Elaine Barbieri (13 page)

“Miranda—”

“I want to know, Shadow Walker.”

His dark eyes holding hers with sudden heat, Shadow Walker rasped, “I wear this scar proudly because it reminds me of the bullet a white horse soldier fired into the back of a Cheyenne boy who sought to escape an attack on his unprotected village in the middle of the night. I wear it proudly because that boy survived when most did not; and because the bullet removed from that grievous wound—cast into the fire by the shaman who breathed life back into the boy—signified a burning vengeance to be forever
mine
.”

Shadow Walker paused, then continued, “I have wrought that vengeance many times, Miranda, and I will wreak it many more.”

“But you said—”

“I said that in this place there is peace. But it is unsafe to assume that we cannot be touched by the outside world here.”

As if confirming Shadow Walker’s words, the rumble of approaching hooves sounded in the distance. Miranda
turned toward the sound with surprise. She squinted to identify the approaching figures, then gasped with incredulity as an army patrol rode into view.

The sight of the familiar blue uniforms raised Miranda’s arm toward them in an exultant rush. Stunned when Shadow Walker snatched her down to the ground with his hand covering her mouth, then held her motionless with the weight of his body, she heard him whisper fiercely, “Hear what I say, Miranda, for I tell you now—there is only one way the soldiers will take you from me.”

Shadow Walker’s words froze Miranda’s mind. Somehow unable to think past the inconceivability of the moment, she watched as the patrol drew nearer, then passed so close that she could see Lieutenant Hill’s rigid expression, Will Blake’s boyish frown, and Sergeant Wallace’s invariable scowl. The hilts of their Army sabers glinted in the brilliant sun. Their sheathed rifles bounced against their mounts’ sides—and Miranda closed her eyes.

The hoofbeats faded into the distance and Miranda opened her eyes again to see that the patrol had faded from view as well.

Releasing her abruptly, Shadow Walker stood up. His expression unreadable, he towered over her for long, silent moments before he said, “Ready yourself. It is time to leave.”

Rattling Blanket’s lodge was silent except for the hoarse rasp of her breathing. Beside her sleeping bench,
Walking Bird stood in quiet sorrow. Near the doorway, Two Moons stood similarly composed, her eyes following the actions of the shaman who chanted an ongoing prayer. Engrossed, none looked up at Spotted Bear when he stepped into the doorway and scrutinized the scene with a slitted gaze.

Pausing there, Spotted Bear looked at the old woman lying on the sleeping bench. Her eyes were closed and her breathing was ragged. He had arrived back at the camp to the news that Rattling Blanket had fallen and that she had lapsed into a sleep from which it was feared she would not awaken.

Spotted Bear’s chest began a slow heaving. The old witch! She had turned her back on him and walked away when he had attempted to buy the girl from her—but what had stung him most had been the pity in her gaze when she had looked at him.

Pity!

It was all Spotted Bear could do not to laugh aloud. Who was to be pitied now? Surely not he, a Cheyenne warrior with the best of his years before him, while she—a useless, nearly crippled old squaw—lay breathing her last.

Shadow Walker’s image rose abruptly before him, and Spotted Bear grunted aloud. The old woman had been Shadow Walker’s staunchest defender and his closest link to the past. Her death would be a heavy blow.

Sobering, Spotted Bear turned his back on Rattling
Blanket’s lodge and walked away, determined that that blow would be the first of many.

Darkness was descending as Shadow Walker drew his mount to a halt and signaled Miranda to do the same. They had packed up their camp, ending their idyll with haste. They had traveled rapidly, speaking little and halting only to refresh the horses at extended intervals.

Miranda watched as Shadow Walker dismounted, then strode toward her and swung her down from her mount. She noted the caution with which he scrutinized the area, then made preparations for their camp. Halting her when she attempted to gather wood for their fire, he shook his head and said, “We will make no fire tonight.”

“But the soldiers are gone. They’ve probably returned to the fort for the night.”

“No campfire.”

Miranda unconsciously sighed.

“The soldiers came too close today, Miranda.” Shadow Walker’s explanation was strained. “We return to camp, where there is greater safety in numbers.”

“Back to the camp, where I’m a captive.”

Pausing in response, Shadow Walker replied in a gentler tone, “Yes, you are my captive.”

“I don’t want to go back there, Shadow Walker.”

“We will speak no more of this tonight.”

Insistent, Miranda replied, “Nothing will change
overnight. I still won’t want to go back to the camp tomorrow.”

“Miranda,” Shadow Walker’s words came slowly. “Do you trust that I will protect you in this wilderness?”

Miranda nodded.

“Do you doubt that I would protect you in the same way in the camp that is my home?”

Miranda hesitated.

“Miranda …”

She did not reply.

His gaze intent, promise in his voice, Shadow Walker whispered, “You will return with me to the camp. You will be under my protection there, as you have always been, and I will win your trust.”

“But—”

“Put aside your protests, Miranda.” Sliding his arm around her, Shadow Walker whispered, “Believe in me, so we might not spend this time together in conflict.”

Shadow Walker’s arm was strong. His words were heavy with promise. They touched her heart—and somehow, Miranda believed.

CHAPTER TWELVE

“You heard me, Sergeant!” Lieutenant Hill’s narrow face drew into tight, angry lines as he continued harshly, “I don’t care what the news is from Fort Larned. Fort Walters will not enter into military conflict with the Cheyenne unless directly ordered or provoked.”

Ignoring Sergeant Wallace’s barely concealed sneer, Hill held his temper under tight control. Wallace had boldly entered his office minutes earlier, totally at ease with his insolence in criticizing the temporary command of the fort. Were the situation different and his command permanent, he would not have hesitated to order the burly ignoramus taken into custody and thrown into the guardhouse, where the dolt would remain until his lesson was learned—but his command was not permanent, and he could not afford to alienate totally an aggressive veteran of the Indian wars in whom he might find a handy ally.

Responding to Hill’s statement with true arrogance, Wallace replied, “This ain’t the way you was talking before Major Thurston left you in charge. Them Cheyenne are raiding all over the frontier while we stay here, sitting on our hands.”

“The attacks are localized, initiated by war parties operating apart from the main body of Cheyenne.”

“That don’t make their victims any less dead.”

“Orders come straight from Washington. I can’t ignore them.”

“Washington ain’t here now. Washington don’t see them savages burning and looting—”

“As long as Washington’s orders hold, I’m bound to obey.”

“But—”

“I’ve answered your concern as best I can, Sergeant, and I don’t intend to discuss the matter any further.”

“Lieutenant, the men ain’t happy about the way things are going. They—”

“This discussion is over.”

“The men are saying—”

“You’re dismissed, Sergeant!”

His mouth snapping shut, Sergeant Wallace turned with a stiff salute and left the room.

Seething, Lieutenant Hill stared at the door that had closed behind Wallace. He then glanced around Thurston’s office, where he had assumed temporary residence, and muttered a curse.

Damn that Thurston! The bastard had deliberately tied his hands and put him in the position where he now looked as cowardly as Thurston had proved himself to be.
Wallace was right. The depredations continued, with Cheyenne war parties raiding with impunity north of the fort. It was just his luck that the sweeping patrols he had personally conducted since Thurston’s departure had not netted him direct contact with any hostiles so he might prove his true worth.

Hill’s thin lips twitched with suppressed anger. He had personally headed up patrols that had delved deeper into Indian territory than Thurston had ever allowed, hoping for just that opportunity, but fate had cheated him of his quests for glory. The result had been grumbling among the men that appeared to be growing louder with each passing hour—not to mention the direct confrontation with Wallace that he had just terminated.

His agitation overwhelming him, Hill strode to the window and looked out at the fort yard with mounting frustration. He was in command of the fort in name only. Thurston had made a puppet out of him—a creature unworthy to be called a man, much less a soldier!

Trembling with fury, Hill gritted his teeth and vowed: for that humiliation, he would make sure that Thurston paid.

Shadow Walker sat his mount with a warrior’s bearing as they approached the Cheyenne camp—a demeanor Miranda had grown to realize was instinctive, born of accomplishment and pride. Miranda kept her gaze
straightforward and her chin high in a manner designed to conceal the thundering of her heart and a fear she dared not admit.

Refusing to acknowledge the hostile glances and whispering between the squaws as they entered the camp, Miranda noted that Shadow Walker searched the area with his gaze, his brow furrowing.

Miranda’s heart jumped a beat as Walking Woman’s broad, familiar figure emerged through the gathering crowd. The squaw called out to Shadow Walker in their native tongue and Shadow Walker reined his mount back abruptly. Uncertain, she listened to the brief exchange between them and saw Shadow Walker react with a sharp nod before nudging his mount again into motion.

Shadow Walker dismounted beside Rattling Blanket’s lodge. Miranda followed as he raised the lodge flap and stood hesitantly in the doorway. Behind him, Miranda smelled the scent of burning herbs and heard the shaman’s muted chanting. She looked inside the lodge and gasped aloud at the sight of Rattling Blanket lying as still as death on her sleeping bench.

Watching as Shadow Walker entered and kneeled beside the motionless squaw, Miranda felt her throat choke tight. Her actions instinctive, she entered and stood beside him. She saw true anguish in his gaze and felt his grief as Shadow Walker spoke softly to the unconscious woman.

Halting his chanting, Running Elk addressed Shadow
Walker briefly. Shadow Walker stood up, and with a short, backward glance at Rattling Blanket, left the lodge.

Close behind him when he emerged outside, Miranda questioned softly, “What happened? What’s wrong with Rattling Blanket?”

Grasping the horses’ reins, Shadow Walker turned back toward her, his expression grave. “Rattling Blanket’s weak legs failed her as she made her way to the stream, and she fell. She was discovered there long after she had fallen, and her condition has worsened until it is unclear if she will survive.”

“Her legs …”

Miranda remembered the old squaw’s limping gait as she had left the lodge each morning and made her way down the trail for living water—the same water that she had refused to fetch. She recalled that Rattling Blanket’s breathing had been labored when returning to the lodge carrying the heavy water sack—the sack she had refused to carry. She also remembered that Rattling Blanket had not rebuked her for her refusal, but instead had shared equally with her. Miranda knew she would not have fared as well with Walking Woman in her rebellion, or with any of the other squaws who looked at her with such contempt.

And she was ashamed.

Miranda felt the distress Shadow Walker restrained as he said, “It was my intention for you to reside with Rattling Blanket until you were able to accept the
Cheyenne way fully. As sister to my mother, Rattling Blanket has always been closer to me than any other squaw. I knew she would care for you well, because she is kind and good, but I know now that cannot be.”

Reacting spontaneously, hardly aware of her intent, Miranda responded, “Rattling Blanket can’t take care of me as you intended, but I can take care of her.”

A trace of a smile touching his lips for the first time that day, Shadow Walker responded, “Were these earlier times, and were you Cheyenne—”

Cutting him short, Miranda replied, “But I’m
not
Cheyenne.”

Abruptly solemn, Shadow Walker replied, “You will be.”

Noting that she chose neither to accept nor to refute his statement, Shadow Walker continued, “I leave you here as you request, but I will return.”

Watching as Shadow Walker turned to lead the horses away, Miranda realized that she was suddenly alone in a place where animosity against her was ever present. She glanced around her, aware that her discussion with Shadow Walker had not gone unwitnessed, then turned back to Rattling Blanket’s lodge. Taking a deep breath, she walked inside.

Indian agent Tom Edwards looked at the remains of the burned-out conestoga wagon lying beside the wilderness trail—the result of the latest Indian attack. He studied the area more closely, then turned back toward the Fort
Larned patrol behind him. Nodding, he said, “It was the Cheyenne, all right.”