The Angel and the Outlaw (22 page)

“You’ve heard of Red Cloud, haven’t you?” Brandy said, giggling. “Well, this is Snow Cloud, a mighty Lakota warrior.”

“Mightier than your husband?” J.T. challenged.

“No warrior who walks the earth is mightier than my husband,” Brandy said. “He can leap tall buildings in a single bound, change the course of mighty rivers, bend steel with his bare hands…” Unable to help herself, she started laughing.

“What’s so funny?” J.T. asked.

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me.”

“Well, there’s this fictional comic book hero named Superman. He was from another planet, and he had these fabulous powers that enabled him to leap tall buildings, and fly, and…” Brandy glanced over her shoulder to see J.T. frowning at her.

“What are comic books?”

“They’re stories for children, mostly about imaginary characters, like heroes with super powers and animals that act like people.”

Brandy grinned, wondering what J.T. would think of the Power Rangers and Batman, of movie stars like Sylvester Stallone and Arnold Schwarzenegger and John Wayne. She wished suddenly that she could transport J.T. through time. What would he think of her modern world? She had a feeling that he’d love movies and plays as much as she did, but what would he think of the pollution, the lack of morality and family values? Would he embrace the wonders of modern science and technology? As much as she missed many of the modern conveniences, like indoor plumbing, her microwave oven, TV and radio, she didn’t miss the violence of the ’90s, or the constant barrage of bad news that filled the papers—reportings of drive-by shootings and gang violence, the fearful spread of AIDS, the rise in teenage pregnancy and suicide.

“Maybe you could tell me one of those comic book stories,” J.T. remarked as they walked toward their lodge.

“Maybe.” Brandy took J.T.’s hand and gave it a squeeze. “It’s so pretty here,” she said, her gaze wandering over the countryside. The hills and the trees were covered with snow. Billowy white clouds were scattered across the sky like a handful of fluffy cotton balls. She watched a couple of boys as they came careening down a hillside on their sleds and was reminded of a picture she had once seen on a Christmas card.

“What day do you think it is?” Brandy asked.

J.T. shook his head. “I don’t know, why?”

“I was just wondering if we’d missed Christmas.”

J.T. frowned at her. Christmas! The last time he’d celebrated Christmas had been the year before his mother died. As he recalled, it hadn’t been much of a celebration, but then, none of the Christmases he remembered had been particularly noteworthy.

He stared into the distance, his thoughts turned inward. His mother has worked late that last Christmas Eve and come home rip-roaring drunk. She had slept until noon the following day and woke up with a hell of a hangover. It had been almost one o’clock before she got out of bed. She had smiled apologetically as she made her way into the kitchen to wash her face. He remembered that she had put on a clean dress, blue, it had been, with pale pink stripes. Humming softly, she had fixed him a bowl of soup, sat at the table, sipping a cup of black coffee, while he ate.

He had given her a pair of carved ivory combs for her hair, stolen from the best store in town.

She had smiled at him through red-rimmed eyes, kissed him soundly on the cheek, then pulled a gaily wrapped box out from under their shabby sofa.
For you, Johnny
, she had said. He had opened the box with a solemnity that bordered on reverence. Inside, he had found a new shirt, one made just for him. He had worn it until the sleeves were too short and the collar frayed beyond repair.

“J.T.?”

Brandy’s voice brought him back to the present. “I’d be guessing,” he said, “but I don’t think you’ve missed it.”

Her smile was brighter than the Christmas star. “Since we don’t know the date for sure, can we pretend it’s next week?”

“Sure, honey.”

* * * * *

Brandy didn’t see much of J.T. during the next few days, but, for once, she was glad to have some time alone as she spent every waking minute working on a surprise for J.T.. Chatawinna had given Brandy a beautiful buffalo robe as a wedding present and Brandy had known, the moment she saw it, that she was going to use it to make a coat for J.T.

The finished product was beautiful, warm and soft. On an impulse, she laid the coat out on the floor of the lodge and painted a red wolf on the inside, and then wrote J.T.’s Lakota name, Tokala, underneath.

Head cocked to one side, she admired her handiwork and then, laughing softly, she drew two hearts entwined with their initials inside.

Tomorrow was the day they had chosen to celebrate Christmas, and she could hardly wait to give the coat to J.T..

She was warming a pot of soup for dinner when J.T. entered the lodge.

“Hi!” She smiled at him, feeling her insides curl with happiness because he was home.

J.T. winked at her. “Hi, yourself,” he said, and reaching behind him, he pulled a small fir tree into the lodge.

“A tree!” Brandy exclaimed, throwing her arms around him. “J.T., it’s perfect!”

J.T. hugged her close for a long moment, aware of the changes taking place in her body. Her breasts felt fuller, heavier, against his chest. Her belly was no longer flat, but softly rounded from the new life growing within her womb.

He pressed his face to her neck and took a deep breath, inhaling the warm sweet scent of woman and soap mingled with the aroma of the herbs she had used in the soup. Her skin was smooth beneath his cheek. Closing his eyes, he nuzzled her ear, then blazed a trail of quick kisses along the side of her neck.

Brandy swayed against him, moaning softly as his kisses heated her flesh. Desire stirred within her and she pressed herself closer, her hands sliding up and down his back, over his buttocks.

She laughed softly as the sure evidence of J.T.’s desire poked her in the belly. Leaning back against the arms that circled her waist, she smiled up at him. “Bet I know what you’re thinking.”

“I’ll bet you do.”

“Do you want to eat first?”

J.T.’s thumbs caressed the curve of her breasts. “What do you think?”

* * * * *

After a late dinner, they set the tree up in the rear of the lodge. They used bows made of colored ribbons and strings of trade beads for decorations; Brandy fashioned an angel from a pine cone and a few scraps of cloth.

“It’s the prettiest tree I’ve ever seen,” Brandy said, smiling up at her husband. “Do you want your present now, or tomorrow morning?”

“Present? What present?”

“Why, your Christmas present, of course. My family always exchanged gifts on Christmas morning. My mom would fix a big breakfast, and then we’d gather around the tree and open our gifts, one at a time. What did your…?” Brandy bit down on her lower lip, cutting her words off in mid-sentence as it occurred to her that he might not have many happy holiday memories. “I’m sorry, J.T..”

“About what?”

“I…nothing.”

“It’s all right, Brandy.”

“I didn’t mean to…that is…”

“Brandy, it’s all right. Don’t start feeling guilty because you had a happy childhood. I’m glad you’ve got good memories of your family, especially when you…” His voice trailed off, and he took a deep breath. “Especially when you might never see them again.”

Brandy felt a catch in her heart. Her family. She’d been so happy with J.T. these past months she’d hardly thought of her family at all. “I wish there was some way I could let them know I’m all right.”

J.T. drew her into his arms. “I’m sorry, Brandy.”

“My mom must be worried to death. Dad, too.”

He heard the tears in her voice. Guilt and regret cut deep into J.T.’s conscience. But for him, she’d be in her own home, with her friends and family. And yet, try as he might, he couldn’t be sorry she was here. She was the best thing that had ever happened to him.

Resting her cheek against J.T.’s chest, Brandy wrapped her arms around his waist.

“I don’t want you to think I’m not happy here,” she said quietly. “I wouldn’t trade this time with you for anything else in the world.”

“What if you could go home now, tonight?”

Brandy took a step backward. Cupping J.T.’s face in her hands, she looked him straight in the eye.

“I am home,” she said. “You’re my home, John Cutter. Don’t ever forget that.”

The fervent sincerity in her voice and the warmth of her touch spread through J.T.. “I only want what’s best for you, Brandy, and you deserve so much more than I’ll ever be able to give you.”

“Stop it! I’m happy right where I am, here, with you. Have you got that straight, mister?”

J.T. grinned wryly. “Yes, ma’am,” he replied. “I hear you loud and clear.”

“Good. Now, do you want your present tonight, or tomorrow morning?”

“I have a present for you that won’t wait until tomorrow,” J.T. drawled, pulling her into his arms again.

Brandy grinned up at him, amazed that she could want him again so soon. “Really? Show me.”

“My pleasure,” he murmured, and swinging her into his arms, he carried her to bed.

“Wake up, J.T..” Leaning over him, Brandy tickled his cheek. “Wake up. It’s Christmas.”

J.T. groaned softly as he opened one eye. “Does Christmas have to come so early?”

“Yes.” She shook his shoulder impatiently. “J.T.!”

“All right, all right, I’m awake.”

Sitting up, he enfolded her in his arms and kissed her soundly. “Merry Christmas, Missus Cutter.”

“Merry Christmas, Mister Cutter.”

Brandy ate quickly, then sat beside her husband, drumming her fingers impatiently, while he finished his breakfast.

He’d barely swallowed the last mouthful when she whisked the bowl from his hand. “Close your eyes.”

J.T. grinned at her, then obligingly closed his eyes. He heard her rummaging around in the rear of the lodge, his curiosity mounting with each passing moment.

“Okay,” she declared, a little breathless, “you can look now.”

J.T. opened his eyes. Brandy was standing in front of him, enveloped in an enormous coat.

“Kind of big for you, isn’t it?” he asked, laughing.

“What? Oh, it’s for you, silly. I made it. Come on,” she said, her eyes shining with excitement as she took the coat off and held it for him. “Try it on.”

“What’s that?” he asked.

“Oh, just a little something I painted.”

J.T. shook his head in wonder as he ran his fingers over the fox she had drawn on the hide. “And what’s this?” he asked, tracing the two hearts she had drawn beneath the fox.

Brandy felt a blush warm her cheeks. “Nothing. It’s silly. Something school girls do when they have a crush on a boy.”

“Does this mean you have a crush on me?”

“What do you think?”

“I think you’re the best thing that ever happened to me,” J.T. said, taking the coat and slipping it on.

It was a perfect fit.

“Do you like it?” Brandy asked.

“I love it,” J.T. said. “And I love you.” He drew her into his arms and hugged her tight, his throat thick with emotion. No one had given him a present of any kind since his mother died.

Brandy rested her head against his chest. The fur beneath her cheek was warm and soft.

After a time, J.T. stepped away. “I have something for you, too.”

“You do?” She looked at him expectantly, her face flushed with excitement, her eyes shining brightly.

“It isn’t much,” he said, afraid she’d be disappointed.

“I’ll be the judge of that.”

Crossing the lodge, J.T. delved beneath his sleeping robe and withdrew his gift. “Merry Christmas, Brandy love.”

With eager fingers, Brandy unwound the square of trade cloth that he’d used to wrap the present. Inside she found a fox carved out of wood stained a dark red. It was the most exquisite thing she had ever seen.

“J.T., it’s beautiful.”

He shrugged. “I’m glad you like it.”

“Did you…did you make it?”

“Yeah. I wanted you to have something to remember me by when…you know.”

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” Brandy said, refusing to ruin the moment by thinking of a future without J.T.. “It’s so lifelike.” She smiled at him, her eyes bright with unshed tears. “Merry Christmas, J.T..”

“Merry Christmas, Brandy.”

For a timeless moment, J.T. gazed into her eyes, wishing he had the soul of a poet so he could tell her how much she meant to him, how she had enriched his life, given it meaning.

He wanted to tell her how he felt, ached with the need to tell her, but the words wouldn’t come. Only her name, spoken on a sob as he drew her into his arms.

Brandy held him close, and in her heart, she heard the words he couldn’t say.

* * * * *

A week later, three warriors from Crazy Horse’s village rode into the camp. J.T. had been outside talking to Nape Luta and Tatanka Sapa when the three warriors rode up.

“What do you think they want?” J.T. asked.

Nape Luta shrugged. “Let us go find out.”

J.T. followed Nape Luta and Tatanka Sapa towards the three men. When they reached the riders, Wicasa Tankala and several of the leading men of the village were already there.

“Welcome,” Wicasa Tankala said. “Come, we will smoke while my woman prepares you something to eat.”

A short time later, a large group of men had gathered inside Wicasa Tankala’s lodge, listening in growing disbelief as the warriors delivered their message.

“All Lakota and Cheyenne are to report to the reservation within one moon, or they will be considered hostiles to be hunted down and destroyed.”

J.T. glanced at Wicasa Tankala, who nodded at him. It was just as Brandy had said, J.T. mused. The government was issuing an ultimatum that would be virtually impossible for the Indians to obey due to distance and bad weather.

J.T. listened as each warrior present stood and spoke his mind. He could understand their anger, their confusion. Wicasa Tankala’s band was at peace, yet if they didn’t pack up and move to the reservation, they would be considered hostiles. J.T. knew what that meant. The government order was, in effect, declaring open season on the Indians.

To a man, the Lakota spoke for war.

An hour later, the warriors sent by Crazy Horse took their leave.

At a signal from Wicasa Tankala, J.T. remained in the medicine man’s lodge after everyone had left. “It is as your woman has predicted,” the shaman remarked.

J.T. nodded.

“You heard what the people said. They want to fight.”

“It’s foolishness,” J.T. exclaimed. “Even though the Lakota will win the battle against Custer, in the end, they will lose.”

“I cannot tell the people what to do,” Wicasa Tankala said with a weary shake of his head. “I can only advise them.” The medicine man smiled sadly, looking far older than his years. “What warrior could turn his back on a fight he knows he will win?”

Brandy was waiting for J.T. outside their lodge, her face lined with worry.

“What is it?” she asked anxiously. “What’s going on?”

“What you said was going to happen has happened,” J.T. said. “Crazy Horse sent three of his men to warn us that all Indians who don’t report to their reservation by the end of January will be considered hostile.”

Brandy placed a protective hand over her stomach as she stared at J.T.. During the next year, the Plains would run red with blood as the Indians made a last effort to hold on to their homeland. “What are we going to do?”

“I don’t know. The warriors want to fight.”

“I’m scared.”

J.T. nodded. He was scared, too, not for himself, but for Brandy and the baby. He wouldn’t be here to defend Brandy when Custer came. Even though the Lakota were destined to win the battle, there was still a chance she might be hurt, or killed.

In the spring, he would take her away from here, find someplace where she would be safe, find a woman to look after her until the baby was born. But for now, for these few precious weeks of winter, he would spend every minute of every day imprinting her image so deeply in his mind that it would last him through eternity.

* * * * *

It was on a cold rainy night in early January that Brandy felt the baby move for the first time. With a startled gasp, she flung off the covers, grabbed J.T.’s hand and pressed it over her belly.

“Did you feel it?” she exclaimed.

“Feel what?” With a frown, J.T. rolled over to face her. “Are you all right?”

“The baby, J.T.. It moved!”

And then he felt it, too, a faint fluttering, like butterfly wings, against the palm of his hand.

“Did you feel it that time?” she asked, and though he couldn’t see her face in the darkness, he could hear the excitement, the wonder, in her voice.

“Yeah,” J.T. said, his own voice tinged with awe. And for the first time, the baby was real to him, a part of himself.

Slipping out from under the covers, he stirred the coals, added a few sticks of wood to the fire, then returned to bed.

Propping himself up on one elbow, he gazed at Brandy. What a wondrous creature a woman was, he mused, that she could take a part of a man into herself and create life. He tried to imagine what it would be like to be a woman, to know there was a child sharing his body with him, to feel that new life moving, growing…

“Brandy.” He whispered her name, just her name.

“It’s wonderful, isn’t it? Do you think Tasina Luta was right? That it’s a boy?”

J.T. nodded. “I believe her.” A son, he thought. His son. He swallowed hard. “Although I wouldn’t mind if it was a little girl as beautiful as her mother.”

Brandy smiled, pleased by the compliment, warmed to the innermost part of her soul by the love shining in her husband’s eyes. “Maybe next…”

The words died in her throat. There would be no next time. She stared up at J.T., seeing her own pain mirrored in his eyes.

And then the baby moved again. “Feel, quick!” she said, grabbing his hand.

For a moment, they gazed at each other, everything else forgotten as they shared the miracle their love had created.

“Until now, I never really thought of it as a baby,” Brandy confessed. “I mean, I knew it was there, that I was pregnant, but now…” She shrugged. “I can’t explain it.”

“I love you, Brandy,” J.T. said, and leaning forward, he kissed her gently, then gathered her into his arms.

She snuggled against him, her heart swelling with tenderness for J.T.. This was a moment she would never forget.

“I want you to do something for me, Brandy love.”

“Anything.”

“When I’m gone, I want you to find someone else.”

“No!” She sat up and stared at him. “How can you even suggest such a thing?”

Pain knifed through him at the thought of another man holding her, raising his son, yet he could not abide the thought of Brandy being left alone when he was gone, of having to go to work to support their child.

“Hear me out,” he said. “I don’t want my son growing up like I did. I want our child to have a mother who’s there for him when he needs her, and a father to look up to. A place to call home.”

“J.T…” She clung to him, not wanting to think of the future, or of a life without him.

“Please, Brandy. You’re a young, beautiful woman. You can’t spend the rest of your life alone. It’s not right. Not for you. Not for our child. Promise me.”

“I can’t. Don’t ask me.”

“Please, Brandy. For me?”

She buried her face in the hollow of his shoulder. How could he ask this of her? How could she refuse? “I’ll try.”

He took a deep breath, inhaling her fragrance, loving the way she felt in his arms. She would never belong to another man the way she belonged to him. The thought pleased him even as it brought him pain.

He held her in his arms long after she had fallen asleep, reluctant to let her go. He ran his fingertips lightly over her hair, along her neck, over the slight swell of her belly. She had never been more beautiful. He had never loved her more.

He felt the baby stir beneath his hand, and as the first rays of the sun brightened the East, J.T. offered a silent prayer to
Wakan Tanka
, begging the Great Spirit to watch over his wife and child when he was gone.

* * * * *

Three days later, just before dawn, J.T. left the village to go hunting with Tatanka Sapa and Nape Luta. He hadn’t wanted to leave Brandy, but she had insisted that he go.

“You need to get out, J.T.,” she had said, helping him into the buffalo robe coat she had made for him. “You’ve been cooped up in here too long. It’ll be good for you to spend a little time bonding with the boys.”

J.T. lifted one inquisitive brow. “Bonding with the boys?”

“It’s a modern expression. Now go on, get out of here.”

She’d been right, J.T. mused as he rode over the countryside. He had needed to get out, to spend some time “bonding with the boys”.

While riding, they spoke of the battle that was sure to come, of the seemingly endless wave of whites pouring into Lakota land, of treaties made and broken.

“The
wasichu
have no honor,” Nape Luta said, his voice filled with scorn. “They make promises they do not keep.”

Tatanka Sapa nodded in agreement. “They have broken every treaty. Not long ago, they promised that the
Paha Sapa
would be ours so long as the grass grows and the water flows.” He made a sound of disgust deep in his throat. “Already the treaty has been broken.”

J.T. wished he could argue with his friends, but he knew they were right. There was no way to keep the whites out of the Black Hills, not now when Custer had discovered gold at French Creek. At first, the Army had made an attempt to turn the miners away, but Sheridan had soon given up the fight as futile. In retaliation, the Indians had began marauding settlements again, which had given the gold miners and adventurers an excuse to strike back.