Reckless Desire (23 page)

They came together in a rush of sweat-sheened flesh and breathless kisses, and Mary knew this was what she had been wanting ever since the first time she saw Cloud Walker. His whispered words of love washed over her, making her feel cherished and adored. She wrapped her arms around his neck, certain she would perish if he did not release the flood of desire raging within her. “Now,” she urged, and shuddered with wanton delight as Cloud Walker’s life poured into her, filling her with sweet warmth and a feeling of utter contentment.

Locked in each other’s arms, they did not move for fear of breaking the magical spell between them. Mary had thought to feel ashamed, but she felt only peace, a sense of coming home after a long, dark journey in a foreign land. At last she was where she belonged.

Cloud Walker smiled down at her. “Am I too heavy?”

“Yes, very,” Mary admitted. “But it is a wonderful burden.”

Cloud Walker chuckled softly as he rolled onto his side, carrying Mary with him so that they lay facing each other, their bodies still united. Mary gazed in Cloud Walker’s fathomless black eyes and knew that from that moment on her life would be forever entwined with his. Where he went, she would go. What he wanted, she would want.

“
Ne-mehotatse
,” Cloud Walker murmured, and Mary knew she had never heard a more beautiful word.

“
Ne-mehotatse
,” Mary replied softly.

With a sigh of contentment, Cloud Walker reached down and grabbed a blanket. Draping it over them, he kissed Mary lightly on the cheek. In moments they were asleep in each other’s arms.

* * * * *

Mary could not stop smiling the next day. Every time she thought of how Cloud Walker had made love to her, she was filled with a warm glow. He loved her, and the very thought made her feel beautiful and desirable and wonderful. They could not seem to stop touching each other. Cloud Walker paused to rest the horses frequently, and each halt occasioned a kiss or a hug or a quick intimate caress. Mary secretly counted the hours until nightfall, eagerly anticipating another night in Cloud Walker’s arms.

At bedtime her eagerness turned to shyness and she spread their bedrolls on opposite sides of the fire. Perhaps Cloud Walker was not as anxious as she to make love again. The thought hurt, but she did not want to seem too eager, too pushy, too possessive.

Cloud Walker frowned at her when he came back from watering the horses and saw their blankets spread so far apart.

“Have you tired of me already?” he mused, one black eyebrow arching upward.

“No,” Mary said, finding it hard to speak. “I…I didn’t know if you’d want to…if you wanted…me.”

“Mary.” Cloud Walker swept her into his arms, his mouth trailing fire as he kissed her eyelids, her cheeks, the tip of her nose, and finally her mouth.

Mary sighed as she relaxed in his arms. He wanted her. Oh, yes, he wanted her! The fact was evident in the way his arms crushed her close, in the passion of his kisses, and the warmth of his manhood pressing against her belly.

Without another word, Cloud Walker released her, but only long enough to move her bedroll next to his own. Then, lifting her in his arms, he carried her to their blankets and began to undress her. She was beautiful, he thought, so exquisitely beautiful. Her skin was smooth and unblemished, her breasts firm and perfect, her belly flat, her legs slim and nicely rounded. And her eyes—he had never thought to see another woman look at him like that, as though he were the most wonderful man in the world. Only a few months ago he had thought he had nothing to live for, and now Mary was here, loving him, giving him a reason to go on living. He thought briefly of Prairie Grass Woman and offered a silent prayer to Man Above for sending him two fine women to love.

That night they made love tenderly, leisurely, rapturously. Cloud Walker explored every inch of Mary’s delectable body, marveling anew at her beauty. He reveled in the way she murmured his name as his seed poured into her, the way she shuddered with pleasure as his hands stroked her flesh, the way she responded to his touch, eager and trusting and unashamed.

It was only later, when she was asleep in his arms, her head pillowed on his shoulder, that he remembered she belonged to another man.

* * * * *

They reached the reservation just after noon the following day. The place was as dreary and depressing as Cloud Walker remembered. The warriors sat outside their lodges bundled in old buffalo robes or Army blankets, their faces devoid of welcome or curiosity as Cloud Walker rode toward his mother’s lodge. A few young children stared at Mary, their black eyes wary and afraid. She was dressed like a white woman. Perhaps she had come to take them away from the reservation.

Dismounting, Cloud Walker helped Mary from her horse. Then, taking a deep breath, he entered his mother’s lodge. Mary trailed after him.

The interior of the lodge was dark. There was no fire and it took Mary several moments before her eyes adjusted to the dark. She glanced around the lodge while Cloud Walker started a fire in the pit in the center of the floor. The lodge was small and virtually empty save for a buffalo-robe bed and a few cooking utensils. A small wicker basket held several items of clothing.

“
Nahkoa
,” Cloud Walker murmured, taking his mother’s hand in his. “I am here.”

“
Naha
, is that you?” the old woman asked in a voice that was thin and weak.

“Yes,
nahkoa
. I have come to stay with you.”

Tears filled the old woman’s eyes as she gazed up at her son. “You will not have to stay long,” she predicted. “Soon I will join your father in the world of spirits.”

“Not too soon,
nahkoa
,” Cloud Walker said, squeezing his mother’s frail hand. “Here, I have brought someone to meet you.” Cloud Walker motioned for Mary to come closer. “
Nahkoa
, this is Mary. She is the daughter of Two Hawks Flying. Mary, this is my mother, Singing Bird.”

The old woman’s eyes lit up at the mention of Two Hawks Flying. With an effort she sat up, her hand reaching for Mary’s.

“So,” the old woman said with a ghost of a smile. “You are the daughter of my old friend.” She nodded to herself as though pleased. “Yes, you are truly his daughter. How is your father?”

“Very well, thank you.”

Singing Bird nodded, and then she fell back on the robes. “I remember Two Hawks Flying well,” she said wistfully. “I remember the day he rode off to the Greasy Grass with Tasunke Hinzi. Ai, that was a day to remember. We killed all the white eyes, just as Tatanka Yotanka had said we would. Ai, I remember how Two Hawks Flying rode at the head of our warriors, mounted on his big red stallion. And Crazy Horse was there, as well. ‘Ho, brothers,’ he cried. ‘It is a good day to die.’” The old woman let out a long wail of grief. “My Tasunke Hinzi died that day.’”

“Rest now,
nahkoa
,” Cloud Walker urged gently. “I will be here when you wake up.”

Singing Bird nodded. Obediently she closed her eyes and was soon asleep.

“What a small world,” Mary remarked. “Imagine, your mother knowing my father.”

Cloud Walker smiled. “I grew up on stories of Crazy Horse and Sitting Bull and Two Hawks Flying. My mother never let me forget that the Cheyenne were a proud people.”

“Tasunke Hinzi is a Sioux name,” Mary said.

Cloud Walker nodded. “When my father was a young man, he saved the life of Sitting Bull, and Sitting Bull adopted him into the tribe and gave him a Sioux name. My father considered it a great honor, and so he kept the name the old chief had given him.”

Mary smiled as she glanced at the old woman. “I think we grew up on many of the same stories. My father often spoke of Crazy Horse, of what a great chief he was. I wish I could have known him. He must have been a remarkable man.”

“Yes. And now he’s gone, like so many of our people.”

Mary placed her hand on Cloud Walker’s arm. “I love you,” she murmured.

Cloud Walker placed his hand over Mary’s. “That is just what I needed to hear,” he said gruffly. “Come, let us go outside and get some fresh air. It smells like death in here.”

Mary felt her spirits sag as they walked through the reservation. An air of hopelessness hung over the place. It was in the faces of the people they passed, in the eyes of the old men, in the wail of a woman as she mourned the death of her husband.

“Let’s go back to your mother’s lodge,” Mary suggested, “I can’t bear to see any more.”

Cloud Walker said nothing, only took Mary’s arm and led her back to Singing Bird’s lodge. His heart was filled with impotent rage as he pondered the way his people were forced to live. They were dressed in clothes that were worn and tattered. Their lodges were in need of repair, but there were no hides to repair them with. The few horses remaining to the Indians were thin and old. But, most depressing of all, the people had lost their will to survive. The men drank too much, trading what few items they owned for more firewater. The women were sluggish and dull-eyed. No longer did they sing and chatter as they did their chores. Even the children were subdued, their dark eyes sad and confused. Yes, the spirit had gone out of his people.

Cloud Walker’s mother was still asleep when they entered the lodge. Her breathing was shallow and uneven, her face pale and waxy-looking. Mary swallowed hard as she sat down on a folded blanket next to the firepit. Death was in the air.

Cloud Walker stood looking down at his mother. It would not be long before she walked the Hanging Road to the world of spirits.

That night Mary prepared dinner from the supplies they had brought with them. She made broth for Cloud Walker’s mother, then watched, deeply moved, as Cloud Walker knelt at his mother’s side and fed her.

After dinner Singing Bird reminisced about the old days when she had been a girl growing up in the Black Hills. She talked about Cloud Walker’s father and how he had courted her for many moons, coming to her lodge late at night to play a flute, the notes soft and low and enticing. He had often followed her when she went to gather wood or to draw water from the river, hoping to catch her alone. She spoke of waiting for him in the evening, a big red courting blanket over her arm. It was a quaint custom, Mary thought. When a woman was courting, she would stand outside her lodge with a red blanket over her arm. If she looked with favor on the man who had come calling, she would hold out her arms, inviting him to stand beside her, and then she would cover them with the blanket. Mary smiled and thought how very romantic that would be, to stand close to the one you loved within the privacy of a warm red cocoon.

“When I was old enough to marry,” Singing Bird went on, lost in the past, “Tasunke Hinzi brought my father three fine ponies and a fine buffalo robe. He was very handsome, your father, and very brave, and I was proud to be his wife. After he died, many men offered to take his place in my lodge, but I could not love them.” She shook her head wistfully. “For me there could only be one man, my Tasunke Hinzi.”

Talking had wearied her. Her eyelids fluttered down and she was asleep.

“They must have been very much in love,” Mary murmured.

“Ai. When my father died, my mother hacked off her hair and cut off her little finger. She mourned him for over a year.”

Mary’s stomach churned as Cloud Walker talked of his mother’s grief. She knew of the Cheyenne custom to self-inflict pain to express their grief, but she had never known anyone who had done it. Now, glancing at Singing Bird’s right hand, she saw that the little finger had been cut off at the second knuckle.

Fighting the urge to vomit, Mary looked away. She had been raised to believe the traditions of her father’s people, and most of them seemed beautiful and natural, but she was not sure she could accept self-mutilation. It seemed so barbaric, so pointless.

That night, lying in Cloud Walker’s arms, Mary could not sleep. Being half-Indian had never been particularly important to her before. Indeed, she had rarely given her mixed heritage much thought until Katherine was born. For perhaps the first time in her life, Mary had known what prejudice was. She had been shocked by Frank’s attitude toward his daughter, hurt by the comments of women she had considered her friends. The word “breed” sounded ugly and demeaning when applied to Katherine, though the word had never bothered her before, not the way it had bothered Hawk. It had been difficult for her older brother. But then, Hawk had always been more Indian than white in his appearance and actions. He was proud of his Cheyenne blood, and he never let anyone forget it. Mary was proud, too, but she had accepted it as a part of her, like the color of her hair, never calling attention to it, never denying it. The people in Bear Valley had liked and accepted her, and she had liked them in return. Only in Chicago had she been subjected to ridicule and verbal abuse, and she had been hurt and surprised. The Indian wars had ended more than twenty years ago, yet most whites still thought of Indians as savages, as a people inferior to others.

Now, lying in Cloud Walker’s arms, Mary felt the stirrings of a deeper, more meaningful pride in her race. Sleeping inside the lodge, her nostrils filling with the scent of smoke and herbs, she wondered what it would have been like to have been born thirty years ago when the Indians still roamed wild and free and the white men had not yet begun to covet the red man’s land. She pictured herself living inside a conical hide lodge, wearing a fringed doeskin tunic and soft moccasins, tanning hides and caring for a husband. Would she have made a good Cheyenne wife? Could she have been happy living in a home of hide, spending long nights alone while her husband was out hunting with the other warriors, or riding off to war against some enemy tribe?

She glanced at Cloud Walker, sleeping peacefully beside her, and thought she would be able to endure anything so long as he was with her. She felt safe in his arms, safe and loved, and she knew she would rather spend the rest of her life in a crude hide lodge with Cloud Walker than share the finest mansion ever built with Frank Smythe.

Closing her eyes, Mary drifted off to sleep, and in her dreams she saw Cloud Walker riding across the plains astride a big black Appaloosa stallion. There were buffalo in her dreams, thousands and thousands of the great, shaggy beasts. And wild horses. And a peaceful Cheyenne village laid out along the banks of the Powder River. But she had eyes only for Cloud Walker. He wore only a brief clout and fringed leggings, his long black hair, hanging to his waist, was adorned with a single black eagle feather. Her heart fluttered with excitement as he rode toward her, sweeping her into his arms. Together they rode across the vast sunlit prairie, their hearts beating as one. And then they were standing together before Eagle-That-Soars-in-the-Sky while the shaman spoke the solemn, beautiful words that made them man and wife. Her father was there, too, his face grave, looking tall and handsome in a buckskin shirt and leggings. Her mother stood beside Shadow, her gray eyes damp with tears of happiness. In her dream, Mary smiled as Eagle-That-Soars-in-the-Sky joined their hands together. They would live happily ever after…