Elaine Barbieri (15 page)

Major Thurston remembered his eagerness when his train drew into the station three days earlier. Barely waiting until it shuddered to a halt, he had snatched his bag from the overhead rack. Within the hour he had been seated in the same chair where he sat now.

His thoughts drifting, Charles saw a great wilderness of endless grassland undulating in the breeze. He saw the ragged outlines of rocky buttes jutting awkwardly toward the sky; the sun shining on snow-covered mountain peaks that appeared to blend with the clouds; and faint outlines of dark hills that were a mere whisper in a stillness that was so bright and clear that it questioned belief.

And he saw something else as well.

He saw a flaxen-haired girl riding wildly across the open grassland, laughter on her lips and happiness in her
heart as she called back to him, flaunting the exuberance of youth. He felt again his pride and true sense of wonder at the beautiful young woman Miranda had become.

A crushing sense of loss returned. Would he ever see Miranda again?

Suddenly despising himself for his momentary doubt, Major Thurston turned his attention to the bespectacled clerk seated at the desk near the office door—the same fellow who had called out names that had gradually emptied all the waiting room chairs but his.

Major Thurston withdrew his watch from his pocket. One glance confirmed that it would not be long before the clerk would start stacking his work on his desk to leave.

His jaw tight with frustration, the major stood up and approached the clerk’s desk. He was about to speak when a bell in the interior office turned the clerk up to him to say, “The Secretary will see you now, Major.”

Walking through the doorway marked Secretary of the Interior moments later, Major Thurston accepted the Secretary’s hand when it was offered to him in greeting. He saw the telegram the Secretary held as he said, “I’ve received a wire from the frontier. The situation there is deteriorating badly. It looks like we have a lot to discuss.”

Miranda awakened with a start. Momentarily disoriented as dawn filtered through the smoke outlet of
Rattling Blanket’s lodge, she glanced around her. She took a moment to gather her thoughts, then remembered that since returning to the camp with Shadow Walker days earlier, she had spent her time tending to the injured Rattling Blanket, who had not yet awakened from her unnatural sleep.

With chilling discomfort, Miranda recalled Spotted Bear approaching her with open threats when she went to the stream for living water the first day. For fear of another confrontation between the two braves, she had kept Spotted Bear’s threats secret from Shadow Walker—another secret she kept uneasily.

She remembered that Shadow Walker had visited often during the days past, and that the squaws looked at her with open animosity and speculative glances when she was unable to conceal her pleasure in Shadow Walker’s company.

Soberly, Miranda remembered something else. During the silence of the night most recently past, she had been driven to speak to Rattling Blanket, even though she had known the words would go unheard when she had whispered, “I’m sorry, Rattling Blanket. Pride and fear kept me from acknowledging—even to myself—the many kindnesses you showed me when I was first brought to this camp. But I want you to know now that I appreciated them, more than you will ever know.”

A sense of uneasiness gradually drew Miranda from her wandering thoughts. Something she could not quite
define was different in the lodge. A scent … a sound …

Miranda gasped in sudden realization. Rattling Blanket’s labored breathing—it had stopped!

Jumping to her feet on shaky legs, Miranda rushed to Rattling Blanket’s sleeping bench and kneeled beside it. The old squaw was so still. Reaching out tentatively, she touched Rattling Blanket’s cheek, then gulped in stunned disbelief when the old squaw opened her eyes.

Hardly daring to believe her ears, Miranda heard Rattling Blanket rasp, “I thirst.”

Grasping the cup nearby, Miranda poured water into it and held it to Rattling Blanket’s lips. Trembling, she watched the old woman swallow awkwardly, then nod her appreciation before closing her eyes.

Waiting only to be certain Rattling Blanket’s breathing was normal and steady, Miranda threw open the door flap and raced through the rapidly lightening camp toward Shadow Walker’s lodge. Reaching it, she ignored the disapproving glances sent her way and called out in a shaky voice, “Shadow Walker, are you in there?”

Straight from his sleeping bench, his chest and feet bare, Shadow Walker was beside her in a moment. Looking up at him with a sudden sob, Miranda gasped, “Rattling Blanket woke up!”

Shadow Walker kneeled beside Rattling Blanket’s sleeping bench, his emotions barely contained. He had
slept poorly through the night as his mind had moved in dizzying circles: Red Shirt, still confined; factions of the camp in deep dispute; Rattling Blanket near death; and Miranda. He had finally fallen asleep, only to be awakened by Miranda’s excited call.

Incredulous, Shadow Walker looked down at Rattling Blanket. The gentle squaw had opened her eyes as if sensing his presence the moment he entered the lodge.

Grasping her callused hand, Shadow Walker held it tightly as he whispered, “You have been drifting in a netherworld for many days. It was feared you would not return to us.”

Her voice a bare rasp of sound, Rattling Blanket replied, “I heard your voices and I could not stay away.”

Beside him, Miranda poured water into a cup and held it to Rattling Blanket’s lips. The old squaw drank, her eyes briefly brightening as she said, “Dancing Star’s spirit returns.”

His own throat tight, Shadow Walker turned at that moment to see Running Elk stand briefly in the doorway before entering the lodge. When he looked back at Rattling Blanket, she had lapsed again into a normal sleep.

Yielding his place at Rattling Blanket’s side to the aged shaman, Shadow Walker drew Miranda outside. He saw that she was trembling, and that her great, light eyes were moist. But he saw something else as well.

Dancing Star’s spirit returns.

Yes, he saw what Rattling Blanket saw. Dancing Star had been named for her spirit and zest for life. He realized he had recognized those same qualities in Miranda the first time he saw her smile.

And she was his.

His heart suddenly pounding, Shadow Walker slipped his arms around Miranda and lowered his mouth to hers. His kiss lingering, he tasted the sweetness of the lips she offered him freely, and the love he had held at bay surged deep and true.

Uncaring of watchful eyes, knowing the time would never be more right, Shadow Walker drew Miranda closer.

He flaunted her!

Rigid with jealousy, Spotted Bear stood a distance away as Shadow Walker embraced the girl. He saw Shadow Walker draw her tight against his chest, melding her to him. He saw the girl’s arms slip around his neck to clutch him tight in return. He watched as Shadow Walker’s fingers wound in the girl’s light hair, as Shadow Walker whispered in her ear and the girl drew back to look up expectantly into his eyes.

Was the girl’s power over Shadow Walker so great that he could not see her as she truly was—that she lied, just as all her people lied? Did Shadow Walker not realize the girl waited for the moment when he would be at his weakest so she might use him for her designs?

Fool!

Spotted Bear’s lips tightened into a hard line. The girl would not use
him.
Rather, when the girl was his, it would be he who wielded the power and proved who was master.

Running Elk emerged unexpectedly from Rattling Blanket’s lodge, his lined face unreadable. Glancing briefly at Shadow Walker and the girl, the old man then strode toward Walking Woman’s lodge and went inside.

Satisfaction settled within Spotted Bear as Running Elk disappeared inside Walking Woman’s lodge. Running Elk had been witness to Shadow Walker’s fascination with the girl. Shadow Walker’s image had already begun to tarnish. It would not be long now.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The small, hard body hit Miranda full force—with a giggle. Startled, Miranda steadied herself as she looked up from her position beside the stream where she had earlier joined the squaws to wash clothes. A two-year-old stared back at her, his dark eyes sparkling with mischief as he grasped a lock of her hair and yanked it hard.

“Ouch!”

Unable to hold back a smile when the child laughed aloud at her surprised exclamation, Miranda took the chubby hand still holding her hair and extended the lock full length, saying, “You can’t have it. It’s attached to my head.”

Surprising her, the child threw his arms around her neck and held her tight while he pushed his face into her hair and breathed deeply. Unable to resist, Miranda returned the boy’s embrace with a quick hug. She drew back when a sober-faced squaw appeared beside them and took the protesting child away with a few words in Cheyenne that somehow lacked the former animosity against her.

Sighing as the child was restored to his mother’s side,
Miranda turned back to her laundry. She brushed a spot of water from the simple doeskin garment she now wore, remembering the moment when Rattling Blanket—now recuperated from her accident three weeks earlier—gave her the doeskin dress and a pair of carefully beaded moccasins to wear. She remembered the old squaw’s eyes had been moist, and that she had beamed with pride when Miranda emerged from the lodge wearing them minutes later. Miranda had not needed to be told that the dress and moccasins had formerly belonged to Dancing Star, and that Rattling Blanket had given them to her with true affection.

Sighing again, Miranda knew that although some things had changed during the weeks she had been in the camp, others had not. The controversy over Red Shirt’s confinement had resulted in the Cheyennes’ refusal to attend the peace talks that Washington had proposed, and tensions continued to abound. Her personal duties had eased with Rattling Blanket’s recovery, but her position remained unchanged, with no word at all that inquiries about her had even reached the camp.

Glancing around her as she wrung out her shirt, Miranda saw the squaws glance in her direction, then whisper among themselves—but with more curiosity than hostility. She remembered her surprise when one of the younger squaws actually smiled at her that morning. She had smiled back, her heart lighter, but the weight had
quickly returned, a weight that Miranda knew would not be lifted until Shadow Walker returned from a mysterious mission that had already lasted three days.

Standing, Miranda smoothed her doeskin dress, then picked up her shirt and started up the trail toward an area with low-lying bushes where the squaws normally spread their laundry out to dry. She missed Shadow Walker desperately. She had not realized how dependent she had become on his presence.

Miranda’s conscience nagged abruptly. Shadow Walker had talked freely of so many things during the time they had spent together, making the secret she kept about her father’s military status more difficult to carry with every passing day. Yet, while conscious of the danger to the Cheyenne camp if her father attempted to rescue her, she was still unable to speak the words that would alert the camp to that possibility and risk her father’s life even further.

Deep in her confused thoughts, Miranda gave a startled cry when strong hands reached out from the bordering foliage to snatch her off the trail. She gasped when familiar arms encircled her, then whispered Shadow Walker’s name as his mouth met hers. Returning his kiss with spontaneous joy, she slipped her arms around his neck, tangling her hands in the raven-colored hair that hung unbound onto his shoulders as he crushed her close.

Drawing back at last, Shadow Walker devoured Miranda with his gaze before whispering, “The days have
been long and the hours slow since I last held you in my arms.” Pausing only for a lingering kiss, he continued, “Were these different days, more time would be ours so I could prove my feelings for you.”

Accepting Shadow Walker’s words, grateful that he had not returned wearing war paint as she had secretly dreaded, Miranda whispered, “If only our people understood each other better, things would be different. Washington is too far removed from the frontier to be able to see the full picture here. All they see is the blood that’s been shed.”

Shadow Walker did not respond.

Miranda continued spontaneously, “Maybe I could make a difference, Shadow Walker. If you let me return, I could go to Washington and speak for the Cheyenne.”

“No.”

“I could tell the truth, that the Cheyenne don’t trust Washington’s word anymore, that the Cheyenne believe if their chiefs went to the parley Washington is proposing, they’d be imprisoned just as Red Shirt was. I could make them understand.”

“No!”

“Shadow Walker—”

His hands gripping her shoulders, Shadow Walker rasped, “Speak of this no more.”

“Shadow Walker, please—”

Releasing her abruptly, Shadow Walker strode back out onto the trail.

Standing frozen into stillness for long moments, Miranda was stunned by her own unexpected plea. What did she really want? Surely not to be separated from this man who stirred her so deeply.