A Whisper In The Wind (13 page)

Chapter Twenty-Three

She woke to the sound of drums. For a moment she couldn’t remember where she was, and then, as the memory of the night before surfaced, she was flooded with shame. She had behaved abominably, surrendering herself to a man she didn’t love, didn’t even like!

She sat up, the ecstasy she had known forgotten in the cold light of day. She felt used, dirty. Her skin seemed tainted with his touch, her thighs were stained with blood. The sign of her lost virtue. It should have been a gift, lovingly given, to her husband.

She glanced around the lodge. Where was he? She refused to acknowledge the possibility that she might be missing him, that she wanted to feel his arms around her, reassuring her.

She frowned, remembering his passionate vow of love, spoken as she fell asleep. Had she dreamed it?
I
love you,
he had said.
God help me, I love you.

Had he meant it? And how did she feel about him, really?

Before she had time to examine her feelings, he was there. He wore only a clout, and her eyes were drawn to the broad, bare expanse of his chest and long, muscular legs. Speechless, she sat staring at him, her sleeping robe clutched to her breast to hide her nakedness.

“I’m going down to the river to bathe,” Michael said. “Will you join me?”

It was in her mind to refuse. Being alone with him was the last thing she wanted just now. But the thought of being clean again outweighed her reluctance to accompany him.

“I’d like that,” she said. “Just give me a minute to get dressed.”

They found a secluded place upriver, separating so they could each have privacy.

Elayna stood on the sandy bank for several minutes, reluctant to undress in the open with Michael so near. But the prospect of a bath overcame her modesty and she undressed and stepped into the cool water, clutching the hard chunk of yellow soap Michael had given her.

Michael washed quickly, not wanting to leave Elayna alone too long, the memory of Winter Song’s death still fresh in his mind.

On silent feet he made his way toward where Elayna was scrubbing herself. Seeing that she was still washing, he stood behind a tree, allowing her to bathe in private.

He didn’t mean to spy on her, but he couldn’t keep his gaze from straying in her direction, couldn’t help but marvel anew at the beauty of her, the perfect symmetry of face and figure. Her hair, freshly washed, gleamed a dark red, like an autumn leaf washed by the rain. Her skin was smooth and unblemished, clothed in sparkling drops of sun-kissed water.

Elayna was humming softly when she left the river, her mood much improved now that she was clean again.

Standing on the bank, she lifted her arms toward the sun, letting its heavenly warmth dry her skin and hair. She wondered how her father was getting along, and if Lance was still searching for her. The rain would have washed out her tracks, but surely he would not turn back. Not so soon.

Kneeling beside the river, she washed her dress and petticoat and chemise, and then her stockings. She wished fleetingly for a change of clothes, for a hairbrush, a towel to wrap herself in.

She whirled around, her hands covering her breasts, at the sound of footsteps.

It was Michael.

“Ready to go?” he asked.

“Hardly,” Elayna retorted. “Go away.”

“It’s not safe for you to be out here alone.”

“I don’t mind.”

“I do.”

Sensing her distress at being naked in front of him, he turned around, her image imprinted on his brain. She was beautiful, so beautiful. It took every ounce of willpower he possessed to keep his hands from reaching for her.

Elayna breathed a sigh of relief, glad to be out from under his watchful eye, then stood there, staring at his back. The scabs were a dark crusty brown now, and she wondered if his back still hurt. He had a beautiful back, she thought absently. It was a shame to scar such a work of art.

She shook her head, disgusted with the trend of her thoughts. He was nothing but a savage, a kidnapper, a despoiler of virgins. She refused to acknowledge that she had wanted his lovemaking. He was an Indian. No decent white woman would want such a man. He had taken her from her home and brought her here, to live with a bunch of heathens. He had destroyed her life. She would never forgive him. Never.

She pulled on her damp clothes, took up her shoes and stockings, and began to run downriver, away from the village, away from Michael.

She heard him call after her, heard the sound of his footsteps as he pursued her, and she was overcome with panic. She had to get away. She could not stay here. She could not live with these awful people. Or with him.

She ran faster, running wildly, blindly. She gasped as she cut her foot on a sharp stone, but still she ran, fear adding wings to her feet.

His footsteps were louder now, closer. He was going to catch her. And even then she felt his hand close around her arm. She tried to shake him off, but his grip was like iron as he pulled her to a halt. Caught off balance, she fell, dragging him with her.

Her struggles were futile and she found herself flat on her back, her hands imprisoned in his, while he straddled her hips. They were both breathing heavily. And both were angry.

“Why the hell did you run?” Michael demanded.

“To get away from you. I want to go home.”

“By yourself?” One black brow arched in amusement. “You think you could find your way home?”

“Yes,” she said defiantly.

He chuckled softly. “Liar.”

“I don’t care. Let me go!”

“No.”

She glared at him, trying to hate him, but his hands were warm where they held hers, his weight reminding her of the night past. It would be so much easier to hate him if he was ugly or mean, she thought helplessly, or if his touch didn’t excite her so.

She saw the desire rise in his eyes and she turned her head away, afraid he would see that she, too, was remembering the night they had shared. Remembering and wanting him again, like some cheap harlot.

Michael grinned, his mood suddenly light. She would come around, he mused. She could deny it all she liked, insist she hated him, but there was an attraction between them that could not be ignored.

“Let’s go back to camp,” he said, rising. “I’m hungry.”

“No.”

Michael shook his head. “Cheyenne women are obedient wives,” he said, reaching for her hand, and then he frowned. “What happened to your foot?”

“I cut it on a rock.” She pushed his hand away. “Leave me alone. I’ll fix it.”

“I’ll do it,” he said, his voice leaving no doubt in her mind. Lifting her into his arms, he carried her down to the river and washed the blood from her foot, his hands gentle and concerned. Tearing a strip from her petticoat, he wrapped it around her foot and tied off the ends.

“I won’t have any petticoat left if you keep ripping it into pieces,” Elayna complained.

“You’d be more comfortable in a tunic,” Michael said. “I’m sure Hemene has an extra one.”

“I’m not a savage and I don’t intend to dress like one,” Elayna retorted. “Put me down.”

“I’ll carry you back to camp. You shouldn’t put any weight on your foot.”

“I’m fine.”

“I said I’ll carry you back to camp,” Michael repeated firmly. “Am I going to have to argue with you about everything we do?”

“Probably.”

He laughed softly. She felt good in his arms. Her cheeks were flushed, her hair a riot of damp red curls, her mouth pouting and inviting. He gazed deep into her eyes, wondering how loudly she’d protest if he kissed her. Would she scream and holler if he laid her down in the soft grass and made love to her, or would she admit she wanted him as he wanted her?

He was looking for a place when a dozen shrieking boys came running toward them, their mock war cries filling the air.

Elayna grinned with relief. She had seen the look in Michael’s eyes and known what it meant. But they were too near the camp now. She looked up at him, her expression triumphant.

But Michael only looked at her and shrugged. “There’s always tonight,” he murmured. “Or today, after breakfast.”

Chapter Twenty-Four

To Michael’s chagrin, Elayna refused to accept the Cheyenne lifestyle. He didn’t ask anything of her the day she cut her foot, but the following morning when he returned from the river, he mentioned he was hungry.

“So eat,” she retorted with a shrug.

“I will, just as soon as you fix it.”

“I’m not hungry,” she lied.

“I am.”

“So eat!” she hollered. “Who’s stopping you?”

“Perhaps I should explain the way things work here,” Michael said. “You will do the cooking and the other domestic chores. You will prepare food when I’m hungry, bring me my pipe when I wish to smoke, and be polite to my guests, especially my family.”

“Will I?”

“You will,” Michael assured her. “You will fix my meals or you won’t eat. You’ll do as you’re told, or you’ll find yourself looking for another place to live. You may not think much of me or my lodge, but it’s the only shelter you’re likely to find, unless you want to play the whore for the single warriors in exchange for food and a place to sleep.”

He regretted the words as soon as they were out of his mouth. Elayna recoiled as if he’d slapped her, her eyes mirroring horror and disbelief at the images his words brought to mind.

Before she could form a reply, he stalked out of the lodge.

Elayna stared after Michael for several minutes and then, frustrated beyond words, she stamped her foot. It was a childish display of temper, but it made her feel better.

The day stretched before her. She nosed around the lodge, but there wasn’t much to see and nothing to eat but a strip of dried venison. She looked at it with distaste, but it was better than nothing.

When had time passed so slowly? She wondered what Michael was doing, and if he’d really meant the dreadful things he’d said. She wondered why he wouldn’t let her go, and if she really wanted to leave him. She could have loved him, she thought, if they’d met in another time and place, but there was no hope for them now. Their people were at war, their ways as far apart as the moon from the sun.

She let out a long sigh. She’d never been so bored in her life. If only she had a book to read, or something to occupy her hands.

Lifting the lodge flap, she peered outside. The camp was bustling with activity—women cooking, men gambling, children playing in the sun. They all looked busy and happy, she thought, and a wave of self-pity washed over her. Everybody had something to do, someone to talk to. Everybody but her.

She was in bed, feigning sleep, when Michael finally returned to the lodge.

She tried not to watch as he undressed, but she couldn’t seem to draw her gaze away, nor could she deny the powerful attraction she felt for him, even now when she was trying so hard to hate him.

She was still awake long after Michael had gone to sleep, more miserable than she’d ever been in her life.

A week passed, and they formed a truce of sorts. Elayna cooked and kept the lodge tidy, and Michael kept them supplied with meat, rabbits and deer and an occasional turkey.

They slept apart, denying the attraction between them, but Elayna heard every breath Michael took, knew when he rolled over, knew when he was watching her, his dark eyes alight with desire. And then, as if things weren’t bad enough, she began to dream about him, about his hands caressing her, his voice whispering her name. There was nothing to keep them apart in her dreams, no barriers, either real or imagined. In her dreams, Michael was a man, neither red nor white, and she was a woman, neither white nor red, and they made love boldly, passionately, satisfying the longing that plagued them both.

The constant frustration of being his prisoner combined with her troubled dreams made an explosion inevitable. It came on a cool, cloudy evening.

“I’m sick of venison,” Elayna snapped as Michael dropped a deer haunch at her feet. But the abundance of venison was the last thing on her mind. She felt trapped, caught between her yearning to go home and her forbidden desire for Michael.

“If you don’t like it, don’t eat it,” Michael retorted, unable to draw his gaze from her pouting pink lips, or the angry swell of her breasts.

“I want to go home.”

“No.”

“I’m lonely.”

“It’s your own fault. The women have tried to be friendly, but you refuse to go with them when they go for wood or water.” With that he turned and stalked from the lodge.

Elayna’s expression turned sullen. The women
had
tried to include her in their outings, though none of them spoke more than a word or two of English. Still, she would have liked to be a part of their group, but for one thing, she was afraid they’d laugh at her because she was ignorant of their ways and customs, afraid they’d ridicule her if she made a mistake. Better they should think her aloof than a fool. She felt so out of place here, so apart. Perhaps if Michael would spend more time with her, explain the customs of his people, but he rarely spoke to her.

When they had first arrived, he told her they were at the South Platte. The river was running low this time of year. Sand bars and islands rose in the midst of the shallow, muddy water. Sandhill cranes were plentiful here. Michael had told her the Indians believed the birds possessed strong protective powers. Their feathers were often used on war shields. Some warriors believed that if they imitated the cry of the sandhill crane during a battle, they would not be hit by an enemy arrow. She wondered if one of the bird’s feathers would protect her from Michael.

She stepped outside and glanced around the village. The Indian lodges stood in a great circle. The entrance of each lodge faced the rising sun. Most were decorated with moons or stars, with comets and bright yellow suns. The tops were blackened from the smoke of countless fires. On warm days the sides were rolled up so air could circulate through the lodge; in the winter grass was stuffed between the lodge cover and the inner liner for added protection from the cold and the wind.

The daily routine rarely changed. In the morning the women prepared breakfast while the men and young boys went to the river to bathe. It was a ritual observed both summer and winter by Cheyenne males, for they believed that bathing washed away sickness.

After breakfast, the men went hunting while the women gathered wood and water, cleaned the lodge, and looked after the children. The younger ones stayed close to their mothers while the older ones went to the river or into the tall grass near the camp. Many of the older boys spent long hours practicing with the bow and arrow, while the older girls learned to sew and quill.

Her gaze swept the camp, but there was no sign of Michael. Nearby she saw the old warrior who was the camp crier. He made his rounds on horseback each morning, always starting at the opening of the camp circle, which faced east, riding south, then west, then north. His announcements varied from day to day. This morning he had announced that the Dog Soldiers were having a dance, and that Red-Furred Bear had lost his turkey-tail fan.

Seeing some of the young men getting ready for the dance, she watched, amused, as they labored over their appearance, painstakingly plucking hairs from their faces, applying paint, braiding their long black hair. Sometimes they dressed in their finery in the middle of the day and rode through the camp so the people, especially the young, unmarried women, could admire them.

Then she saw Michael. He was walking with Yellow Spotted Wolf, and she noticed again how alike they were. The two men stopped to talk to Red-Furred Bear, and the sound of Michael’s laughter reached her ears.

And then he was looking at her, and the distance between them seemed to disappear. She felt the tension hum between them as his eyes met hers, felt her heart flutter as his gaze lingered on her lips, then slid over her breasts and hips. And then, with a grimace, he looked away.

She felt a keen sense of disappointment. He had been avoiding her, and she had no one to blame but herself. She tried to tell herself she didn’t care, that he was nothing to her but a godless savage, a ruthless man who had kidnapped her and carried her into the wilderness to live with a bunch of heathens, a man who had forced her to submit to his lust, but she knew it was a lie.

Michael had been kind to her. He had made love to her gently, tenderly, and she knew in her heart that he would have stopped if she had but said the word. He had tried to make her feel at home, had offered to teach her his language, but she had rebuffed him at every turn, often pretending to be unaware of his presence. But there was no way to ignore Michael Wolf. The lodge offered no privacy, and he seemed to have no qualms about dressing or undressing in front of her, nor could she seem to keep her gaze from straying in his direction, as it was now.

He was walking toward her and she felt her heart beat a little faster as he approached. He was so handsome. He wore only a brief wolfskin clout, the broad expanse of his chest drawing her gaze as a bee was drawn to a flower.

“There’s a dance tonight,” he said, his tone flat. “Do you want to go?”

She did, but some perverse demon took hold of her tongue, and she heard herself refusing him. He didn’t give her a chance to change her mind, simply turned on his heel and walked away.

He was angry with her, Elayna thought. Well, maybe it was for the best. Maybe now he would agree to take her home.

“She refused?” Yellow Spotted Wolf surmised from the look on Wolf’s face.

Michael nodded, wondering why he kept trying, wondering why he cared. He had encouraged her to socialize with the other women, to learn his language, to adopt the clothing of his people, but she had stubbornly refused, and after a while he had left her alone, knowing she would have to come to terms with her new environment in her own time and in her own way.

As for the tension between them, he was as aware of it as she was, perhaps more so. He knew that the strong sexual attraction between them could not be ignored forever, and he had the feeling that, once Elayna admitted she cared for him, everything would work out. He only hoped he could keep a tight rein on his emotions until then. He purposefully spent most of his time out of the lodge, away from the constant temptation to touch her, to hold her, to draw her down on the buffalo robes and bury himself in her sweetness whether she was willing or not.

“Wolf?”

He was aware that Yellow Spotted Wolf had asked him a question and was waiting for an answer.

“She has a strong hold on your heart, cousin,” Yellow Spotted Wolf remarked with a grin. “I will talk to you later, when your mind is not on your woman.”

Michael nodded and Yellow Spotted Wolf walked away, heading for a group of young men who were playing the hoop and pole game.

He glanced at his lodge. Elayna had gone inside, and he stared at the doorway, wondering if there would ever be a time when his mind wasn’t on Elayna. It was hard, staying away from her. During the day he spent long hours listening to the old men talk of ancient battles, of buffalo hunts and horse raids against their ancestral enemies, the Crow and the Pawnee.

He prayed each morning to the Great Spirit, praying that he might stay here, with the people he had grown to love, with Elayna, who was like a fire in his blood, a thirst he could not quench.

He spent much of his time with Yellow Spotted Wolf. It was hard, sometimes, to remember that the tall, good-looking young man was his great-grandfather. Yellow Spotted Wolf was an exceptional warrior. Though he was only sixteen, his expertise with bow and arrow and lance were unsurpassed. His horsemanship was superb, his courage already proven on a number of occasions. Many families hoped that he would take one of their daughters to wife when the time came, for Yellow Spotted Wolf seemed destined for greatness, like Sitting Bull and Crazy Horse. He had taken part in the Sun Dance, he had counted coup on a living enemy, he had taken the scalp of a Pawnee chief.

There had been many times when Michael had started to tell Yellow Spotted Wolf who he was, but somehow he could never find the right words, though he longed to share his secret with someone else. He tried to imagine what he would say if someone came to him, claiming to be from the future, and he knew he’d never believe it. Never. And so he kept putting it off until it no longer seemed important. He was here with Elayna, and that was all that mattered.

And so the balmy days of summer passed and Michael’s admiration for his great-grandfather grew, and with it his love and admiration for the Cheyenne people.

His people. They were warm and caring, generous and kind. There were no poor among them; widows were provided for, and good hunters shared their kill with those in need. And as his affection for his people grew, he knew an overwhelming sadness that their way of life would not last. Already the buffalo were decreasing in number because the whites were determined to hunt them to extinction. Settlers in ever-growing hordes were headed westward, drawn by the lure of fertile farmland and a better life. The railroad was leaving smoky tracks across the Great Plains, the Army was determined to subdue all the tribes, to move the Indians off their homeland to make way for the land-hungry whites.

But for now, for this one last summer, life was good.