you, my Wild Rose, until I take my dying breath.” A teasing smile curved his lips as he pulled back and touched her stomach again, adding, “And I can see how your love for me grows.”

Rose felt a blush heat her cheeks. The baby kicked again, and she could see by the way White Owl’s eyes widened that he had felt it, too. “Your son is obviously as excited as I am.”

White Owl’s eyes narrow slightly. “I feel the kick of my daughter, because I can already tell that she is as feisty as her mother.”

Rose laughed at his comment. She had not felt this kind of carefree happiness for so long. “I see that we have different opinions about this child. I know without a doubt that it is a boy.”

He raised one dark brow up and shook his head. “No, she has the kick of a girl. I know these things.”

Rose rolled her eyes and leaned forward again
to revel in his nearness. She laid the side of her face against his broad chest and felt him burrow his face in her hair. Everything was right in their world again . . . or for this moment, at least.

“Where are you taking me now?” White Owl asked as Wild Rose pulled him up from the chair he was sitting in. She had already sat him down at the kitchen table and fed him eggs, flapjacks and sausage until he was so stuffed he could barely move. He was glad that he didn’t eat white man’s food all the time, or he would be as fat as a cow.

He had not been able to take his eyes off her as she moved around the kitchen preparing the morning meal. She had always been the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, but carrying their child had only added to her loveliness. Her brilliant red hair seemed even thicker now as it tumbled down her back in heavy waves, and her face looked smooth and radiant. But it was the small rounded bump in her midsection that kept drawing his attention. There was a tiny child inside of her—his child—and this realization filled him with an equal amount of pride and pain. He could not help worrying about what kind of life he would be able to provide for this child and his wife during such times of turmoil. But he was determined that
nothing else would matter as long as they were all together, and he was never letting her out of his sight again.

Wild Rose laughed as they headed down the long hallway past the kitchen. “You look like you need a bath, and my Aunt Maggie has an exceptionally large copper tub.”

White Owl remembered the white man’s bathtubs from his youth. They had never been as good as bathing in the river, but the thought of the thick muddy waters of the Platte River did not seem very welcoming. Besides, if his Wild Rose was with him, he could make do in a bathtub for one time.

They were in the small washroom now, and he couldn’t miss the enormous tub sitting in the center of the room. There was barely enough space to walk around the tub.

“That is a horse’s trough, not a tub,” he said.

Wild Rose’s lyrical laugh rang out again. “My aunt said this was her one big indulgence.”

“It is big,” White Owl agreed. “Speaking of your aunt, should I be worried about her returning and finding me here?”

“She knows all about you and about my plan to go back to you after the baby was born,” Rose explained. “She understands, but she will not be back until lunchtime.” She turned loose of his hand and grabbed a water bucket. “I’ll start getting the water heated.” She glanced at him, adding, “You can get out of those dirty clothes.”

White Owl’s thoughts were filled with her
words—she had been planning to come back to him. How had he thought for one instant that she had run off to Ireland to get away from him? He told himself that he would never dwell on that thought again as he returned his attention to the present.

Glancing down at himself, White Owl realized he was a sight, and not a good one, at that. The last thing he had been worried about when he was traveling here to find his woman was his clothes. His buckskin shirt and pants were covered with grime and stains, and even his fringed knee-high moccasins were black with mud stains. He was sure his hair and face weren’t much cleaner, and he undoubtedly smelled like a horse. No wonder she wanted him to take a bath before she spent too much more time in his presence.