Chieftain (Historical Romance) (15 page)

I
n the
anteroom of the officers’ mess six men awaited the hearing that had been called by Major Miles Courteen. Outside, an armed provost guard stood, carbine at the ready, in the cold morning air. No one was to be allowed in. No one was to be allowed out.

Five of the six men were seated at a long table.

The sixth man, Captain Daniel Wilde, paced back and forth before the table, muttering to himself. He knew the major to be unconscious with pneumonia. Damn to hell, how could such a sick man be coming here on this cold, snowy morning to conduct a hearing?

“You had better be damned sure—” Captain Wilde stopped pacing to caution Sergeant Sparks and the sentry, Private Henry “—that you have the details of last night’s escape ready to relate.”

Sergeant Sparks rose to his feet. Eyes bloodshot, uniform damp and scruffy, he’d been roused from his snowy slumber by the sergeant of the guards.

“Captain Wilde, sir, you are not going to believe what happened.” His eyes blinked at the hanging coal-oil lamp. “There we were, me and…”

The sentence
was never finished. There was a thunderous banging on the door. Sparks swallowed anxiously and pivoted about. The provost guard, carbine slung over his shoulder, yanked the door open wide and two white-clad hospital orderlies bore Major Miles Courteen into the room on a stretcher.

Captain Wilde grew nearly as pale as the sickly major. The hospital orderlies gingerly lifted Major Courteen from the stretcher to the head chair. The chair faced the long table and was near the warmth of a large potbellied stove. The orderlies draped a blanket over the major’s shoulders, another over his knees, then moved around to stand behind him.

The major, with visible effort, raised his right hand.

Upon this signal, the provost guard ushered in the company clerk. The clerk took a chair at the opposite end of the long table. He set out his tablets, pens and ink, and opened a large Hunter-case timepiece.

The provost guard shut and locked the door.

The major nodded to the company clerk.

The clerk rose. “This hearing in the matter of the Comanche Chief Shanaco is called to order at 0600 hours on this Saturday morning, the twentieth of November, in the year of our Lord 1875. Major Miles Courteen, ranking subordinate, presiding.”

A few feet from the major, an empty chair sat at an angle. Its occupant could easily face both the major and the men seated down the length of the table.

Clutching a blanket close around his thin shoulders, Major Courteen said, “Captain Wilde, this hearing to learn the facts regarding the events of the past thirty-six hours is now officially under way. Present your testimony in detail.”

Wilde
stood at parade rest, his hands clasped behind his back, and stated his account of exactly what had happened on the two nights in question. He recounted how the hysterical Lois Harkins had awakened him late Thursday night to tell him she had been brutally raped by the Comanche Chief Shanaco. He repeated what Lois had told him, that she had been feeling poorly and therefore had walked into the village.

She had gone into the general mercantile store and purchased a tin of pain tablets and left immediately. It was on her way home from the mercantile when Shanaco, drunk and mean, had seized her, taken her to his cabin, and there forcefully made her submit to his animal hungers.

Major Courteen glanced at the company clerk. The clerk nodded in the affirmative. He was getting it all down.

Captain Wilde continued as he told of his decision to imprison Shanaco for his crime. Finally he concluded, saying Sergeant Sparks would corroborate.

The major nodded to Sergeant Sparks. The sergeant rose, cleared his throat and stated that he and the others seated here had aided their superior in subduing and imprisoning the cruel rapist after the tragic turn of events that had left the commandant’s daughter badly injured and in severe physical and mental anguish.

“And you
were a party to lashing Shanaco to the flagpole last evening?” asked Major Courteen.

Again the sergeant anxiously cleared his throat, stated that he was, then quickly explained, “But we meant only to leave him out for a very short time because he demonstrated absolutely no repentance for his dastardly crime. I was going out to untie him myself when a swarm of rogue Comanches, silent as snakes they were, overpowered the sentry and me. There must have been at least a dozen of them.”

Private Henry leapt to his feet. “More like two dozen, sir.”

“Be seated, Private Henry, Sergeant Sparks,” said the major. Both men gratefully dropped back down into their seats. But when Wilde made as if to sit down, Major Courteen said, “Continue to stand, Captain Wilde.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Have you anything more to add to your statement?”

“Sir, I’ve told you in detail everything that transpired.”

“In that case, I have some questions.”

“Yes, sir.” Wilde was relieved.

“Did you—” Courteen’s voice lowered as he was racked with a painful cough “—inform the regimental surgeon?”

“No, sir.”

“Did you
report this crime to the provost martial?”

“No, sir.” Wilde kept eye contact with the major only through force of will. He longed to hang his head.

“Did you call for the sergeant of the guard?”

“No, sir.”

“Now, Captain Wilde,” said Major Courteen, visibly struggling for breath, “let me sum this up. You did not inform Doc Ledette, the regimental physician, of the rape.”

“Correct, sir.”

“You did not inform the provost martial.”

Wilde was squirming now. He longed to tell Major Courteen that Lois had begged him not to inform the surgeon or the provost martial. But he kept silent.

“Correct, sir.”

A long silence ensued.

Major Courteen coughed again, breaking the deadly silence. “And so with no medical proof of penetration and no forensic evidence in support, you served as judge, jury and executioner.”

Wilde longed to tell the major that Lois had made him swear he’d tell no one. But he kept his silence. He was already thought of as a fool. He refused to be known as a fool and a poltroon, hiding behind a woman’s skirts.

“Y-yes, sir.” Wilde’s voice quavered.

“And you had the temerity to turn out the troop in search of Shanaco?”

“Yes, sir.”

Again a
lengthy silence.

Major Courteen coughed. A drop of blood appeared at the corner of his mouth. With difficulty he turned his attention to the sergeant.

“Sergeant Sparks, you were following orders. You bear no responsibility in this and you are free to go.” The major waved his hand at the sergeant’s men. “The same applies to your troopers and to the sentry.”

His gaze returned to Daniel Wilde.

“Captain, you are confined to quarters indefinitely,” said Major Courteen.

The company clerk raised his journal.

The major nodded. “This hearing was held in greatest secrecy. The company clerk has prepared an oath of silence for each of you to sign.” More blood appeared at the corner of Courteen’s mouth. The white-clad hospital orderlies brought forth the stretcher and helped the major aboard.

“Company clerk, have the regimental surgeon and the provost martial meet me at the hospital as soon as possible.” He wheezed and clutched his chest, unable for a moment to continue.

At last he spoke, again addressing the company clerk. “When you are satisfied that the oath is signed and witnessed by all present, have the provost guard release the men.”

“Major,” an orderly pleaded.

“Get me to my sickbed,” the major ordered.

S
hanaco was
fascinated with Maggie. He had never known a woman who was as intelligent, resourceful and fearless. He saw Maggie Bankhead as a remarkably strong person who belonged to herself alone. She had no need for counsel with others before making a decision or taking a chance.

Only the independent Maggie would have dared slip out alone in the middle of a cold winter night, strike the night guard on the head, deal with the brute Sparks and drag a heavy, unconscious half-breed who’d been accused of rape back to her cottage.

Shanaco knew in his heart that anyone else—man or woman—would have been afraid of him. Not Maggie. He had
never
seen the slightest hint of fear in her expressive blue eyes when she looked at him.

Shanaco was both strongly drawn to Maggie and completely puzzled by her. She was so obviously female in everything she did and said and in the way she looked and moved. She was tall and slender and had a wealth of flaming red hair. She was a striking beauty with enormous blue eyes and flawless skin, but it was not just her fair good looks that enchanted him.

It was her
total unawareness of his enchantment.

As the hours passed and Shanaco and Maggie remained sequestered in her cottage, Shanaco was struck again and again by the force of her inherent sensuality. Maggie touched his maleness in a way that aroused him as no other woman ever had. Yet she was blissfully ignorant of it.

Shanaco became increasingly annoyed with himself.

Self-control had always been his long suit, but this unwitting young woman had robbed him of his customary composure. Each time she approached the bed he found himself tensing in expectation. When she laid soft hands on him, his heart hammered heavily in his chest.

Maggie never noticed.

Or so Shanaco thought.

Maggie changed his bandages and bathed his wounds with a manner as antiseptic as the alcohol she used, never realizing that her soft hands were spreading incredible heat.

Secretly she thrilled to the touch of smooth bronzed skin stretched tightly over muscle and bone.

“Did that hurt?” Maggie asked, feeling his body grow taut beneath her fingertips.

“No,” Shanaco managed, then held his breath as she pushed the covers down past his waist to examine a wound just above his left hipbone. She peeled the gauze back and smiled. “It’s looking so much better,” she said. “You no longer need a bandage here.”

Maggie
discarded the soiled gauze and cleaned the wound with the professionalism of a trained nurse. But she felt her face grow warm as she noted, with intense curiosity, the thick, well-defined line of coal-black hair running down Shanaco’s flat belly starting at his navel and disappearing beneath the blanket.

Shanaco would have been surprised to know that never for a second had Maggie forgotten he was naked. Or that she had seen him naked. All of him. Even that most intimate male part of him. And that she couldn’t forget how he looked. Or that each time she got close to him she felt his raw power encompassing her, drawing her to him, thrilling her. She was overwhelmed by his potent masculinity and longed to kiss away all his pain.

Ashamed of her wanton thoughts, Maggie took great pains to conceal her true feelings. She was determined not to reveal her growing attraction to this man who would all too soon be gone from the fort and out of her life forever. She would, she told herself, ignore the fact that he was virile and masculine and the most exciting man she had ever known.

But it was not Shanaco’s incredible good looks that touched her heart. He had been wronged, and she knew it was not the first time he had suffered because of his Indian blood. Yet she had never heard him complain about the unfairness of life. Never lamented being a loner of necessity. Never bared his soul; never demonstrated any self-pity.

He was self-reliant, highly intelligent, comfortable in his own skin, and perhaps more than a trifle cocky. She even liked his innate arrogance; liked the fact that he was strongly masculine and afraid of no one and nothing. She liked the way he walked down the streets as if he owned them, refusing to step aside when the troopers tried to crowd him off the sidewalks.

“Care to
sample some more of my special beef broth?” Maggie asked early on that cold Saturday evening.

“Do I have a choice?” Shanaco gently teased.

“You do not,” she said, and went about dishing up a hot steaming bowl. Ignoring his statement that he could feed himself, she placed a tray across his lap, sat down on the bed facing him and ladled the broth to his split lips.

“How is it?” she asked after he had slowly swallowed a half-dozen spoonsful.

“Delicious,” he said, trying not to make a face.

“Liar,” she accused, and they both laughed. Then she said, “Tomorrow you can have solid food. Tonight, it’s this or nothing.”

Shanaco manfully finished the bowl of broth and drank down a cup of hot tea. Maggie took the tray away, then returned to the bed and asked, “Think you can sleep now?”

“Soon. Sit here with me awhile, please.” Maggie nodded and started to pull up the straight-back chair, but he stopped her. “No, here on the bed,” he said as he gingerly moved over to make room for her and patted the mattress.

Maggie
shrugged, kicked off her slippers, climbed up onto the bed and seated herself cross-legged beside him, tucking her long skirts modestly around her feet.

“Just for a few minutes.”

A few minutes stretched into more than an hour. Maggie did most of the talking. She told Shanaco about her students and how she loved them and what a pleasure it was to teach them. She admitted that little Bright Feather was her favorite. She was passionate in declaring that Indians had to speak English in the world that awaited them. She then talked of her home in the Tidewater country of Virginia and of her family and friends.

Shanaco listened and smiled and longed to reach out and encircle a slender ankle that she’d carelessly exposed. That impulse must have shown on his face, because Maggie abruptly shoved her skirts down.

“I’ve gone on and on about myself,” she said. “Now tell me about you.”

“What would you like to hear?”

Maggie smiled. “Anything. Anything at all. Your favorite color. The season of the year you like most. Where you’ll go when you leave the fort. Whatever you’d like to tell me.”

Shanaco smiled, too. “The first thing I’d like you to know is that nothing, and I do mean nothing, happened between Lois Harkins and me.”

Maggie’s well-arched brows shot up and a slight smirk twisted her lips. “Nothing? You consider it nothing to…?”

“Lois
came to my cottage uninvited,” he interrupted. “I was naked when she walked in the door.” Maggie screwed up her face. “I had just stepped out of a bath.”

“Did you cover yourself?” Maggie blurted out. Ignoring her question, he said, “She asked me to make love to her. I refused and she promised she would get even.” Shanaco paused, waiting for Maggie to speak. She remained silent, her brows furrowed, eyes flashing. Shanaco continued, “Obviously she went straight to Captain Wilde and accused me of raping her. You know the rest.”

“But you didn’t…you never…?”

“No, Maggie. If I had, none of this would have happened.”

Thinking aloud, Maggie murmured, “I’m so glad you didn’t make love to her.”

“Why?”

“Time you got some sleep,” Maggie announced, and jumped down off the bed.

“What about you? Where will you sleep?” he asked.

“On the horsehide sofa.”

“Let me sleep on the horsehide sofa.”

“No. This is my house and I make the rules.”

Shanaco smiled, sighed deeply and fell instantly to sleep.

Outside, the
snow continued falling through the long winter night. Maggie slept on the sofa, or tried to sleep on the sofa. It wasn’t that she was terribly uncomfortable there, it was the fact that Shanaco was in bed not thirty feet away. His nearness kept her wide-eyed and restless.

More than once during the night she got up, stole across the room and looked down at Shanaco. She reasoned that she was doing it for his benefit. He was in her care and she needed to check periodically to make sure he was resting. And that his fever hadn’t returned.

Each time she tiptoed close, she could hear her heart beating in her ears. Terrified he would wake up and catch her looming over him, Maggie stayed only a few seconds at his bedside. But every time she looked at him it was harder to turn and walk away. His midnight hair was fanned out on the snowy white pillow. His handsome face and bare shoulders were tinted a reddish orange from the flames of the dying fire in the grate.

It was during one of those moments that Maggie realized the elusive thing she had so often yearned for was now right here in her house, in her bed, in her heart.

Maggie turned and rushed anxiously back to the sofa. She lay awake for a long, long time. She was a fool. She was as silly as Lois Harkins. Didn’t have a brain in her head. But at least she had enough sense to keep her weakness to herself. Wild horses couldn’t pull it out of her. She would never let Shanaco know that she…

Maggie
awakened Sunday morning, then stretched, sighed, sat up and peeked across the room.

And laughed.

Shanaco was wide-awake and half sitting up in bed. He had found a length of her hair ribbon on the night table and had tied back his loose raven hair.

Maggie grabbed her robe, slipped it on and hurried to build up the fire. When it was blazing brightly, she turned and approached the bed.

“Good morning,” she said, and hoped her guilty thoughts didn’t show on her face.

“It is now,” he replied in a low, well-modulated voice. Maggie felt her knees go weak.

“Let’s hope it will be a good day all day,” she said.

It was a good day.

While the storm raged outside and the troopers continued to search for the half-breed who had raped poor Lois Harkins, Shanaco and Maggie were safely ensconced inside her warm, cozy cottage. No one came by to question the respected reservation teacher.

For Maggie and Shanaco it was a long, lazy, pleasant day. Maggie fussed over Shanaco, bathed his wounds, fed him, read to him and skillfully drew him out, asking questions in a casual, diplomatic manner.

Soon he was speaking fondly of his brave Comanche chieftain father, Naco, and his beautiful white captive mother, Sky Eyes. He said they had been happily married and faithful to each other until death.

He told
Maggie that his father had been just nineteen when he led a daring raid down into Wise County, Texas. Outside a farmhouse near the settlement of Decatur, he had caught sight of a pretty young girl with flaxen hair in an orchard picking peaches. He pulled the girl up onto his horse and carried her back to Palo Duro Canyon. Then he patiently waited until she turned eighteen to marry her—and during that time they had fallen in love.

Maggie listened, fascinated, as he talked of his life in the canyon, of his parents, of his grandfather. There were so many things she wanted to ask. When had his parents died? How had they died?

But when he paused, she couldn’t help herself; the question she asked was “And you, Shanaco? Do you have a Comanche wife?”

Shanaco just grinned wickedly and said, “I’m starving, Maggie. Have any more of that delicious beef broth?”

“Something even better,” she said.

“What could possibly be better?” he said with a smile and a wink that dramatically softened his features.

“Ham and mashed potatoes?”

“My mouth is already watering.”

Less than forty-eight hours after bringing him to her cottage, Maggie could tell that Shanaco was feeling much better. And she knew that he was enjoying her company, just as she was enjoying his.

The weak
winter sun was sinking on that bitter cold Sunday evening as Maggie sat on the bed feeding her patient small bites of cured ham and oversalted potatoes.

Grateful to her, Shanaco was thanking her for all she had done as she fed him a bite of ham.

A heavy lock of her unbound hair fell forward and grazed his cheek, tickling him.

Shanaco laughed.

So did Maggie.

They looked at each other. Their gazes met and held.

Their laughter subsided. It was a long, tense moment. And in that moment Maggie realized that more than anything in the world, she wanted to kiss Shanaco. She wanted Shanaco to kiss her. Wanted him to kiss her the way he had kissed her that afternoon at his cottage.

Maggie wondered if he felt the same. She swallowed with difficulty and carefully set the plate aside on the night table. She laid the silverware atop it. She slowly turned and looked at Shanaco.

And saw in the fathomless depths of his beautiful silver-gray eyes that he shared her feelings.

Without a word Shanaco reached for her and Maggie came into his arms as if she’d always belonged there.

“Ah, Maggie, Maggie,” he murmured, and kissed her.

His kiss was slow, gentle, tender. At least in the beginning. Purposely giving her every opportunity to pull away from him, Shanaco brushed kiss after kiss to her lips, teasing her, tasting her, carefully seeking permission.

But as he
kissed her, his powerful arms began to tighten possessively around her. Maggie made no move to free herself. Instead, she lifted her arms, slipped them around his neck and clutched a handful of his blue-black hair.

Shanaco shuddered and his kiss swiftly changed. His heated mouth opened on Maggie’s and he coaxed her lips apart. She sighed when she felt his sleek tongue slip between her teeth as he deepened the kiss.

It was a prolonged, invasive kiss and even more thrilling than the kiss in his cottage. Shanaco’s mouth was masterful and Maggie eagerly responded, her head falling back, her fingers clasping the strong column of his neck.

Breathless and excited when at last he tore his burning lips from hers, Maggie trembled in his arms when Shanaco said, “I warned you, Maggie.”

“You did?”

He nodded, and his nimble fingers went to the buttons going down the bodice of her dress. He leaned her back on his supporting arm, lowered his head and pressed an openmouthed kiss to the gentle swell of her breasts.