Chieftain (Historical Romance) (2 page)

Shanaco picked up the limp Dana and carried her to the bed. He sat her on the edge of the mattress, knelt before her and slipped off her shoes and silk stockings. He rose to his feet and Dana was delighted to see that his impressive erection, all shiny wet from being buried inside her, was still very much in evidence. She was glad and grateful. Already she was wanting more of this man’s thrilling mastery.

In seconds they were stretched out naked on the bed and making love again. Now Shanaco really gave her what she wanted. He tormented her with his sexual prowess. He plunged deeply, rhythmically into her until he had her so hot she was on the verge of another stunning release.

So he
stopped in midstroke and pulled out of her. Frantic, she begged him and kissed him and stroked him until finally he rose up over her, pushed her legs wide apart and gave it to her again.

And yet again.

The lusty pair continued to dally until—much later—the sated, exhausted Dana was finally pleading with Shanaco to stop. When at last she fell asleep with him still moving deep inside her, Shanaco let himself come, spilling himself into the sleeping blonde beauty.

With a groan he tumbled over, stretched out on his back beside Dana and fell instantly into deep slumber.

Fort Sill, Oklahoma Territory

A
full harvest
moon shone down upon the sprawling Indian reservation located on the west bank of Cache Creek in western Oklahoma. Hundreds of tepees dotted the rolling hills and windswept prairie that bordered the Wichita Mountains.

At the center of the reservation, stone buildings surrounded the large post quadrangle. The Indians called the post “the soldier house at Medicine Bluffs.” The garrison called it Fort Sill.

Maggie Bankhead called it home.

The twenty-two-year-old red-haired, blue-eyed Maggie Bankhead had been born and raised in Tidewater, Virginia, the youngest of four girls and a child of privilege. Hers had been a life of luxury and ease with a loving family and a houseful of dutiful servants.

Maggie’s father was a prominent banker from an old southern family of prerevolutionary Irish stock. Her mother, the refined Abigail, boasted an equally impeccable lineage. Many of the foremost Confederate heroes, including Robert E. Lee, were part of Abigail’s extended family.

Doting
parents, the Bankheads’ wish for all their beautiful daughters was successful marriages to suitable gentlemen. It was not a wish shared by the spirited Maggie. Rebellious by nature, inquisitive to a fault, determined to think for herself and do as she saw fit, Maggie, unlike her sisters, had gone against her parents’ wishes.

Maggie had, six months ago, left her childhood home and traveled west to teach English to the reservation Indians. Her parents had been horrified but not surprised. Maggie had consistently turned a deaf ear to her mother’s cajoling to allow suitable young men to call on her. Maggie had blithely ignored her older sisters’ warning that she was going to wind up a lonely old maid. Maggie’s father had long ago given up on expecting his youngest, and secretly favorite, child to fit into a specific mold and behave like his other children. Maggie had—from the cradle—been a handful. Lively. Stubborn. Opinionated. Fearless.

An enthusiastic Maggie had moved to the Oklahoma Territory and hadn’t looked back, had not regretted her decision for a minute. From the day she had arrived—a beautiful spring day in late April—she had known she was where she belonged.

While she missed her parents, her sisters and her many friends back in Virginia, she found her simple life at the fort to be, for the most part, fulfilling. She liked being independent, liked living alone in the little one-room cottage assigned her, liked taking care of herself.

Blessed
with a self-deprecating sense of humor, she often laughed at herself as she tackled elemental tasks like making the bed or brewing hot tea or sweeping the rough plank floors. She had never once—in her twenty-two years—lifted a hand to help with such menial chores. She was having to learn to be self-reliant as surely as the reservation Indians were having to learn the English she taught.

Maggie found it rather rewarding to polish the battered furniture or pick wildflowers for the table or to tuck freshly laundered sheets over the edges of the bed’s feather mattress.

Only occasionally, at day’s end when she was alone and sitting on the porch gazing at the sun setting over the low Oklahoma hills, did her heart ache dully for something she could not name.

She didn’t know what she yearned for. She was not overly homesick, nor was she particularly lonely. She was, in fact, happier in Oklahoma than anywhere ever before and she felt that her life had real meaning. She was convinced that if the displaced Indians were to have any chance in the white man’s world, they had to learn to read, write and speak English.

She was eager to teach them, and to her delight, many were eager to learn. They crowded into her classroom each morning, their dark eyes shining, copper faces well scrubbed. Respectful and ready to be taught.

The little
ones in class had come to love Maggie.

Maggie, in turn, loved them.

She had grown fond of all her students but couldn’t keep from having favorites. One was the tiny Bright Feather, an adorable orphaned Kiowa boy who, sadly, had been lame since birth. The other was an aged Kiowa chief, Old Coyote. Both Bright Feather and Old Coyote held a special place in Maggie’s heart.

Outside the classroom, Maggie had easily made friends with the officers’ wives as well as with many of the soldiers garrisoned at the fort. And, of course, there was James W. James, the fort’s Indian agent and the man responsible for her being at Fort Sill.

Called Double Jimmy by everyone, the fifty-seven-year-old agent was honest, hardworking and truly cared about the Indians’ welfare. Maggie’s closest ally and fervent protector, Double Jimmy was an old and dear family friend. He had served with Maggie’s father, Major Edgar Bankhead, in the Grand Army of the Potomac. The two men had become like brothers and the widowed Double Jimmy had visited often—staying weeks at a time—in the Bankheads’ stately Virginia home.

A natural-born storyteller who spoke English, Spanish and Comanche, Double Jimmy had painted such vivid pictures of the frontier that young Maggie’s interest had been piqued. His stories of life in the West and of the bitter conflict between the whites and the Indians had made her decide what she wanted to do with her life.

From the
minute Maggie had arrived at the fort, her flaming red hair and fair good looks had captured the attention of several young officers eager to court her. She was flattered, but her head was not turned. Maggie was used to having handsome young men buzz around her.

Maggie enjoyed the company of males and was totally comfortable in their presence. She found men were generally much better company than women and she could hold her own in their lively conversations.

But she was not interested in finding a sweetheart. The only officer she had allowed to escort her to the rare fort picnic or party was the mannerly Lieutenant Dave Finley.

A quiet trustworthy young man from Jackson, Mississippi, the tall, slender, sandy-haired Lieutenant Finley was boyishly handsome and a dedicated soldier. A proud West Pointer, he had a sterling reputation, was well liked by his fellow officers and considered to be a “good catch” by the officers’ wives.

Maggie was not looking for a good catch. She did not, she would tell anyone who asked, intend to get married. Ever. She had no desire to be a wife and mother. Furthermore, she had no need of a man to take care of her. She could take care of herself, thank you very much!

Maggie had, right from the beginning, made it clear to Lieutenant Dave Finley that while she thoroughly enjoyed his company, they would never be anything more than friends. The infatuated lieutenant took what he could get and hoped that one day Maggie might change her mind. Until then he was determined not to upset the applecart and be banished from her sight. She could be, he had quickly learned, quite volatile and unpredictable, traits that tended to make her all the more exciting and appealing.

Now as the
full moon climbed higher in the Oklahoma sky, Maggie and Lieutenant Finley sat on her porch steps and talked as the hour grew late. Her arms locked around her knees, Maggie gazed dreamily at the stars twinkling overhead while the lieutenant gazed dreamily at her.

“I should go in,” Maggie finally said, not moving.

“Stay awhile longer,” coaxed Dave Finley. “It’s so nice and peaceful out here.”

“Yes, it is,” she agreed. Maggie inhaled deeply, unlocked her arms from her knees, lifted her hands and swept her untamed red hair back off her face. She smiled with pleasure when a cooling breeze stroked her cheeks. “Finally the weather is beginning to change. There’s almost a nip to the night air. Lord, let’s hope the searing heat of the summer is behind us.” Her head swung around. “I arrived at the fort in late April and it was already quite warm. You’ve been here in the winter, Dave. What’s it like?”

Lieutenant Finley grinned. “Cold. As cold in the winter as it is hot in the summer. The wind comes sweeping across the prairie and goes right through you. I’ve drilled on early mornings when I honestly feared I’d get frostbite and lose my toes.”

Maggie made
a cluck of sympathy. “Poor Dave,” she said, turning to look squarely at him, the moonlight striking her full in the face.

Dave Finley stared at Maggie, enchanted. Maggie saw him swallow hard and noted the little shudder that swept through his slim frame.

“Now, Dave…” she began.

“Oh, Maggie, girl,” Dave interrupted, his tone soft, his eyes softer.

He lifted a hand and gently placed it in her bright red hair at the side of her head. Maggie sighed. He wanted to kiss her. She knew he did. She would have let him, but she knew she shouldn’t encourage him. It wouldn’t be fair to let him think that she shared his feelings.

“Dave,” she said again, placing her hand atop his where it lay against her hair. “You know that your friendship means a great deal to me and—”

“One kiss, Maggie,” he said. “That’s all. I’d never ask for anything more.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Maggie exclaimed, growing exasperated. “Kiss me and get it over with then!” She closed her eyes, puckered her lips and looked as if she were about to take a bitter dose of medicine.

Dave Finley shook his head sadly. Then he laughed. “Open your eyes, Maggie, I’m not going to kiss you.”

Her eyes opened
in surprise. “Why not? I said you could.”

Smiling indulgently, he took her hand and, rising, drew her to her feet with him. “I don’t want to kiss a woman who acts as if she’s about to be horse-whipped.”

“I was not, I—”

“Good night, Maggie.” The lieutenant leaned down, brushed his lips against her cheek.

Maggie smiled at him. “You’re not angry, are you, Dave?”

“Perhaps a little hurt, but I’ll get over it.”

Maggie patted his shoulder affectionately. “I wouldn’t want to lose a friend like you.”

“You won’t.” And then he was gone.

Maggie watched him walk away. When he disappeared around the corner of a stone building, she stood for a few moments longer in the moonlight, then turned and went inside.

“It’s me,” she said softly in the darkness.

Pistol, her beloved silver-furred wolfhound, raised his head, barked a lazy greeting, then went back to dozing before the cold fireplace.

Maggie didn’t light a lamp. She undressed in the darkness. She drew her nightgown down over her head, yawned and got into bed. She stretched out on her back and folded her hands beneath her head. A gentle night breeze lifted the window curtains directly beside her bed.

Maggie sighed with pleasure. Fall had finally come. She so looked forward to the brisk autumn days and the cold clear nights. And she wondered what exciting new changes would the new season bring?

Maggie’s blue
eyes flashed with anticipation. Smiling, she turned onto her stomach, yanked her gown high up on her thighs and punched her pillow.

In minutes she was sound asleep.

I
n the middle
of the night Shanaco awakened abruptly from a deep, dreamless slumber.

His hundred-year-old Comanche grandfather was calling to him as clearly as if the ancient chief were here in the room.

Shanaco lunged up in bed.

Heart hammering, he swept his long, loose hair back off his face and swung his legs over the mattress’s edge. He reached for the thin leather cord lying on the night table and hurriedly tied back his hair. The movement awakened the blonde.

“What is it?” she asked sleepily. “What’s wrong?”

“I have to go,” Shanaco said, and stood up.

“Go? Now? It’s the middle of the night, still dark outside,” said Dana, sitting up, clutching the sheet to her breasts. “Get back in this bed, lover.”

Shanaco did not reply. He crossed the room, pulled open a bureau drawer and removed a pair of soft buckskin trousers and matching shirt. He drew on the pants, laced up the front fly and grabbed the buckskin shirt. He slipped the shirt over his head, shoved his arms through the long sleeves and didn’t bother with the laces going down the center yoke to mid chest.

He bent from
the waist, lifted a pair of well-polished boots from the carpeted floor and went back to the bed. He sat down on the bed’s edge to pull on his stockings and boots.

“I won’t let you leave,” murmured Dana as she tossed off the covering sheet and came up on her knees behind him. She threw her arms around his neck, leaned against him, placed her lips against his left ear and murmured, “I’m sorry I went to sleep on you last night. I’m wide-awake now and I’ll stay awake for as long as you want.”

No response.

She tried again. “Shanaco, please, please…put it in again and leave it in. Give to me, Shanaco. Come on, take off your clothes and make love to me.”

Bored with her and annoyed by her whining, Shanaco was even more annoyed that his grandfather was summoning him home. He didn’t want to go. He had no choice. He had to.

“Maybe I’ll see you next time I’m in Santa Fe,” he said. He threw off her clinging arms and again stood up.

“Where on earth are you going at this hour?” she asked, pouting, sinking back on her heels in the bed.

“Texas,” Shanaco said, and left.

He hurried downstairs, woke up the night clerk, collected his poker winnings and went to the livery stable for his horse. He swung up into the saddle and set out for the Palo Duro Canyon, where the once mighty Comanche had their last stronghold.

Five days
later, as the warm October sun was setting, an exhausted Shanaco urged his winded black stallion down a narrow, serpentine trail into the yawning chasm where he had spent most of his life.

His aged grandfather was patiently waiting.

Gray Wolf’s eyes lighted when his tall grandson ducked into the tepee. He stirred himself with a series of movements, slowly, his brittle bones creaking as he attempted to straighten his frail back to appear more imperial.

“I calculated it would take you four-five sleeps to get here,” said the old chief in their native tongue. “I expected you before the setting of today’s sun.”

“The sun’s been down for only a few moments, Grandfather,” Shanaco replied as he dropped down and seated himself cross-legged before the old man.

The chief nodded and his eyes twinkled slightly as they examined Shanaco, pleased by the sight of the imposing young man that his own noble blood had helped to create.

“So it has,” he conceded. The hint of a smile immediately disappeared and without preamble, he stated, “I have done much thinking, Grandson. I have called on the Great Spirit, asked that he speak to my heart. He did and I have come to a hard decision.” He paused and blinked back unshed tears that suddenly sprang to his dark eyes.

“Tell
me, Grandfather,” said Shanaco, leaning forward.

“The People cannot last another winter,” the chief said sadly. “We cannot graze our livestock and the great buffalo herds have all but disappeared. The People will starve if they stay here in the canyon.” Shanaco nodded his agreement. The chief continued, his tone somber, “They must go away from the Llano Estacado and Palo Duro, away from this land that was once all ours. It makes my heart weep.”

Shanaco drew a slow deep breath and shook his head in sympathy and understanding.

“I have met with the white leaders,” Gray Wolf stated. “I have agreed to no longer make war.” He sighed wearily and said, “It is over, Grandson.”

“Yes, Grandfather,” said Shanaco respectfully, knowing it was a sad day for the old Comanche chieftain. Gray Wolf was the last, and most powerful, of all the signatory chiefs to finally concede defeat.

“At my knee,” said Gray Wolf, “you learned that a warrior’s duties are to protect the women and children and to face danger and death without complaint or fear.” Shanaco started to speak, but the chief raised a hand to silence him. “You were always brave, but you chose the white man’s road, learned the white man’s ways. Now you must help our People learn to travel the white man’s road. You must lead them onto the reservation at Fort Sill in the Indian Nations.”

Shanaco immediately began protesting. He conceded that the tribe should give up and move onto the reservation, but he strongly objected to being the one to lead them there. His arguments were sound. He had drifted back and forth between the two worlds since his father’s death. He had not lived in the Palo Duro village for several years.

He had taken
a different path.

He reminded his grandfather that he was resented, even hated, by some of the young Comanche warriors for his white blood. And, he would
never
live on the reservation himself.

Concluding, he said, “I cannot do it. I will not—”

Angrily interrupting, Chief Gray Wolf said sternly, “You will obey me! I am the father of your father and you will do as I say.”

Shanaco looked at the badly wrinkled face before him, fierce even now after all his power was gone and the long years of a hard life had taken their toll. Those dearest to the chief were all dead: his two wives, his four daughters, five grandchildren. And, his only son—Shanaco’s father—the fearless Chief Naco. Shanaco was the old chief’s only blood relative left alive.

“I will obey you, Grandfather,” Shanaco said meekly.

The chief’s eyes lighted again as they had when Shanaco first ducked into the tepee. “My little cub,” he said with affection, and reached for Shanaco’s hand. Shanaco wrapped his strong fingers around his grandfather’s thin, clawlike hand and felt his heart squeeze in his chest.

“I will not
go with you, Grandson,” said the chief. “I have lived long enough. Bury me here in the canyon.” He withdrew his hand, reached for his pipe.

Shanaco shook his head. Then he laughed. “Grandfather, you cannot decide when you will die.”

But when dawn broke the next morning, Shanaco went to the tepee of his grandfather and found the old man dead.

Shanaco now had no choice.

He would have to lead the dwindling band onto the Oklahoma reservation.

At Fort Sill news quickly spread that the last major warring band of Comanches had finally given up and were now heading for the reservation. A flurry of activity ensued as the post prepared for the tribe’s arrival.

No one knew the exact hour or day when the Comanches would reach the reservation, but the entire fort community, whites and Indians alike, wanted to be there to watch their arrival. It was said that the half-white young chief known as The Eagle would be leading the Comanches into Fort Sill.

Excitement mounted as the days went by.

And then on a crisp morning in late October a lone sentry galloped into the fort to announce that the Comanches were approaching the gates. Mounted soldiers of the Fourth Cavalry rode out to meet the advancing cavalcade.

Everyone at the fort was quickly alerted. People dropped what they were doing and hurried toward the parade ground. Maggie was informed and immediately dismissed her morning classes.

A crowd
swiftly gathered near the fort’s front gates.

In that growing throng was the curious Maggie. As the band of Comanches rode through the fort’s tall gates, Maggie experienced a tingling excitement. Eager to get a close look at this warring band, she anxiously made her way forward through the crowd to the perimeter of the parade ground. She wasn’t satisfied until she had maneuvered into a position where no one was in front of her.

Maggie felt the buzz of anticipation that swept through the onlookers. Since learning that the Comanches were coming, Maggie had heard many tales of the hell-raiser, mixed-blood warrior who, despite his many escapades, was still so respected by the majority of his People that he would be the one bringing in the band.

His name was Shanaco.

The Eagle.

Some called him a half-breed. Some called him a devil. But no one, it was said, questioned his intelligence, iron will or brute strength. The only son of the great Comanche war chief, Naco, and his blond captive wife, Shanaco had, from the time he turned sixteen, drifted back and forth between the white and Indian worlds. Riding and raiding with the Comanches one night, dressing and living like a white man the next.

It was whispered
that Shanaco was not content in either world. Restless, brooding, menacing—an air of extreme boredom masked a volatile nature.

Maggie lamented the fact that Double Jimmy was not present to share this momentous occasion. He would be disappointed that he had missed it. And, if anyone could have made the Comanches’ painful transition easier, it was the dedicated Indian agent.

Double Jimmy was, this very minute, en route from Washington where he had gone to plead for more beef and clothing for the reservation Indians. Had he known that the last of the Comanches were coming in, he would surely have postponed his trip.

The regimental band struck up “Gary Owen” and Maggie’s heartbeat quickened. From his place on the reviewing stand, the portly commandant of the fort, fifty-one-year-old Colonel Norman S. Harkins, came to his feet.

Colonel Harkins had served under Double Jimmy in the war. The two men had a great deal of respect for each other. Double Jimmy was aware of Harkins’s bitter disappointment at being sent out to this frontier fort. But he knew Harkins to be an honorable man who discharged his duties without complaint.

Maggie glanced in the colonel’s direction and suddenly frowned.

At the colonel’s side on this fine October morning was his only daughter, Lois. The spoiled twenty-one-year-old Lois was spending several months at the fort with her father while her eastern-based mother traveled Europe.

Lois was blond
and lovely, and when she walked down the fort’s wooden sidewalks she caused quite a stir among the predominantly male population. Lois Harkins was the opposite of Maggie. While Maggie couldn’t have cared less about male attention, the self-centered Lois thrived on it. Couldn’t live without it.

Lois was so adept at flirting and teasing that few really realized what she was up to. Maggie did. Lois didn’t fool the perceptive Maggie for a minute. Maggie strongly suspected that Lois did a great deal more than just flirt with some of the soldiers.

Now, as the Comanche rode forward, Lois Harkins leapt to her feet. Maggie watched as Lois spotted—at the head of the procession—the most magnificent specimen of manhood Maggie had ever laid eyes on.

The Eagle.

Shanaco.

Dressed as a Comanche, naked save for a scarlet bandanna knotted at his throat and a low-riding breechcloth, Shanaco was astride a nervously dancing black stallion. A fine-looking man, Shanaco had a lean coppery body of perfect symmetry coupled with a muscular, athletic frame. His face was undeniably arresting with high cheekbones, proud nose, strong chin and wide mouth.

Some of those standing at very close range got a glimpse of intense silver eyes shining out the harshly handsome face. His very countenance denoted a high intelligence and innate leadership.

His long
raven hair was worn loose, defiantly, and blowing in the wind, a feather tucked into his scalp lock. His broad chest and bare legs gleamed in the morning sunshine. Around his right biceps was a wide copper band, and in his right hand, a war lance. Bells tinkled on his moccasins and on the decorative red trappings on his stallion.

The Eagle rode without effort, handling the nervous black with his knees. He seemed not to be real, not of this world, but a divine image of masculine beauty. A bronzed pagan god in the strength of his prime.

Every eye was upon him, and a great hush had fallen over the crowd. Like the fluttery Lois, Maggie found it impossible to take her eyes off the sullen, majestic half-breed. She found herself hoping he would turn and look in her direction. And knowing that he would not.

He didn’t.

Shanaco stared straight ahead, looking neither to the left or the right. The insolent attitude of his princely body, the aloof expression on his cruelly handsome face, made Maggie shake her head ruefully.

This notorious half-breed was in for his share of misery at Fort Sill.

And he would dish out plenty as well.