Wind Song (12 page)

"I can't discuss this any further." Her host grimaced and ran his fingers through his hair. The hardness left his eyes and was replaced by a look of regret. "I didn't mean to be rude in any way. I know that you're trying to help."

Not sure how to answer him, she accepted his apology with a quick nod. "I am trying to help and you're right, I had no business interfering."

He held her gaze for a moment before he stood and reached for his straw hat. "Please accept my apologies for having to leave you. Matthew and I have work to do."

Taking his cue, Matthew stuffed the last of his flapjacks into his mouth and grabbed his own straw hat.

His father waited at the door until Matthew had scooted past him and raced outside. "Feel free to stay here until you're able to find more suitable accommodations."

"That's most generous of you," she said. "But I couldn't impose."

"You wouldn't be imposing. In any case, it doesn't look like you have any choice in the matter." He placed his hat on his head, pulled the brim low on his forehead, ducked his head beneath the doorjamb, and walked outside.

Maddie wasn't certain how she felt about staying with the Tylers. She treated herself to another cup of coffee and considered every possible option. The idea of pitching her tipi near the Colton site was even less appealing than it had been when she first conceived of the idea. After crossing that prairie at night, she had no desire to pitch a tent on empty land, with no neighbors in sight.

She wasn't even certain if staying with the Tylers was an option; her being a respectable schoolteacher and all and him being an eligible man. Not that anything could ever develop between them. He was far too serious-minded for her taste, and he probably considered her too frivolous for his.

This probably explained why he didn't want her to get close to Matthew. He no doubt thought her a bad influence; in that regard, he wouldn't be alone. But of all the parents objecting to her unorthodox ways, Mr. Tyler's decision was the most puzzling.

He knew very little about her, had no knowledge of her teaching abilities. So what was he judging her by? Appearances? Or was there some other reason for his objection? A reason that had nothing to do with her?

Grateful to have the house, such as it was, to herself, she finished her coffee and washed up the breakfast dishes. It was the least she could do to show her appreciation.

She gave the table a good scrubbing and cried out when a splinter sank into the side of her palm. Grimacing, she squeezed the sliver of wood out and wrapped her hand in a flour sack.

By the time the bleeding stopped, the table was already covered with a fine layer of dirt that had sifted down from the ceiling.

The table, with its uneven legs, and rough surface, was a curiosity compared to the rest of the fine-crafted furnishings. She recalled the beautiful table in the barn and wondered why it hadn't been brought in and put to use.

She walked around the room, studying the ceiling. Lordy be, what a strange dwelling this was. She wondered what her mother would say if she knew her daughter was a guest in a house with dirt walls, a dirt floor, and one inadequate window.

It was exceedingly hot by the time she stepped outside. She stood by the motionless windmill and scanned the surrounding area in hopes of finding shade for her tipi. Not a tree or as much as a bush grew anywhere in sight. With no hope for shade, she decided to choose her location based on other criteria.

Safety, for one. She made a wide circle around the tiny sod house, eyeing the distance and estimating the length of time it would take to dash inside should a buffalo, Indian, or snake show its unwelcome face.

She decided it was better not to take chances. For this reason, she decided to pitch her tipi as close to the soddy as possible, without being too obvious, of course.

She wondered if five feet was enough space to leave between Mr. Tyler's house and the tipi. Much closer and he might get the wrong idea. A sudden vision of his bronzed chest came to mind. Shaking the thought away, she decided that ten feet was close enough.

She pulled the tipi off the back of the wagon and unrolled the gleaming white cover that was made of several buffalo hides and wrapped around twenty wooden poles.

She held a pole in each hand and looked for a clue as to how they could possibly fit together. Undaunted, she unfolded the skins, and stood several of the poles on end to form a triangle. This left at least a dozen more poles and she had no idea what to do with them. It also posed another problem: how to lash the poles together.

Pitching the tipi was turning out to be more difficult than she anticipated.

So simple that a child could put it up
. Indeed! If she ever got her hands on that drummer, she would make him eat every one of those words.

Frustrated, she tossed the poles to the ground and was startled by the sound of laughter behind her.

Whirling about, she was horrified to discover an audience of no less than three scantily dressed Indians watching her from atop white-spotted ponies. Her alarm soon gave way to indignation upon realizing that she was the object of their mirth.

Not knowing what else to do, she decided to ignore them. She turned around and continued to work her way through the confusion of lodgepoles and bleached buffalo hides. The laughter grew louder.

Let them laugh, she fumed. See if she cared. But despite her cavalier appearance, she kept a wary eye on her unwanted guests and almost stopped breathing when the three Indians dismounted and approached.

Cursing herself for leaving her gun in the wagon, which was still parked behind the barn, she straightened and willed her fast-beating heart to stay put.

The tallest of the three Indians spoke in his native tongue. She had no idea what he was saying, but just in case he was issuing instructions to scalp her, she glared at him and shook her head vigorously. She sincerely hoped that wagging one's head from side to side held the same meaning for the Indians as it did for her.

The tall one raised a hand as if to halt the others. She felt slightly encouraged, if not altogether relieved. If she could so readily make them understand how thoroughly she detested the idea of being scalped, who knew what other meanings she could convey?

A second Indian spoke. The scar that ran down the side of his face gave him a menacing look, though he didn't sound particularly threatening.

He pointed to the tipi, then stabbed his finger to his chest. Studying him intently, she tried to think of every conceivable thing he might be saying. Maybe he wants the tipi for himself, she thought. If so, it might not be prudent to deny his request.

Tentatively, she nodded, hoping she wasn't inadvertently giving him permission to help himself to more than just the tipi.

The scar-face Indian picked up a pole, and his two companions followed his example. The tall Indian pulled a piece of rawhide from his waist and lashed the three poles together, making a tripod.

The tips of the remaining poles were arranged against the tripod, the opposite ends forming a wide circle. Maddie watched in amazement as the top of the impressive framework rose skyward, standing high above the prairie and dwarfing the little sod house.

The three Indians took turns weaving a length of rope in and out of each pole until the frame of the tipi was secured. Once the rope was in place, it was pulled tight.

The buffalo canvas was heaved upward with the help of a lifting pole, dropped into place on the frame, then unrolled until the two ends met between the door poles.

She pointed to the flap of the door, which she wanted to face in the direction of the soddy for maximum security. But the Indian shook his head and waved his hand sideways. He pointed to the door, then extended his finger toward the east.

Using his same motions, she pointed to the flap, then to the soddy. If she was able to understand his intent to make the door face east, then certainly she should be able to make him understand that she wanted the door to open toward the soddy.

It was obvious that he understood what she was saying, but he wasn't in any mooed to give in to her wishes.

He shook his head and spoke in a harsh voice that left no doubt as to which one of them held the upper hand. The flap would face the direction he said it would face!

She stepped back. Why he cared which direction her door faced, she couldn't imagine. Still, she wasn't about to argue with him. She decided it might be wise to allow the three men to continue their work unimpeded.

The tipi, outlined against the flat prairie and the clear blue sky, was an impressive sight. When the Indians had completed the task, Maddie did her best with gestures and smiles to convey her appreciation.

Laughing among themselves, the Indians mounted their ponies and rode off.

Maddie watched them until they were out of sight, then walked inside her tipi. It was light inside and surprisingly spacious. At least she didn't have to worry about the ceiling falling down every time she raised her voice above a whisper.

It wasn't the sort of home she'd imagined when she accepted the teaching post in Kansas. But it would do until she was able to obtain more suitable accommodations.

She set to work making the tipi more homelike. She found an empty wooden crate in the barn that would serve double duty as a cupboard and table. She drove the wagon as close to the tipi as she could manage, so she wouldn't have far to drag her trunk.

It was wile she was searching the barn for more empty crates and other discarded items that might be useful that the baby cradle once again caught her attention. The polished wood of the headboard felt smooth beneath her fingers. She knelt down to examine the intricate designs carved into each rung.

On impulse, she reached for a rag on the workbench and dusted off the sides. The mattress was covered by a quilted baby blanket. She gathered it up and shook it outside until it was free of dust.

Tiny water marks like raindrops marred the blanket. She glanced upward and searched the ceiling for holes in the roof. But not a single speck of sunlight filtered through the sod-covered roof.

Tears, she wondered? Is that what had caused the pearl-sized watermarks? But whose tears? Luke Tyler's? It was hard to imagine. The man seemed so rugged and strong, his broad shoulders capable of supporting weight that would break most men's backs. But he did have an air of sadness, despite his strength. Could these really be Luke's tears?

Feeling that she was intruding on something personal, she drew away from the cradle and, as she did, backed into the table.

She ran her finger across its edge, exposing a small area. Noting the lovely grain, she wiped her rag across the wood until the layer of fine dirt had been brushed away. What a beautiful table. It seemed like such a waste for a sturdy piece of furniture like this not to be put into service.

Her hand still throbbing from the splinter, she set to work rubbing the cloth over the table and chairs.

It took a lot of energy and much persistence to drag the old table out of the house and replace it with the new one. By the time she'd carried each chair and set it in place, rivers of perspiration rolled down her face and back.

She felt hot and irritable, but no less pleased with the results of her efforts. She could hardly wait to see the surprise on Mr. Tyler's face when he saw the difference the table made to the otherwise dreary room. If only there was a way to prevent the dirt from falling onto the smooth surface.

She stood looking up at the ceiling, her hands at her waist. Suddenly an idea occurred to her. Forgetting the heat, she dashed back outside to her tipi.

Chapter 10

Luke looked up from his plow. The red globe of the sun hovered just above the horizon. He decided to finish the row he was plowing and call it a day.

The buffalo stampede two nights earlier had trampled the soil and exposed what few seeds he'd managed to plant since the fire to the perilously hot rays of the sun. This latest episode was one of many such disasters that had befallen him in the four years he'd been farming this land, and the second time this spring that he'd been forced to start anew and replant.

Since he had come to Kansas, his crops had been ruined in turn by droughts, floods, fires, and, once, by a great sweeping cloud of grasshoppers. Some said the land could never be farmed. It was known as the wastelands. More than one discouraged farmer had called it the Great American Desert.