Sarah's Heart (12 page)

His two companions
chuckled at him, pointing and speaking in the same unfamiliar language. The short
one’s eyes turned to black ice as he leered at Sarah. Clearly, she had
embarrassed him in front of the others.

The yellow lightning
bolt on his cheek twitched, and a dark flash of anger crossed his face. Sarah
stood her ground. He leaned in, stopping when his nose was just inches away.
Dropping his weapon on the ground, he grabbed her forearms.

 
Sarah sucked in her breath, stifling the
scream mounting inside her. Where was Wolf? Oh God, where was he?

The Indian’s smooth
brow deepened as his gaze scanned her. “You make plenty sons.” His breath
splayed across her face as he spoke in broken English.

Her mind raced. Had
he just said he planned to take her as a wife?

 
She leaned back and gazed at him, fear gnawing
at her innards. Feigning a smile, she cleared her throat. “Ah...I…I already
have a husband.”

If he understood, he
disregarded her lie, and with one hand firmly locked around her wrist, he bent
and picked up the hatchet-looking piece he’d dropped on the ground.
Straightening, he tugged at her, forcing her to follow. Sarah dug in her heels,
glancing hopelessly at the place where Wolf had disappeared into the trees.

Fingernails dug into
her skin. The adamant Indian was much stronger than she, and with a jerk, he
almost pulled her off her feet. “Come!” His stony stare made his meaning
perfectly clear.

Stumbling along
behind, her arm burning beneath the Indian’s grasp, Sarah searched over her
shoulder, praying to see Wolf. Her heart thudded with despair, realizing it
would be three against one if he did appear. If he had good sense, he’d stay
well hidden. He didn’t owe her anything. Maybe this was her punishment for
leaving him behind when she should have stayed and made sure he was all right.
The Indian’s fingers dug deeper into her skin.

“Haho!”
Wolf’s voice sounded behind her.

 
Tears of relief stung the back of her eyes
when her captor released her and backed away. Wolf crossed the creek and walked
to her side.

The short one made
hand strange gestures, using some form of obvious communication with Wolf.

Wolf turned his gaze
to Sarah, dropping the rabbit and valise he carried. “He wants to know who I
am.”

“Miyelo ca kola,” he
answered to the brave, while clasping his own hands in a shake. “I told him I
am a friend in both my language and in sign.” Wolf explained.

She wanted to fall
into his arms, thankful for a friendly face, but she refused to show weakness.
“I think this one wants to marry me.” Her voice trembled as she used her chin
to point out the brave who’d backed away from her.

“Mitawan,” Wolf
said, raising his voice so that all heard. At the same time he placed a hand on
each side of his head, hooked his fingers and stroked downward, as if combing
his hair, and then he joined his two index fingers side-by-side, pointing to
the other man.

“What’s that mean?”
she whispered.

“My
wife.”
He draped his arm
around her as if it was the most natural thing in the world, his gaze fixed on
his aggressor. “First I signed female and then showed him we are joined. There
are many languages among the people, but most all can speak with their hands.”

She squared her
shoulders, feeling safe in his presence.

The shortest brave
held up two fingers in a ‘vee’ and identified himself as Yellow Dog, again in
barely discernable English. He raised his hands, and then moving them in a
semi-circle, struck them against one another.

Wolf rolled his
eyes. “It seems that this Pawnee wants to trade for my woman.”

A shiver ran through
Sarah and she held her breath. Why should Wolf fight for her? She meant nothing
to him. Frozen, she waited for the next translation.

There wasn’t one.

 
Wolf dropped his arm from around her, pulled
his knife from its sheath and, with a menacing glare, walked toward Yellow Dog.

“Mitawan,” Wolf
yelled again.

Yellow Dog showed
resignation by his immediate signing of friend—shaking his own hands in front
of his body. “Friends,” he gestured to his companions, his right hand moving in
a horizontal circle—“all.”

 
The three turned and walked back to where
their horses were tethered, leaving Sarah on wobbly knees. Wolf turned and
smiled at her.

“What did you say?”
she asked, feeling as though she’d just run a mile.

“I simply reminded
him with a little show of force that you are my wife, and suddenly they became
my friends.”

She watched them
ride away, feeling her breathing slow, but still her heart pounded. “Do you
think they’ll come back?”

“No. If I was a
white man, they wouldn’t have left so easily, but they see my Indian blood and
words. There is honor between brothers, no matter if only half. Wayo Kapi… it
is truth.”

She sank to the
ground and peered up at him. “Thank you for saving me again. It seems it’s
becoming a habit. You have no idea how happy I am that you came back when you
did.”

He smiled and knelt,
and then picking up the rabbit’s limp body, he pierced its skin with his knife.
The ripping noise as he slit the animal from head to foot disturbed her, and
she averted her gaze from the unpleasant sight of seeing the creature
disemboweled. It wasn’t something she enjoyed despite having skinned and cleaned
many an animal herself.

“I watched through
the trees for a while, impressed with your courage,” he said, tearing at fur.
“I wanted to wait until I was sure of their intentions. Yellow Dog seemed to be
the aggressive one; the other two probably wouldn’t have bothered you at all. I
know from my time with the Sioux people that not many wives eagerly accept a
second woman into their lodges. I’m pretty sure even the Pawnee women feel the
same.”His laughter was a welcome sound.

She felt useless,
sitting and watching him do all the work, but she was hopelessly lost when it
came to his rustic methods of food preparation. Accustomed to a stove and
utensils, cooking over an open flame reminded her of the times she’d traveled
with her parents. She hadn’t liked it then or on the wagon train, still finding
it preferable to eat at a table with dinnerware and napkins over sitting on the
ground and licking her fingers. Recalling all she’d been through and survived,
giving up a few comforts was a small price to pay.

It was a shame she’d
lost the ability to see a positive side to anything.

Wolf draped the
naked hare across the empty coffee pot and began gathering more logs for the
fire. He returned with an armful, and dropped them onto the smoldering cinders
within the ring of stones. While the flames blossomed, he sat cross-legged on
the ground, working on three longer branches. He skinned one clean, and using
it as a skewer for their dinner, propped it across the pit with the other two
as support. The fire crackled and popped with each drip of grease splattering
from the roasting rabbit; the delightful aroma teased Sarah’s nose. Rustic or
not, dinner smelled wonderful.

Wolf sat with one
knee bent and his arm resting atop it. He gazed into the distance, seemingly
lost in thought.

 
“Wolf,” she summoned him back. “How did you
learn to speak the language?”

He took a deep
breath. “It’s a long story. Are you sure you want to hear it?”

“Of
course.”

“I was just
five-years-old when my father, Charles Elder, was killed defending my
red-skinned mother. We lived in Montana
territory—migrating there after my parents married. A neighboring farmer and
his family were slaughtered by a Crow war party, and an angry mob from town
wanted my mother to pay for it. It didn’t matter that it wasn’t her tribe—an
Indian was an Indian.” His brow creased.

“That must have been
horrible for you. If speaking about your past is hard for you, you don’t have
to continue.”

“I’m fine. Pain is
part of life.” He leaned forward and pulled a browned leg from the cooked
rabbit. Tender, the limp released into his hand without effort. He offered her
the meat then yanked a second piece free, chewed a bite, and swallowed. “So,
the town’s preacher heard what was being planned and came to our house before
the others got there. He hid me and my mother beneath blankets in the back of
his buckboard and took us to the church while my father stayed at home,
planning to reason with the townspeople. The Reverend kept us in the chapel
basement until dark and then drove us home. There wasn’t much left of the
place. My father’s bloodied body lay in the yard, and the house and everything
in it had been reduced to smoldering ashes. The barn looked like they set it
afire, but for some reason the building didn’t catch.”

“Why are people so
hateful?” Sympathy stabbed at her. Why had she asked him to relive his pain?
Although saddened she had, hearing about his past provided a connection between
them. Maybe sharing the experience brought him closure.

 
“What did you and your mother do then?”
Licking grease from her lips, Sarah leaned forward, anxious for the rest of the
story.

“Luckily we still
had the wagon and team, and after traveling for weeks, Ma and I happened upon a
Lakota village—one of seven Sioux tribes who follow the buffalo. My mother,
Little Feather, intended to find her way back to her own people, the Dakota
Sioux, but Lame Deer took a liking to her and made her his second wife.”

Sarah studied Wolf’s
face. Despite his dark hair and olive skin, his hazel eyes revealed his white
heritage. He had a striking profile—strong chin, high cheekbones, and full
lips. Her heart fluttered, remembering how he had called her his wife. Her
curiosity piqued. “So, how long did you live with the tribe?”

“I lived with the
people until my sixteenth year. Spotted Fever took my mother and several others
in the tribe, and with her gone, nothing held me there. Because I wasn’t
full-blooded, most of those my age made it their callin’ to make my life
miserable. In my younger years they shoved me and called me names, but as I
aged and my body grew strong, the physical cruelty stopped. Still, there was
always someone around to remind me I was an outsider.” He removed the skewer
stick with the remaining rabbit from over the fire and extended it toward her. “More?”

She shook her head,
preferring to hear the story’s ending rather than eat. “So you left?”

“Yes. That was ten
years ago, and I still haven’t found where I fit.” Holding both ends of the
stick, he chomped into the rabbit’s hindquarter then wiped the juices on the
back of his hand. Even though primitive and missing the manners she
appreciated, Wolf was a very handsome man.

Sarah gazed down
into her lap, her cheeks warming. She had no business thinking such things
about a man she barely knew. Thank goodness, she wasn’t small-minded enough to
let his heritage determine her treatment of him, but once they got to Independence, she would
thank him for his help and bid him farewell. There was no room in her life for
a man, now or in the future. Still, she dared another glimpse at him through
her lashes, fighting a strange sensation in the pit of her stomach.

Chapter Twelve

Sarah
squinted
her eyes against the morning sun and rolled away
from its blinding glare. Her spine ached from sleeping on uneven ground, and a
slight burn tinged the skin around the snakebite. She sat to inspect her leg
and noticed Wolf’s bedroll was empty. Her heart seized.

Discomfort
forgotten, she scanned the campsite for him. Scout was still tethered and
munched on a patch of grass. Sarah released a breath. Wolf certainly wouldn’t
abandon a horse he so obviously loved. Besides, the blossoming flames within
the fire pit showed he hadn’t been gone long. Feeling useless, she heaved a
sigh. Once again, he took care of business while she lazed around.

A quick glance at
the bite area showed nothing of concern. The heat beneath her skin must be part
of healing. Scooping up a blanket, she folded it, and then the others until the
bedding was ready for travel. The sun having barely crept past the trace of
morning hues revealed the hour was still early, but guilt niggled at her for
having remained abed longer than Wolf. Doubts about her decision to accompany
him to Independence
clouded her mind, but weighing her options made it clear she had little choice.
She was alive because of him.

Happy whistling
announced Wolf’s arrival, and he appeared through the trees, fastening his
breeches. Seeing her, his eyes rounded and his lips curled into a smile. “Good
morning.”

He’d shed his
long-sleeved shirt in favor of a vest, and her gaze froze on his smooth,
muscled chest. Realizing she stared, she lowered her eyes. “Good morning. I’m
sorry I slept so late.”

“No problem. I’ve
only been up long enough to find us some breakfast.”

 
She looked up, eager to see the morning fare,
her scant dinner long digested and her stomach hollow.