Chieftain (Historical Romance) (7 page)

W
hile Maggie had
warned Shanaco that he was to leave her alone, Lois Harkins was bent on doing everything she could to get the Comanche chief’s attention.

The spoiled seductress’s affair with her father’s married aide-de-camp was growing stale. Lois was bored with Lieutenant Wilde. She needed a new lover. Someone handsome and thrilling and forceful.

And forbidden.

Shanaco.

The Eagle.

From the moment he had ridden onto the fort, Lois had daydreamed of lying naked beneath the handsome half-breed. She could imagine the kind of wild, animal loving he would provide. The prospect of such a taboo tryst had her plotting and planning before she’d stepped down off the review stand that sunny October morning.

Shanaco didn’t know it, but he was no longer the hunter, she was. She was the huntress, he was the prey. And she fully intended to snare him in her trap. Once he was caught, they could change places. She’d be his helpless captive, he her vengeful captor. What exciting possibilities that fantasy conjured up.

Lois grew more
impatient with each passing day. Shanaco had been at the fort for more than two weeks and she had yet to meet him. Apparently it wasn’t going to be as easy to instigate an affair with the Comanche chieftain as it had been with Lieutenant Wilde. Wilde was right there under her nose and all she’d had to do was reach out and take him.

But how, she wondered, could she possibly gain access to Shanaco? She knew they intended to provide him with a private cabin, but the last she had heard he was still billeted in a barracks with the troopers. As far as she knew he slept there every night.

In the daytime he was out on the reservation with his People. Or with Double Jimmy and her father.

Or in the civilian village.

Impatient to get her hands on him, Lois decided to start spending her afternoons in the village. Perhaps she would run into him. She could do that without arousing suspicions. Should anyone ask, she could claim she was shopping.

Lois dressed in her finest and sauntered up and down the wooden sidewalks. No luck on the first day. Or the second. But her heart began to pound when finally, after three fruitless afternoons, the object of her desire walked out of Jake’s card parlor and headed down the wooden sidewalk. Coming in her direction.

Lois drew a shallow breath, reached out and grabbed the colorful barber pole for support. She stood there waiting, her blond hair gleaming in the sunlight, her pretty face glowing with good health. She was totally confident of her feminine allure. Certain that Shanaco would take one look and instantly desire her.

She saw that
today he was dressed as a white man in a cotton shirt and snug twill trousers. But he looked just as handsome, just as menacing as he had when he’d worn nothing but a skimpy breechcloth. He moved with an easy, fluid grace and effortlessly exuded a strong masculine self-confidence. Just looking at him made Lois tingle from head to toe.

He was almost to her. She wet her lips, thrust out her chest and bent a knee forward. Shanaco glanced at her. She smiled coquettishly and lowered her lashes. Then blinked in surprise when he dismissed her with a cold, impersonal nod. He never slowed. Walked right past her.

Lois was stunned. Absolutely incredulous. She couldn’t believe it. Was the Comanche blind? Did Indians have a different standard of beauty than their white counterparts? Did he not yearn to hold her in his arms? Such an obvious snub from a male had never happened to her before.

Shaken, Lois stared after him, wanting him more than ever, insulted but fascinated. She was intrigued by the catlike way he moved. And by the way his white shirt stretched across his wide, powerful shoulders. And especially with the way his tight twill trousers hung so appealingly on his slim hips.

Lois sighed
and bit her lip in disappointment. She had assumed that the minute he saw her he’d want her. Well, he
would
want her, she was determined that he would. She had only to get him alone. Once she’d accomplished that she knew what to do with him. To him. She’d let him feel her burning touch on his nakedness and arouse him so completely she would take his breath away.

But damn him, she hated to wait. She wanted him now. This afternoon.

Seething, Lois angrily headed back to the quarters she shared with her father. In her room, she shed her saucy hat, kid gloves and light woolen wrap, tossing all on the floor. She climbed onto the feather bed, stretched out on her stomach and beat the mattress with her small fists, cursing the indifferent Shanaco.

She had to come up with a foolproof scheme wherein she and the imperious half-breed would be thrown together and…and…Lois began to smile like the cat that got the cream. The annual officers’ ball!

To show his respect for Shanaco’s position as leader of his People, the post commandant—her father—should invite the chieftain to the ball as the honored guest.

Lois turned over onto her back and giggled happily. She would put a bug in her father’s ear that very evening. She’d insist he should invite Shanaco to the ball. Shanaco would feel obligated to attend.

The officers’ snooty wives would shun him, of course, but she wouldn’t. She would make him feel welcome, would offer him a glass of punch. Would dance with him. And once she had him on the dance floor, she would work her magic.

Lois
smiled, pleased with herself. By the end of the dance the haughty half-breed would be so hot for her he wouldn’t say no to anything she proposed. She’d work him up into a lather and then carefully whisper to him where he was to meet her later that night.

The smile left Lois’s face as quickly as it had come. She sighed heavily. The officers’ ball was two weeks from tomorrow night. How could she ever wait that long to be in Shanaco’s arms?

She fretted and frowned until she remembered. Tomorrow was ration day! Lois sat straight up and her eyes began to gleam. She wouldn’t have to wait for the officers’ ball to see Shanaco. He was a Comanche chieftain. He would definitely be present at ration day.

She fell onto her back laughing happily. He’d be there and he would be dressed in that skimpy little breechcloth that covered nothing but his groin.

O
n ration day
the entire population of the fort turned out for the fun and festivities. Ration day took place every fortnight and was always on a Saturday. For whites and Indians alike it was a day-long carnival and an occasion not to be missed.

All the tribes came into the agency from their scattered, far-out settlements. In tepees all across the huge reservation, the People awakened with the dawn. Excited. Eager to get dressed and to go to the agency. Indian braves, squaws and children rode in under the watchful eye of armed troopers.

The cavalcade began in the early morning. Long columns came in a steady stream from the furthermost reaches of the preserve. Well before noon everyone had arrived and the fun and merriment had begun.

This particular Saturday was a perfect fall day. A chill to the air, but a bright sun shone down from a cloudless indigo sky.

Maggie attended, as she did each fortnight. Regretfully she had to make Pistol stay behind at the cottage. She hated to do it, but she had taken him to ration day once and he had worn her out. When he’d seen the Indian children running about with their dogs, he had chased anxiously after them, barking incessantly and darting away from her. So now he had to stay home.

Maggie went
with Katie Atwood, since Katie’s husband, Blakely, was away from the fort on patrol.

Dressed in light woolens, Katie carrying a wicker picnic basket and Maggie, a blanket, the two young women walked freely among the Indians, laughing and talking as they made their way among the men. The onetime warriors were dressed in buckskin shirts, leggings and moccasins. Some sported pipe-stem bone breastplates, others had bright-colored bandannas knotted around their necks. Their thick black hair was smoothed back with grease and neatly braided down each coppery cheek.

Most of the men were standing about, talking and gesturing. Others were crouched on the ground in circles, gambling. Some played cards, others tossed dice. They had quickly learned such vices from the white men. Maggie clucked her tongue. Too bad they couldn’t learn to read and write as quickly as they had learned to wager on games of chance.

The excited gamblers shouted and argued and slapped one another on the back. Hearing the Comanche tongue being spoken, Maggie looked curiously around.

She didn’t see Shanaco.

She mentally shrugged. Since he seemed to have little interest in showing support for his People, he probably wouldn’t bother coming out today. An omission for which he should be ashamed of himself. If there was ever an occasion when the Comanche leader should be present, it was on ration day.

And, furthermore, he
should be there dressed as a Comanche, not a white man!

Maggie and Katie waded on through the throngs of Indian men. They reached a row of makeshift booths that were manned by officers’ wives. The good-hearted ladies were giving away cakes, cookies and candy to the Indians and soldiers alike. Maggie had made a cake for the event, but had ended up leaving it at the cottage. Her culinary efforts left a great deal to be desired. When she’d shown the lopsided cake to Pistol, he had given her a sad, pitying look. So she’d donated fresh fruit instead.

Maggie smiled now when she caught sight of the shy Bright Feather, standing before a booth, several feet back, gazing yearningly at a big glass jar filled with peppermint sticks.

Without a word to Katie, Maggie hurried toward him. Katie saw the child and followed. When Maggie reached Bright Feather and greeted him, he smiled that heart-tugging smile of his.

She asked, “Would you like a peppermint stick?” His smile grew broader and his big dark eyes flashed. She said, “Practice your English. Ask the nice lady if you may have a peppermint stick.”

Bright Feather limped forward. He reached the booth. He was so little his face was on the level of the plank board where the candy jar sat. He peered over it at a tall, rawboned woman with graying hair and asked politely, “May I have a peppermint stick, ma’am?”

Margaret
Tullison laughed, reached out, ruffled his hair and said, “You sure can, darlin’!” She reached in the jar, took out two sticks and handed both to him. He took them and stood there with a peppermint stick in each hand, so pleased with his good fortune he was speechless.

“Remember what you say when someone gives you something,” Maggie prompted.

“Thank you very much,” Bright Feather said to Margaret Tullison.

“You’re mighty welcome,” she said. Then added, “Tell you what, if you eat those up and want another, you come right back over here.”

“Bright Feather” came the soft voice of the Kiowa woman he lived with. Morning Sun was the patient, motherly, middle-aged widow who was raising Bright Feather and five other orphans. Those five were with her now. She gently scolded Bright Feather in their native tongue. “You must not wander away from me. You could get lost in the crowd. Now come.”

He nodded, but proudly held up his peppermint sticks. Margaret Tullison was already lifting the glass top from the big jar, taking out candy for the other five children. Maggie acknowledged Morning Sun and bid Bright Feather goodbye.

Turning to
Margaret Tullison, she said, “We’ll be back to relieve you at three o’clock.”

“Good enough,” said Margaret.

“We better start looking in earnest for a place to spread the blanket,” Katie said.

“Yes, I agree.”

They had volunteered to help out by manning one of the booths from three o’clock until six. Until that time, they were free and they wanted to find just the right spot. A place where they wouldn’t miss anything and could most enjoy the festivities.

“What about over there close to the main agency building?” Katie suggested, pointing. “That’s where all the rations will be distributed, so most of the activity should take place around there.”

Maggie nodded but declined. If they settled in near the agency buildings, they would see only the Indian women and children.

“Wouldn’t you rather go on out beyond the buildings to the pasture where they’ll race the horses this afternoon?” Maggie asked. “That’s where most everyone goes, and if we’re not there early, we won’t get a front-row spot.”

“Well, all right,” Katie was agreeable. “We can eat our picnic lunch before they start running their horses and kicking up dirt.”

“Of course. Let’s go now and…and…Wait, I see Double Jimmy. Let’s say hello.”

The ruddy-faced, white-haired Double Jimmy stood beside one of the big, heavily loaded agency wagons. In the crook of his arm was a tiny Indian baby and at his side was the infant’s proud young mother. Double Jimmy was making silly faces at the baby and teasing the mother. The baby was cooing. The mother was beaming and laughing.

The travois
ponies were lined up close to the large wagons from which the rations and clothing would be distributed. The Indian women stood about waiting, visiting, talking together, showing off their new babies and discussing the big meal they would have once they were issued their supply of fresh beef.

Double Jimmy looked up and saw Maggie and Katie coming toward him. He waved them forward, gave the squirming baby a kiss on the forehead and handed it back to its mother.

“You two lovely young ladies gonna help us hand out supplies?” he asked, giving both a hug when they reached him.

“I suppose we could,” Maggie said with a smile. But she hoped it wouldn’t be necessary. She didn’t want to stay here. She wanted to watch the horse races.

“Naw,” said Double Jimmy. “Not necessary. I was just teasing you.” He raised his white eyebrows at Maggie. “I figure I know where you’ll spend most of the afternoon.”

Maggie playfully punched him on the shoulder. “You think you know everything, don’t you?”

“This much I know. When the horse racing starts, you’ll be there cheering ’em on or my name’s not James W. James.”

Maggie
laughed. “You know me too well.” And he did. Over the years, Maggie’s father had owned many sleek Thoroughbreds. Maggie had learned to love horses and horse racing from the time she was a toddler. “You coming out there?”

Double Jimmy shook his head. “Got my hands pretty full right here.”

“Don’t you have several hands to help you?” asked Katie, looking about for his assistants.

“Of course he does,” Maggie answered for him. Then to him, “When are you going to quit working so hard? Let the others handle some of the tasks?”

“What? You mean this agency could operate without me?” he said with mock horror. “Well, I’ll be switched!”

The women laughed. Maggie said, “This agency could
never
do without you and neither could I. Come for supper some night soon?”

“Just tell me when.”

“Make it a week from Tuesday.”

“I’ll be there,” said Double Jimmy. He made a face then and said, “You’re not meaning to try your hand at biscuit-making again, are you, child?”

“I promise not to,” she said, and laughed at herself. The last batch of biscuits she had made had been a disaster. Didn’t rise at all, were burned nearly black and were as hard as rocks. “Pistol and I are still playing toss and fetch with the last ones I made.”