The Spirit Path (15 page)

“Are you all right?” she asked.

“Yes. I was just thinking of my mother.”

“I guess she misses you.”

He nodded. “As I miss her.”

Maggie nodded, her own bright mood suddenly overshadowed by the thought that he would be leaving soon. She had managed to tuck that thought into the back of her mind, refusing to dwell on it, determined to live each day as it came.

In addition to canned goods and meat, they bought fresh fruit and vegetables, milk and ice cream, toilet paper—another miracle, Hawk thought with a wry grin. They bought sweet-smelling soap and toothpaste and finally, their shopping cart full, they made their way to the checkout counter. Hawk stared at the cash register, amazed once again by the white man’s cleverness.

With their groceries paid for, they left the store and made their way down the crowded sidewalk. Maggie caught bits of conversation as she and Hawk made their way down the street, snide comments about tame Indians and white squaws. It was hard to believe, she thought with a rueful shake of her head. Hard to believe there was still so much prejudice between the whites and the Indians.

Maggie slid a glance at Hawk and saw that he, too, was aware of the rude comments. His expression was harsh, a muscle worked in his jaw. She saw his hands tighten around the handle of the shopping cart as a leather-clad biker with shoulder-length blond hair pointed a gloved finger in their direction.

“Damn redskins,” the biker said with a sneer. “Why don’t they stay on the reservation where they belong?”

Hawk was going to fight. She saw it in the way his body tensed, in the way his knuckles turned white around the handle of the shopping cart.

She reached up to grab his arm. It was rock-hard, the muscle quivering with tension. “Hawk, don’t. Please.”

He looked down at her, his dark eyes filled with fury.

“Please,” she said again. “It won’t solve anything.”

She was relieved when they reached the truck. Effortlessly, Hawk lifted her from her chair and put her in the truck, then loaded the groceries and the wheelchair into the back and climbed into the cab.

Maggie let out a sigh of relief, glad to be leaving, hoping that Veronica would be able to come back to work soon so that they wouldn’t have to make another trip to town. She’d forgotten how she hated being stared at.

As they left town, she was glad to put it all behind her.

When they reached the ranch, Hawk helped Maggie put the groceries away, his mind reeling with what she’d told him about the fate of the Lakota, with the wonders he’d seen in the market, with the taunting words of the black-clad
wasichu
.

He wanted to scream that it was unfair to jail his people on reservations simply because they were different, because they did not invent things that were amazing but of no real value. He wanted to yell at Maggie and tell her his people deserved to live free, as they had always lived free, that they didn’t need cars or computers or grocery stores. But the fate of his people didn’t rest in her hands, and yelling at her wouldn’t solve anything. He wished there was a way he could change the future, a way that his people could learn to live with the whites without giving up their ancient laws and traditions and customs.

He wished he’d had a knife so he could have taught the loudmouthed
wasichu
to have a little respect for a warrior.

He stared at the four walls of Maggie’s kitchen and felt them closing in on him, smothering him.

Abruptly, he opened the back door and almost ran out of the house.

Standing in the yard facing the
Paha Sapa
he took several deep breaths, his hands clenching and unclenching as he fought down the anger and the sense of helplessness churning within him.

He wanted to go home, to see his people, to live as he had always lived.

He wanted to stay here with Maggie, to take her in his arms and make her his woman. Forever.

He knew suddenly that she was there, behind him. He inhaled a long slow breath, let it out in a long sigh before turning to face her.

“I’m sorry, Hawk.”

“For what? You have done nothing to be sorry for.”

“I’m sorry you’re unhappy, sorry I can’t help you get back to your people, but I don’t want you to go.”

A hint of a smile softened his features. “I do not want to go.”

“But you’re going.”

“Yes, when the time is right.”

She bit down on her lower lip, refusing to cry.
One day at a time,
she thought. “Would you like to go on a picnic?”

“Pic-nic?”

“I packed a lunch and I thought we’d go up into the Hills and eat it. That’s what a picnic is, eating in a pretty place away from home.” With someone you love.

“If you wish. Will we walk or take the black?”

“Let’s ride,” Maggie said, smiling as she thought of sitting in front of him on the stallion, his arm around her waist, her head resting against his chest.

Ten minutes later they were riding toward the foothills. They couldn’t have picked a better day, Maggie thought. The sky was clear and blue, the weather was warm but not too hot, the pines were whispering to each other, telling secrets only they knew.

With a sigh of contentment, Maggie closed her eyes and pretended it would last forever.

They stopped in a small grassy meadow surrounded by aspen and spruce. A narrow stream glistened in the sunlight. Birds called to each other in the treetops, a gray squirrel watched them with dark curious eyes.

Maggie sat on the stallion while Hawk spread a blanket on the grass, her gaze lingering on the muscles that bunched and relaxed beneath the black T-shirt.

With the blanket spread beneath a tree, he took the picnic basket from her hands and placed it on the ground, then returned for her.

He stood beside the horse for a long moment, his hands spanning Maggie’s waist, his dark eyes gazing into hers as if he thought to find answers to the questions that plagued him hidden in the depths of her eyes.

He was close, so close. They hadn’t touched for days, and Maggie felt the breath catch in her throat as she gazed
into his eyes. She knew that nothing had changed, that he would still leave her when he could, but she wished, oh how she wished that he would make love to her just once before he returned to his own time, his own people.

She rested her hands on his shoulders, felt him shudder at her touch. With pleasure, she wondered, or regret. He was so beautiful. Soon, he would return to his people and some woman would win his heart and he’d forget all about the crippled white woman and the weeks they had shared. She looked at the meadow, at the narrow stream and the bright blue sky and wondered if Eden could have been more perfect. She wanted to be Eve, just for today, and prayed that she could tempt Adam into her arms.

Hawk’s hands closed around her waist as he lifted her from the back of the stallion and she smiled into his eyes, hoping he would read the longing there, that he would make her his woman, just for today.

Hawk held Maggie close for several moments, their bodies pressed tightly together. He read the longing in her eyes, saw the rapid beat of the pulse in her throat, felt his own body responding to her nearness, to the heat of her, the scent of her and felt all his defenses crumbling. He wanted her, as she wanted him. Was he being foolish to deny himself the pleasure of her love?

And yet, how would he ever leave her once he had made her his?

“Ah, Mag-gie,” he murmured, and then, reluctantly, he placed her on the blanket and sat down beside her. He took a deep breath, let it out in a long sigh, and then smiled at her. “What did you bring for lunch?”

“All your favorites. Roast beef sandwiches with Swiss cheese and tomato and lots of onions. Potato salad. Pickles. And chocolate cake for dessert.”

Hawk grinned at her as she began to rummage around in the picnic basket, spreading a tablecloth over the blanket, handing out paper plates and napkins, cans of soda, which he had learned to love, sandwiches wrapped in tinfoil.

He ate with more determination than appetite, ever aware of the woman beside him. The scent of her perfume, of woman, was carried to him on the breeze, making it difficult to think of anything else. He reached for a napkin just as she did and the brief touch of her fingertips sent a frisson of heat racing up his arm, igniting his senses.

He raised his gaze to her face. Her eyes were bluer than the sky, deeper than the Missouri. Her lips, slightly parted, were full and pink, inviting his touch, his kiss…

He could no more deny himself the taste of her lips than he could cause the sun to stop shining. Slowly, he leaned toward her, one hand sliding under her hair to curl around her neck as his mouth closed over hers. She tasted of mustard and mayonnaise and he thought he’d never tasted anything sweeter or more seductive.

He watched her eyelids flutter down, heard her faint sigh of pleasure, felt the quickening of her breathing as his kiss deepened. He whispered her name, never taking his lips from hers, felt his blood begin to burn as she murmured, “Yes, oh yes,” into his mouth.

With a low groan, he drew her into his lap, his arms wrapping around her, enveloping her in his embrace. He forgot the past, forgot the future. There was only this moment, and the woman in his arms.

Maggie’s heart felt as if it would burst, she was so filled with happiness and anticipation. At last, she thought, her senses reeling with the wonder of it, at last he was going to make love to her. From this day forward, she would be his woman…

He was bending her back, laying her on the blanket. She opened her eyes and saw only him. His eyes were dark with passion and then, abruptly, his expression changed from desire to alarm.

“Hawk, what is it?” she asked, but he paid her no mind. Rolling to his feet, he stared into the distance. And then she heard it, too, the roar of a motorcycle coming their way.

There were two of them. Big black Harleys ridden by men wearing faded Levi’s, black leather jackets, and shiny black helmets.

Hawk moved to stand in front of Maggie as the motorcycles came to a stop. The two men removed their helmets before stepping from their bikes and Hawk recognized one of the bikers as the man who thought all Indians should stay on the reservation where they belonged.

“Well, Injun,” the blond man said as he swaggered toward the blanket, “we meet again.” He smiled at Maggie. “How you doing, little lady?”

She nodded, unable to speak past the fear rising in her throat.

“Ain’t this nice? A picnic! I haven’t been on a picnic since I was a little kid. You got any food left in there?”

“A little,” Maggie said. She reached into the basket and handed the man a sandwich.

He grunted as he unwrapped it. “You got a beer in there?”

“No.” She slid a glance at Hawk, who was standing motionless beside the blanket, his gaze moving from the blond biker to the other man still standing beside his Harley.

“Vince, come on over and get something to eat.”

The man called Vince shook his head. “I’m not hungry,” he said, his eyes sliding over Maggie’s figure. “Not for food, anyway.”

The blond biker grinned before devouring his sandwich in three big bites. And then he looked at Hawk. “Why don’t you take a walk, redskin?”

Hawk shook his head, his whole body tensing as he waited for what he knew was to come. For the second time that day, he wished he had a weapon of some kind.

The biker stared at Hawk, one blond brow raised quizzically. “You wanna watch?”

“I want you to go and leave us alone.”

“Yeah, well, you can’t always have what you want.” The biker reached into his jacket and withdrew a knife. It was a wicked-looking blade, six inches long with a serrated edge.

Maggie swallowed hard as the other biker came to see what was going on. Hawk stood between the two men. He was taller, broader, stronger, but he was unarmed and outnumbered.

“I always wanted to fight me an Injun,” the blond biker remarked, running his thumb over the edge of the blade. “Maybe take a scalp.”

The man called Vince grinned as he pulled a switchblade from his pants pocket. “Get on with it, Rocco,” he drawled, glancing down at Maggie. “I never like to keep a lady waiting.”

Maggie looked around, her gaze searching for something she could use as a weapon, but the deadliest thing she could find was a fork. Her hand curled around it and she slid it under her left leg.

Rocco stepped toward Hawk, the knife clutched in his hand, the blade weaving back and forth like a snake in search of prey. And then, almost quicker than the eye could follow, the blade made contact with flesh, opening a narrow gash in Hawk’s left cheek.

But Hawk was moving too and before Rocco could strike again, Hawk grabbed his right wrist, curling his leg around Rocco’s ankle at the same time and lunging forward with all his weight so that Rocco fell backward.

Hawk was on him before he hit the dirt, wrenching the knife from his grasp. He was raising the knife to strike when he heard Maggie’s warning scream. He threw himself off Rocco, wincing as Vince’s knife sliced through his T-shirt and across his back.

Rolling nimbly to his feet, Hawk whirled around to face Vince, the knife ready in his hand.

Maggie cried, “Hawk, don’t!” as they began to circle, first left, then right. She saw Rocco scramble to his feet and she knew Hawk would never be able to fight them both.

Vince and Hawk came together, knives flashing in the sunlight, and when they parted, there was a long bloody gash in Vince’s left arm.

Hawk drew back, his nostrils filling with the scent of sweat and blood. He sent a quick glance in Rocco’s direction, then pivoted on his heel, his knife parrying Vince’s blade. The ring of metal against metal was very loud in the stillness of the meadow.

Vince hurtled toward him, his knife slashing wildly. Hawk ducked under the man’s arm and brought his own knife up, the Lakota war cry rumbling in his chest as he felt the blade slice into flesh.

Vince swore loudly, his free hand clutching his side in an effort to stem the blood that flowed in the wake of the blade.

“Rocco, here!” he hollered, and tossed the knife to the other biker.

Hawk whirled around to face Rocco. For a moment, they glared at each other and then they began to feint and parry, the blades moving with a kind of graceful beauty as they reflected the sun.

Maggie had been watching Hawk, mesmerized by the change in him. He looked every inch a warrior, even in jeans and a T-shirt. There was a feral gleam in his dark eyes as he wielded the blade, an expression of such hatred on his face that it was frightening. She spared hardly a glance for Vince until she realized he was beside her. He had torn a strip of material from his T-shirt and bound the knife wound and now he was on his knees beside her, his light brown eyes hot as he stared at her. She recoiled as he touched her. His hands were big, the backs covered with hair.

“Don’t!” She clawed at his hands to no avail, turned her head to the side when he bent forward to kiss her. He smelled of stale beer and sweat and she cried out as he imprisoned her chin in one big hand to hold her still while he kissed her. She shuddered with revulsion and when he drew back, she grabbed the fork and jabbed it into his right cheek. He howled with pain, and then he hit her hard across the face.

Her scream broke Hawk’s concentration and he darted a glance in her direction, his fury building when he saw the white man’s hands touching her.