Feather in the Wind (2 page)

Chapter Two

The following Saturday morning, bright and early, Susannah drove to Orange County.

The parking lot was already crowded by the time she arrived. Joining the crowd, she crossed the pavement toward the fairgrounds.

She heard the sudden crackle of a PA system announcing that the dancing was about to start. The distant beat of a drum could be heard over the rising din of voices as she made her way to the dance area. She passed numerous booths along the way, pausing to look at brightly colored Kachina dolls, at paintings done on canvas and deer hide, on rocks and wood. There were a variety of rattles, gourds and ceremonial masks. There were buckskin shirts and colorful calico dresses, feathered war bonnets and beaded moccasins, spears, and knives of all sizes, the handles made with wood or bone or metal. Several booths sold audio cassettes of Indian music, as well as flutes and drums in assorted shapes and sizes.

At the dance arena, Susannah sat down on a wooden bench next to a young Indian woman and three small children. The woman wore jeans, a t-shirt and boots. Her long black braids were tied with red ribbon. The kids wore shorts and tank tops.

The youngest, a girl of about four with enormous black eyes, smiled shyly at Susannah, revealing a pair of dimples. “My daddy is going to dance,” she announced proudly.

Susannah smiled back at the little girl, then turned her attention to the dance arena as the MC asked everyone to please rise and remove their hats. Then a single high falsetto rose on the air, to be followed by several others.

Susannah glanced at the people nearby, wondering if they understood what was being said.

“This is the grand entry song.”

“What?” Susannah turned toward the Indian woman.

“You looked confused,” the woman said, smiling. “Is this your first POW WOW?”

“Yes.”

“I thought so. After the grand entry song comes the flag song.”

Susannah listened to the Lakota words, wishing she knew what the singer was saying.

The Indian woman translated for her. “
Tun’kas’ilayapi, tawapaha kin’han’oihan’ke s’ni najin’kte lo. Iyohlateya, oyate kihan’wicicag’in’kte ca, lecamon’welo.
It means the Grand Father’s banner will stand forever. Underneath it, the people will grow, so I do this.”

“Do this?”

“It means he will honor the flag.”

“Oh thank you,” Susannah said. Following the others, she sat down. “I, that is…” Susannah paused, afraid she might be committing some terrible breach of etiquette if she asked the woman what tribe she belonged to.

“My name is Cindy Two Crows,” the Indian woman said.

“Susannah Kingston.”

“What brings you here today?”

“I’m a writer,” Susannah replied.

“Oh?”

“I write romance novels,” Susannah explained. “I’m here doing research for my next book.”

“It’s about Indians?”

“Well, sort of,” Susannah said, suddenly embarrassed. “My hero is going to be Sioux.”

“Oh, one of those kinds of books,” Cindy said, grinning broadly. “I love them.”

“Do you read romance novels?”

“Of course. How many books have you written?”

“Ten.”

The woman lifted her eyebrows, clearly impressed. “What name do you write under?”

“My own. Susannah Kingston.”

“Kingston, sure, I’ve read some of your books.”

“Really?”

Cindy nodded. “I read the last one,
Marriage on Her Mind
. It was really good.”

“Thank you.”

Cindy nodded toward the dance circle. “This is called the Rabbit Dance. It’s sort of like an Indian waltz. The words are usually about unfulfilled love, or a loved one who is far away. There are also honoring songs and give-away songs.”

Susannah nodded, her eyes drawn to the dance circle where several young women were dancing, their bodies moving in graceful rhythm to the beat of the drum. Bending slightly, their feet made subtle movements as they slowly turned from side to side. Their costumes were beautiful, buckskin dresses with heavily beaded yokes. Each girl carried a shawl over her arm, and carried a fan and a matching beaded purse.

As the morning wore on, she saw that Indians of all ages danced, from children barely able to walk to elderly men and women. Susannah was mesmerized by the multicolored costumes, the willowy movements of the women in their long fringed shawls, the intricate steps of a handsome young man doing a hoop dance. He twirled and bent and twisted every which way, his body moving fluidly as he passed the hoops over his body—two hoops, four, six, then eight, each movement producing a different effect, each one more complex than the last.

The sun beat down upon her head, the scent of dust and fry bread filled her nostrils. She heard the whir of a snow cone machine.

In need of something cool to drink, she thanked Cindy for explaining the dances to her and then left the dance area and made her way to the refreshment stand. She bought a large cup of root beer, heavy on the ice, then went to stroll through the booths, wanting to buy a souvenir of some kind to take home with her.

She passed by t-shirts and vests and scarves, dreamcatchers in a variety of sizes and colors, Indian dolls, brightly beaded chokers, baskets, a wide assortment of jewelry crafted in silver and turquoise, fetishes carved in onyx. She saw much that was pretty, but nothing she wanted to take home.

Disappointed, she was about to turn away when she saw a single black and white feather attached to a loop of rawhide. Hanging from a post, it fluttering in the breeze, as if beckoning her.

Lifting the feather from a hook, she ran one finger lightly over the spine, surprised by the warmth of it, the way it seemed to snuggle into her hand, inviting her touch. She knew, in that moment, that she had to have it, knew, somehow, that it was meant to be hers.

“Can I help you, miss?”

Susannah smiled at the man standing behind the counter. Tall and lean, he was dressed in a pair of faded blue jeans, moccasins, a long-sleeved Western shirt and a buckskin vest that had a moon and stars painted on one side and a slash of lightning painted on the other. He wore his long gray hair in twin braids that reached his waist.

“How much do you want for this?” Susannah asked, holding up the feather.

The man shook his head. “It is not for sale.”

“It isn’t? Why not?”

“It is a Lakota prayer feather,” the man explained, taking it from her hand. “It is very old, and sacred to my people.”

“But I’ve got to have it.”

He looked at her intently, his deep black eyes seeming to look at her and through her, almost as though he could read her mind, her heart. “Give me your hand.”

“What?”

“Your hand,” he repeated, and extended his own.

Susannah felt a chill of unease skitter down her spine. Almost, she was tempted to tell him to just forget it. Almost. She stared at his hand. His skin was brown and wrinkled, like sunburned leather. His palm was heavily calloused.

Her heart began to beat faster as she placed her hand in his, felt his fingers, surprisingly strong for such an old man, curl around hers. He closed his eyes, his grasp tightening. Susannah’s breath caught in her throat as the image of a man standing atop a high mountain flashed through her mind. For an instant, she thought she heard someone chanting to the sound of a distant drum.

With a nod, the old Indian released her hand and opened his eyes. “You are the one,” he murmured, his voice thick with wonder.

“Excuse me?”

“Take the feather. It is yours.”

“Oh thank you,” she said, disconcerted by the man’s intense gaze. “How much do you want for it?”

The man shook his head. “It is yours.”

“That’s very nice of you,” Susannah said puzzled by the man’s peculiar attitude, “but I couldn’t…”

The man silenced her with a wave of his hand. “This is no ordinary feather,” he said somberly. “It is
Wakán
.”

“
Wakán
?”

“Holy. You must be careful with it.”

“I will. Are you sure I can’t pay you for it?”

“Very sure. Things that are sacred must not be sold.” His dark-eyed gaze met hers again. “Eagle feathers are sacred to the Lakota people. This is a medicine feather. If you are worthy, it will bring you that which you most desire.” Reverently, he placed it in her hand. “Remember,” he warned, his voice solemn, “it is a prayer feather.”

“Yes, I will,” Susannah replied, wondering what, exactly, he was warning her to be careful of. “Thank you so much.”

At home, she went immediately to her office and placed the feather beside the photograph of the Indian, which she had framed. They looked well together, she mused as she sat down and switched on her computer.

For a moment, she stared at the blank screen, thinking of Western movies she had seen and historical novels she had read in the past, and then, like a flood that could no longer be restrained, the story unfolded in her mind. She saw it clearly, from beginning to end. Words began to pour out of her, almost faster than she could type them.

Four hours later, feeling pleased and weary, she sat back in her chair. It was going to be the best story she had ever written, the break-out book that would make her name a household word.

Stretching her arms over her head, she glanced at the picture of the Indian and smiled. Tomorrow, she would have to call Vivian and tell her she had been right after all. Changing from category to historical had been just the boost she needed.

Susannah ran a finger over the Indian’s picture. Having a handsome hunk for inspiration hadn’t hurt either.

A breeze wafted through the open window beside her desk, stirring the feather. With a smile, Susannah picked it up and twirled it between her thumb and forefinger. The Indian who had given it to her had told her it was old. How old, she wondered? Or had he just said that? But there had been no reason for him to lie. He hadn’t been trying to coax her into buying anything. And what was all that nonsense about her being the one? She frowned. What else had he said? Something about the feather being holy and bringing her the desires of her heart.

She ran her finger lightly over the feather, wondering why it felt warm to the touch. Little frissons of heat seemed to travel from her hand all the way up her arm to settle in the region of her heart. Maybe it really was magic…

She shook off the notion, certain she was just being fanciful. She was a writer, after all, blessed with an extremely vivid imagination. After backing her work up on a floppy, she switched off the computer.

She fixed a big salad for dinner, rinsed the dishes and put them in the dishwasher, took a long bubble bath. After drying off, she slipped into a long white cotton nightgown. She had ordered the gown from a Victorian catalog. It looked old-fashioned, with its high neck, long sleeves and ruffled hem.

Feeling suddenly melancholy, she picked up the feather and slipped the rawhide loop over her wrist, then walked out into the small side yard that opened off the kitchen.

It was a beautiful night. A cool spring breeze had blown the smog out of the city. A full moon hung low and yellow in the sky, shining like amber glass in a sea of black velvet.

A beautiful night, she mused, meant to be shared with someone you loved. Someone who loved you…

With a sigh, she stretched her arms over her head and gazed up at the night sky. A million stars winked back at her, as if they shared a secret she would never know.

A faint breeze caught the feather dangling from her hand. She stared up at it, watching it rotate in the gentle wind. The black and white of the feather reminded her of the black-and-white photograph she had bought at the workshop. There had been an eagle feather in the warrior’s hair, one that looked just like this, she thought, and then grinned. Surely one eagle feather looked pretty much like another.

Lowering her arms, she ran her finger over the feather again. The warrior in the painting had looked handsome and brave, the kind of man women dreamed of and writers brought to life in the pages of a book.

Where was her knight in shining armor, she wondered. Where was the man of her dreams?

With a sigh, Susannah sank down on the chaise lounge and closed her eyes, the words of an old song playing in the back of her mind.

“Mr. Sandman, send me a dream…”

Yes, she thought, drawing the edge of the feather across her lower lip.
Send me the man of my dreams…

Chapter Three

With a low moan, Susannah rolled over, trying to find a more comfortable position. When had her bed gotten so hard? She shivered as a cool breeze whispered over her face. She was certain she had left the heater on last night. Why was her room so cold? And what on earth was that racket? It sounded like…like a bugle!

With a sigh of irritation, she opened her eyes, blinked. And blinked again.

She was dreaming, she thought as she sat up. It had to be a dream. But never, in all her life, had she had a dream quite as vivid as this one.

Men in blue uniforms were emerging from long wooden barracks, forming lines, standing at attention. The bugle blared again. There was the sound of drumming. Someone raised a flag. She stared at it for several moments, thinking it seemed to have fewer stars than it should have. She had seen a flag just like it not long ago…of course, she thought, it looked just like the old flag she had seen at the reenactor workshop.

Feeling confused, she brushed a lock of hair from her forehead. It was then she noticed the feather dangling from her wrist. Frowning, she glanced around. Numerous wood and adobe buildings were grouped around a large stretch of empty ground. She heard a man shouting orders. Dust filled the air as the soldiers broke ranks and headed toward a long low building on the far side of what she decided must be the parade ground.

She heard the whinny of a horse, and then the sound of footsteps coming closer. Alarmed, she scrambled to her feet.

“Excuse me, ma’am, but what are you doing here?”

Susannah whirled around and found herself face-to-face with a man who looked as if he had just stepped out of an old Western movie. He wore a dark-blue sack coat, trousers and black boots, as well as a black slouch hat set at a rakish angle. A wide black belt circled his waist.

Maybe she was on a Hollywood back lot, she thought, except Hollywood’s forts always had high wooden walls with catwalks and lookout towers. She didn’t think she had ever seen a fort without walls before.

“Dorothy, I don’t think you’re in Kansas anymore,” she muttered.

“Ma’am?”

“Nothing.” She folded her arms over her breasts, careful not to crush the feather, and wished she was wearing something a little more concealing than a cotton nightgown.

The man’s gaze ran over her, curious and slightly suspicious. “I don’t recall seeing you here before, ma’am.”

“No. Well, I’ve never been here before,” Susannah replied, wondering where, exactly, “here” was.

He nodded, his expression puzzled. “What are you doing out here at this time of the morning, ma’am?”

“I’m not sure.” She glanced around again. “I think I…that is, I…”

“Do you…ah, excuse me for asking, but do you walk in your sleep?”

“I never have before,” Susannah replied. She glanced at the flag fluttering in the morning breeze. “But if I didn’t know better, I’d think I’d walked all the way back to the nineteenth century.”

“Ma’am?”

“Nothing. Where am I?”

“Fort Collier, ma’am.”

Susannah frowned. Why did that name sound so familiar? “Who are you?”

He snapped to attention.”Lieutenant Elliott Carter, at your service, ma’am.”

She smiled uncertainly. Elliott Carter was a handsome young man, probably in his early thirties, with close-cropped blond hair, a thin moustache and light blue eyes.

Susannah shook her head. Fort Collier. Lieutenant Carter.

She closed her eyes, willing herself to wake up. She had to be dreaming! But the ground felt cold and hard and damp beneath her feet, and the sun felt warm upon her face.

“Ma’am?”

She opened her eyes to find him staring at her.

Carter removed his coat and draped it over her shoulders. “I think I’d better take you to Colonel O’Neill.”

* * * * *

The colonel was seated behind a large mahogany desk. He was making notes on a sheet of paper and didn’t look up when they entered the room.

The lieutenant cleared his throat. “Excuse me, Colonel O’Neill.”

“In a minute, Carter.”

Feeling like a child about to be reprimanded, Susannah stood in front of the colonel’s desk, waiting for him to acknowledge her presence. It reminded her of the time her father had kept her standing at the dinner table for ten minutes while he decided what her punishment should be for spending the day at the mall instead of going to school.

With a sigh, she folded her arms and glanced around the room. It was small and square. A wooden filing cabinet stood in one corner. There was a picture of President Ulysses S. Grant on the wall behind the desk. A small table held several rolled-up papers that looked like maps. Pegs held a bayonet and a hat similar to the one Elliott Carter was wearing.

She turned her attention back to the colonel. He was a tall, gray-haired man with skin like leather. He chose that moment to look up and she saw that his eyes were blue.

The colonel’s expression remained impassive as his gaze skimmed over Susannah from head to foot. He glanced at Carter. “Who’s this?” he asked brusquely.

“My name is Susannah Kingston.”

The colonel grunted softly. “What are you doing running around my post in your nightclothes?”

“I’m not sure.”

One thick gray brow rose in annoyance. “Not sure?” He glanced at Carter again. “Lieutenant, what’s going on here?”

“I don’t know, sir. I found her near the trading post, sir.”

The colonel transferred his gaze back to Susannah. “Do you have family here?”

“No.”

O’Neill tapped his fingertips on the top of his desk, and then, between one breath and the next, his eyes turn cold and hard. “What are you doing with that?”

“With what?”

“That feather. Unless I’m badly mistaken, it’s a Lakota prayer feather.”

Susannah shrugged. “So what?”

“Two possibilities come to mind. You’ve run away from the Indians, or you’re spying for them.”

“Spying!” Susannah squeaked. “Me? That’s ridiculous. I don’t even belong here.”

“Yes,” the colonel replied dryly. “I think we’ve established that. Well, ma’am,” he asked briskly, “what do you propose I should do with you?”

“Do with me? I don’t think you need to do anything with me, thank you very much. I’m quite capable of looking after myself.”

“Indeed? This is an army post, ma’am. I have several hundred soldiers under my command. I can’t have a single young woman running around unchaperoned.”

He cleared his throat. “Especially attired in her nightclothes. Lieutenant Carter, take her to Sud’s Row. She can stay in the Pedersons’ hut. Oh, and find her something more suitable to wear. Try MacDougal’s wife. They, ah…” A faint flush tinged the colonel’s cheeks. “They seem to be about the same size. Miss Kingston, you are to consider yourself confined to quarters until I decide what to do with you.”

“Confined to quarters! You can’t do that. I’m not in the Army.”

“Everyone on this post is under my command, ma’am, and that includes you. You are not to try to leave this post until the reason for your being here is established to my satisfaction.”

“Now wait just a minute…”

O’Neill leaned across his desk, his gray eyes as hard as flint. “Is that clear, Miss Kingston?”

“But I…” Her voice trailed off as she caught sight of the calendar on the colonel’s desk. The month read April, but it was the year that held her gaze and caused her stomach to drop to the floor. 1870.

Carter saluted, then grabbed Susannah by the arm and hauled her out of the colonel’s office.

“Let me go!”

“You’d best do as the colonel says, ma’am.”

“Who are the Pedersons? I don’t want to stay with someone I don’t even know, and I’m sure they don’t want me either.”

“The Pedersons were transferred off the post three days ago. Their hut is empty.”

That bit of information had her feeling a little better.

Until she saw the hut. It was a small square building exactly like a half-dozen others, all sitting side by side in a neat row on the north side of the parade ground.

Smoke was rising from all the chimneys but one.

Carter opened the door for her, and motioned her inside.

Hands fisted on her hips, Susannah glanced around the room. It was virtually empty save for a lumpy sofa and a straight-backed chair. White ruffled curtains hung at the window, looking incongruous against the bare wood walls.

Grimacing, she walked into the kitchen, which was nothing more than a stove, a sink with a pump and a few crudely made shelves.

“Lovely,” she muttered, thinking of her bright economy kitchen at home. “Just lovely.”

The bedroom was devoid of all furniture. Limp yellow curtains hung from the single window.

“You don’t really expect me to stay here, do you?”

“Colonel’s orders, ma’am.”

“Well, I don’t care what he says. I’m not staying here.”

Carter cleared his throat. “I’d do as he says, ma’am.”

“Really?”

“Yes ma’am. I know this place don’t look like much, but the guardhouse is a lot worse.”

“The guardhouse!”

“Colonel O’Neill doesn’t tolerate disobedience, ma’am.”

“But…the guardhouse. He’d really do that?”

Carter nodded. “Yes ma’am. You stay here and make yourself at home,” he said with a crooked grin, “and I’ll be back as soon as I can with some clothes and some breakfast.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant.”

“My pleasure, ma’am.”

“Susannah.”

“Yes ma’am.”

With a sigh, Susannah watched him leave, then closed the door after him.

It was April. 1870.

Brow furrowed in thought, she wandered through the three small rooms. Bare wood floors with wide gaps between the boards, bare wood walls, a fireplace made of rough stone. This place was beyond rustic, she thought. It was downright primitive!

So what was she supposed to do now? If seeing was believing, then she had been transported into the past, with no recollection of how she’d gotten here, or any clue as to how to get back where she belonged.

If she wasn’t in the past, she was having the mother of all nightmares.

Too nervous to sit still, she paced the floor for several minutes, then went to look out the small front window, her fingers absently stroking the feather. The wavy glass didn’t reveal much of a view—a corner of the parade ground, the barracks and an open stretch of ground where two soldiers stood with their heads together while a third man chopped wood. Unlike the others, he wasn’t wearing Army blue. Indeed, he wasn’t wearing much of anything at all, just a breechclout and moccasins. Heavy iron shackles hobbled his feet. Sweat dripped down his back. His long black hair fell halfway to his waist…

A chill slithered down Susannah’s spine as the third man turned around. With a gasp, she drew back, one hand clutching her throat. It was him! The Indian in the photograph.

He looked up then, his gaze finding hers, holding hers, for a moment that seemed to stretch into an eternity. His image imprinted itself on her mind: high cheekbones, well-defined; a broad slash of a nose, a stubborn jaw, straight black brows above deep black eyes. Sweat dripped down his chest, glistened on a pair of well-muscled arms.

As she watched, one of the soldiers said something, then jabbed his rifle butt into the Indian’s side, apparently ordering him to get back to work.

The Indian continued to stare at her for several moments and then hefted the ax and went back to the task of chopping wood. He grimaced as he lifted the ax and she wondered how hard the soldier had struck him even as she wondered why such a thing was permitted.

He turned, and she saw the spider-web of scars that crisscrossed his broad back and shoulders, overlaid with ugly red welts and half-healed lacerations. A thin trickle of blood oozed down his right side. How cruel, she thought, to make him toil in the hot sun when he was injured!

She stayed by the window, watching the Indian work, admiring the rhythmic play of muscles in his back and shoulders. There was an unconscious grace to his movements, a sense of power tightly leashed. Even covered with dirt and sweat, his feet hobbled, there was something about him, some indefinable air of confidence, that made her think he was a man of some importance among his own people.

She had never been one to swoon over rippling male muscles, preferring a man with brains to one with brawn, but she couldn’t seem to draw her gaze away, couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to be held in those powerful arms.

She might have stood there all day if Lieutenant Carter hadn’t returned carrying a covered tray and a small valise.

He smiled at her when she opened the door. “Breakfast,” he said. He dropped the valise on the floor. “Mrs. MacDougal sent you something to wear. I’m afraid you’ll have to make do with company chow.”

“That’s all right,” Susannah said. Removing the feather from her wrist, she placed it carefully on the mantel, then sat down on the sofa.