The Bride Wore Feathers (30 page)

She thought of Jacob's warnings about the jealous squaws as she smoothed her naturally wavy locks, but decided to adapt his orders to fit her own sense of style anyway. How could the other women hate her more than they already did? She braided a length of hair from either side of her head, then tied the two plaits together at the back of her head. This left the rest of her long red-gold hair to spill down her back, unfettered and free, a gesture of defiance of sorts, in contrast to the fact that the rest of her remained a prisoner. She topped the look off by plucking an eagle feather from Jacob's lance and jabbing it into the knot where her braids met. Then she positioned a length of hair across her shoulder, coaxing it to slip off the tip of her breast at just the right angle, and tore back the flap of the tipi.

When Dominique stepped through the opening, Jacob was unprepared for the change in her—or for his gut-wrenching reaction. He'd half expected to feel at least a small trickle of pain running through his heart when he first saw Dominique in Lame Fawn's wedding dress. No small creek, but rivers of emotion, of love, raged through his veins instead, threatening to flood his arteries like a thousand spring thaws.

There was nothing in Dominique to remind him of his first wife, to bring even the slightest ache to his heart. The dress fit her as if it had been stretched over her curves while wet, became new to his eyes as if it had never touched the flesh of another. Dominique was incredibly beautiful—sun-kissed from the top of her brilliant gold-red hair to the tips of her white-moccasined toes. She looked like no other. No other could ever hope to resemble such beauty. Her radiance choked Jacob, cutting off his air and strangling his mind. He stood there, gawking at her as if he'd never seen a woman before.

"Why, Mr. Redfoot," Dominique clucked, familiar with his expression, immensely pleased to know she was the cause. "It's not polite to stare, you know." She batted her lashes furiously, posing haughtily as she asked, "Is something wrong? Do I have a smudge on my cheek or something?"

"No." Jacob cleared the enormous frog that had mysteriously taken over his throat, then said, "You look fine." In control again, or at least in as much control as he would be able to muster on this day, he forced a taciturn expression and walked to her side. He unfolded the blanket he carried, preparing to move along with the required courtship, but Dominique gasped, halting his movements.

"Oh, Jacob, what's happened to you? Your hands and arms are all covered with bruises and cuts."

"It is nothing. I fell from my horse." Trying his best to ignore her, he wrapped one end of the blanket around his shoulders and the other around hers.

"What are you doing now?" She demanded, stepping back. "I'm not cold."

"Please," he said, still not daring to look into her eyes, "do not question what I do. Unless it is your wish to pleasure every man in the village, you will follow my instructions. I am trying to show the other warriors that you are my woman and persuade them to leave you alone when I am gone."

Dominique quickly ducked back under the shelter of his blanket. Maybe she should have braided all her hair, she thought with more than a little panic. Maybe she should have left the old tattered dress on and told Jacob this one didn't fit. And maybe now was the time to ask some questions of the man who would know all the answers. "What else should I do to make sure they leave me alone?"

"Only follow me." He turned, finally staring into her big brown eyes. "Also, see if you can't find a way to keep your lovely mouth shut."

Dominique bit her lip and lifted her chin, but allowed him to walk her through the camp to the community fire. There he nudged her into a sitting position and sat down beside her, the blanket still in place. As they nibbled on pemmican and jerky, Jacob occasionally leaned close and whispered short choppy sentences that made no sense. When she'd ask him to repeat them, he would shrug and say, "It is nothing. Finish your meal." Then he continued to ignore her until the mood struck to whisper in her ear again.

Tired of the game, the next time he leaned in close, she turned on him. "All right, that's it. What are you doing and why can't I understand a word you're saying?"

"I'm sorry," he lied, "but I have much on my mind. I will try to remember to speak English. Come," he said, getting to his feet, pulling her up with him. "Let's take a walk down by the river."

Keeping the blanket and his arm firmly across her shoulders, Jacob made a deliberate stroll through the camp, then disappeared into the trees at the edge of the village in full view of any who cared to observe them.

When they reached a suitable spot, under the shade of an oak tree whose branches would shade them from the sun as well as protect them from a threatened storm, Jacob spread his blanket on thick grass and stretched out urging Dominique to do the same. Propping himself up on his elbows, he stared out at the muddy waters and considered the course of his own life.

The banks of the Little Missouri, one of several tributaries to the Missouri River, were only forty-six miles from the fort. The Seventh Cavalry, slowed by its sheer numbers, would need another two days to reach this area. By then the Lakota would be several miles to the west—four days and nearly fifty miles for the troops, and yet this day seemed to be hundreds of miles and another lifetime away from Jacob's experience as a soldier in Custer's army.

Today was his wedding day. He'd done the required show of courtship by wrapping Dominique in his blanket and whispering into her ear. There wasn't a soul in his village who wasn't aware of his intentions—if one didn't count the bride. After spending the afternoon by the river, he would simply walk her back through camp, blanket still in place, and take her to his tipi. Once they stepped through the portals of his lodge, they would officially be as one. He would be husband to the woman he loved. And more alone than he'd ever been in his life.

"Jacob," she said, her voice piercing his musings like a sudden bolt of lightning. "How long have you lived with the Sioux?"

He jerked his head toward her, then glanced back out to the swiftly moving current. "Many winters—years. Since I was eleven."

Sensing he was troubled, but not sure why, she tiptoed into another question. "How did they get hold of you? I mean, were you kidnapped, too? If you'd rather not talk about it, I'll understand."

Jacob glanced over at Dominique, really looking at her for the first time since she'd stepped out of his tipi. The radiant beauty was still there, but he was able to stand the glare as he noticed the compassion reflected in her dark eyes. He pushed up and sat cross-legged beside her, then began his tale. "I was not kidnapped, crazy one. I was saved."

"Saved?" Dominique wrinkled her nose. "From your own family? I find that hard to believe." She cocked a light auburn eyebrow. "Are you pulling my leg?"

Jacob looked at the long legs she'd curled up beneath her, and grinned. "No, you can see that I'm not. Would you like me to?"

"No, silly. I was trying to ask you if you're lying to me."

"Oh." He shrugged, trying to understand what dishonesty could possibly have to do with another's limbs, then said, "I did not lie. The Lakota saved me from certain death. My family—my mother, father, brother, and two young sisters—were attacked and murdered by a band of Crow Indians as we searched for a home in the Black Hills."

"And they chose to spare you?"

"No, impatient one. They would have taken my scalp along with those of the others had they seen me. A coincidence saved me from that indignity." He laughed at her creased brow and explained. "I was hidden from view, squatting behind a bush, when the attack came. Fear froze me to the spot as I watched the members of my family fall one by one."

"Oh, Jacob. How perfectly awful." Dominique closed her hand over his and squeezed. "If you'd rather not go on, you don't have to."

"It is all right. I have long since ceased to think about it, or to remember the horror. I've chosen to have my recollections begin with a great warrior on a tall painted horse." He closed his eyes and thought back to that fall day nearly twenty years ago. Smiling at the memories, he said, "That Indian was Chief Gall of the Hunkpapa Lakota. He and a large number of warriors drove the Crow off into the hills, then returned to the site of the ambush to help themselves to whatever might be of use. That was when Gall's sharp eyes found this agonized little boy."

"Agonized? But I thought you said you were spared from the attack."

"From the attack of the Crow, yes, but not from the wrath of the red ants whose home I destroyed when I stepped upon it."

Dominique began to chuckle, then burst into full-blown laughter when she put it all together. Before Jacob had a chance to go on, to explain what had become obvious to her, she said, "Wait, let me guess. That's how you got your Sioux name, Redfoot."

Joining in her laughter, he entwined his fingers with hers and nodded. "Yes, crazy one, that is why I am called Redfoot. My foot was swollen, itchy, on fire with pain, and completely useless for a week after Chief Gall pulled me up on his pony and called me his son."

Dominique's gaze turned thoughtful and pensive. She stared down at the fringe shading her knees, and frowned.

"What is it,
wi witko
?" he asked softly. "What troubles you?"

"I don't know how to put this. I don't want to offend you, but there's something I don't understand."

"We've exchanged enough angry words these past two days. You will not hear any more from me this day. What do you wish to know?"

"Well, what the chief did—I mean, saving you and all. I thought, that is, Uncle Armstrong and Aunt Libbie have told me a lot about the Sioux and their bloodthirsty ways. Why did Gall save you, Jacob? Why didn't
he
kill you and take your scalp?"

Jacob's blue eyes darkened to match the storm clouds above, but he kept his temper as he had promised. "There are a lot of things your uncle, the general, does not know about my people. He is wrong about many of our ways. The Lakota do not kill for sport, Dominique. There was no need for them to kill me. I represented no threat to their security or their way of life."

She shook her head. "I still don't understand. The general has told me about some perfectly awful things, about the terrible attacks on homesteaders and the mutilation of the bodies and other atrocities I can't even mention. Should I believe you or him? It sounds almost as if you're talking about two different groups of people."

"At times we Lakota are forced to be just that. Most often, we are put in that position by people like your uncle."

Dominique pulled her hand away. "That's not fair. He's working for the government trying to clean up the West. If your people would stop fighting him and do as they're told, none of this bloody business would be necessary."

Do as they 're told.
Jacob worked his jaw, trying to keep his temper and his promise. How would she feel if he informed her of just a sample of the horrors her precious golden-haired uncle had visited on the women and children of the Lakota nation? Would she believe him if he told her the Long Hair had sent his troops in with orders to kill them all—infants as well as adults—and then had done just that? Probably not.

Jacob let out his breath in a long whistle and reclaimed her hand. "Let us not speak of this any further. It is a subject we can never agree on."

Dominique pursed her lips and frowned. "Oh, all right, but there is something else I have to know about your people, about you and your sense of fair play."

"Ask your question, but I will not be drawn into an argument."

Dominique tried to pull her hand away again, but this time he held tight. She looked at him with pleading eyes and said, "I'm worried, Jacob and a little confused. What happened after you hit me? What happened to Barney and Hazel?"

"They both are fine," he said with a smile. "After I hit you—and again, I apologize—I left a warning and then rode straight for my village."

"But why didn't Barney come after us? Why would he just let me disappear like that?" she asked, suddenly feeling insignificant.

"I said I left a warning. If we feel we are being persecuted by the soldiers or by other hostile tribes of Indians, the Lakota stick a pole in the ground and tie a flag and a few locks of hair at the top. That is our warning, our way of saying, stop—come no farther or we will fight." He released her hand and took a length of her hair between his fingers. "I had no pole, so I broke a large branch from a tree and striped it of its leaves. The flag was torn from your petticoat, and the lock of hair—" Jacob held up his hand. "Haven't you noticed?"

" You
did that? I thought I felt a hole back there, but I was sure I must be losing my mind. Couldn't you have been a little neater about it?"

"Sorry," he said with a chuckle. "But I was in a hurry."

"I suppose I should be grateful you didn't take it all." She felt him stiffen at her words, but she went on. "So Barney and Hazel, and I guess my whole family, think I was captured by the Sioux. Why haven't they tried to rescue me?"

"They are on the march," he said grimly. "But they will not seek us out only for your benefit. Your uncle does know the dangers of chasing after a small band of renegades. Besides, I believe he thinks you have killed yourself by now."

Dominique's brows shot up and tears leapt into the corners of her eyes. She turned her head away, swallowing hard, and said, "And you, Jacob? How is it he allows you back in his army? You can't tell me it's because he doesn't care about me. I know my uncle Armstrong loves me very much. Why, I can't believe he hasn't had you shot for this."