Feather in the Wind (5 page)

He was waiting for her. She felt a peculiar flutter in the pit of her stomach when she saw his face at the window.

She felt herself smile and wondered what there was about this man that made her feel warm inside. Home. The word whispered in the back of her mind.

“Hi.”

“
Hau
.”

Susannah smiled. That was one word she did understand. She had heard it in practically every cowboy movie ever made.

“I don’t know why I keep coming here,” she said with a shrug.

He didn’t know why she came either, but he was glad for her company. He loved the slightly husky sound of her voice, the way her dark-brown eyes met his, open and honest. The other white women at the fort looked at him as if he were less than human, as if he were some repulsive creature that walked on two legs, yet had no sense, no feeling.

“
Tanyan yahi yelo
,” he murmured softly. I am glad you came.

“I wish I could understand you,” she said. “I wish you could speak English.”

He let his gaze move over her face, thinking how beautiful she was.
Who are you
, he wondered.
Where have you come from?

“It’s a pretty night, isn’t it?” Susannah mused. “The sky seems so much bigger here than it did at home.”

Home. Sadness dragged at his heart as he wondered if he would ever see his home, his people, again.

She lifted a hand to brush a wisp of hair from her face, and he saw the feather dangling from her wrist.

He reached through the bars and took hold of her hand.

Susannah tried to pull away, but his grip was like iron, holding her fast. “Let me go!”

In a quick move, he slipped the rawhide loop over her wrist, then released her hand.

“Give me that!” she exclaimed. “It’s mine.”

He shook his head. “
He mitawa
.” It is mine.

Susannah frowned. “Damn, I wish I knew what you were saying.”

He smoothed the edges of the feather and she had a quick mental image of the photograph she had seen of this man, of the eagle feather tied in his hair. Could this feather really be the same one? But surely all eagle feathers looked pretty much alike.

And yet, there had been a look of recognition in his eyes when he saw the feather.

“Is it yours?” she asked. She pointed at the feather, then at him. “Yours?”

He frowned at her a minute, then thumped his chest and smiled. “
Han. Mitawa
.” Yes. Mine.

“But I need it.” She reached through the bars, silently asking for the feather’s return. She had to have it. Somehow, it had brought her here. She was sure of it. She remembered that the old man who had sold it to her had said it contained much magic. Had he known what it was capable of? Was that why he had admonished her to remember that it was a prayer feather?

But surely, if he had known what power the feather held, he would not have parted with it.

“Please,” she said, “please give it back. I need it.”

Tate Sapa shook his head. Questions raced through his mind. How had this white woman come into possession of his sacred eagle feather? Why did she say she needed it? How had she found it in the first place? He had left it at his mother’s burial site five winters before, the same winter his father’s brother had disappeared. Tate looked at her sharply, wondering if she had desecrated the holy ground of the Lakota?

In the distance, one of the sentry posts called out the hour.

“I guess I’d better go,” Susannah said. She glared at him a moment. “Are you sure you won’t give me the feather?”

“
Mitawa
,” he said firmly.

“I know, I know,” she muttered. “It’s yours. But mark my words, Mr. Black Wind, I intend to get it back!”

He waited until she was out of sight, and then he smiled.

“You will not, Su-san-nah. But I will enjoy watching you try.”

Chapter Six

Susannah let out a heavy sigh and pulled the covers up to her chin. She had been at the fort for two weeks now, and still had no idea of why she was there, exactly how she had gotten there or how she would ever get home. Elliott Carter continued to call on her each evening, taking her for walks, escorting her to the colonel’s house to play cards or charades. Once he arranged for the colonel’s striker to serve them a quiet dinner for two. But it was the Indian, Black Wind, who occupied her thoughts and made her heart pound in a most alarming way.

The Army worked him mercilessly. He was hard at work from early morning until dusk, mucking stalls, currying horses, carrying water, cutting wood, digging trenches, scrubbing the barracks floors, raking the parade ground, burning the trash. He worked steadily, his face an impassive mask. The soldiers taunted him relentlessly. She had heard them call him names, cursing him, ridiculing his people, calling him a dog-eating redstick and a dirty blanket-back Indian and other names that didn’t bear thinking about. She was glad he couldn’t understand what they were saying, though she was certain the disdain in their voices could be understood in any language.

She spent far too much time sitting at her window, watching him when he was working nearby. Far too much time admiring the rhythmic play of his muscles, noting the width of his shoulders, the length of his legs, the way his breechclout covered just enough for modesty’s sake and little else.

He always seemed to know when she was watching him. Inevitably, he would pause in whatever he was doing and look her way, his midnight black gaze resting on her, making her feel as if they were somehow connected.

The soldiers set to guard him treated him abominably, hitting him with their rifle butts when he didn’t move fast enough to suit them. She had seen them take the food meant for Black Wind and eat it themselves, or feed it to the dogs. On more than one occasion they had refused to give him water.

It seemed childish and cruel to Susannah, and she wondered how he endured it, day after day.

Nights, lying in her narrow cot, staring at the ceiling, she fought the urge to go to him, fought her own longing to be with him. And yet she couldn’t shake off the feeling that he was the reason she was here, that their lives were fated to be entwined.

And maybe, she thought, maybe it was just her overactive imagination hard at work.

Turning on her side, she stared out the window. It had been cool and cloudy all day. A brisk wind was blowing across the parade ground. In the distance, she heard the sound of thunder. No doubt it would be raining soon.

The wind rattled the glass in the window and crept up through the floorboards. Shivering, she crawled out of bed and slipped into the heavy cotton robe one of the women had given her. Going into the parlor, she started a fire in the hearth, wishing, for the thousandth time, that she was back home in her cozy apartment with its plush carpets and forced air heating.

So much had happened so quickly in the past two weeks. Now, shivering in front of the fire, she wondered what her friends thought of her abrupt disappearance. No doubt her editor had been trying to get in touch with her. Vivian would be wondering what had happened to her. Her landlord would be expecting the rent. She had bills to pay and a deadline to meet, and an appointment with her agent. What would her parents think when they got back from their cruise and discovered their only child was missing?

The wind howled around the hut, its cold breath seeping through every crack. She thought of Black Wind, huddling beneath a single blanket in the guardhouse. She had watched him work that afternoon. The men set to guard him had refused to let him take a break, refused him food and water, insisting it was wasted on a dirty Indian. They ridiculed him because he was filthy, yet refused to let him wash. It had been cold today, but he had no shirt to ward off the chill. His only apparel seemed to be his clout and a pair of well-worn moccasins.

Chiding herself for being a fool, she went into the kitchen and brewed a pot of tea. When it was done, she poured some into a tin cup, wrapped two slices of bread in a napkin, grabbed a quilt off the foot of the bed, and left the hut.

The wind crept under the robe, under her gown, as she made her way to the guardhouse. Thankful for the clouds that hid the moon and stars, she crept through the darkness toward the back of the building.

She should have known he would be there, at the window, staring out, staring toward home.

“I brought you something,” she said, and thrust the cup and the napkin through the bars.

She heard his stomach growl loudly as he unwrapped the bread. He turned away, and she knew he didn’t want her to see him wolf it down. She saw his head go back as he drained the cup in two long swallows.

And then, slowly, he turned to face her again. “
Pilamaya
.”

“If that means thank you, you’re welcome. Here.” She folded the quilt and shoved it through the bars. “I thought you might be cold.”

Tate Sapa took the quilt and wrapped it around his shoulders. It was far heavier and warmer than the filthy, threadbare blanket the Army had given him.

“What the hell’s going on here?”

Susannah whirled around, her heart plummeting to her toes, to find the soldier on guard duty glaring at her.

“I…that is…I mean…” She swallowed, her heart beating frantically as she wondered how she could possibly explain being out here in her nightgown in the middle of the night.

The guard walked up to the window and peered inside, gasped as Black Wind reached through the bars, his hands closing around the soldier’s throat.

“Get…help…” The words were hardly more than a whisper as the guard dropped his rifle and struggled to free himself. Astonished by the sudden turn of events, Susannah could only stand there, watching, as the soldier went limp. When Black Wind released him, the guard slid to the ground.

“What have you done?” she exclaimed. “Don’t you realize they’ll flog you for this, if they don’t hang you?”

“Su-san-nah.”

“What?”

He gestured at the soldier, them himself, then pointed at the distant hills.

She shook her head. “No, I can’t.”

“
Iyokipi
, Su-san-nah.”

She stared at him, trying to see his face in the darkness. He wanted her to help him escape. She knew it, just as she knew he hated having to ask for her help.

Muttering a very unladylike oath, she knelt beside the soldier. If he was dead, there was no way in hell she was going to help the Indian escape. But he wasn’t dead, only out cold.

She searched his pockets but couldn’t find a key. Calling herself a hundred kinds of a fool, she went around to the front of the building and peered inside. There was no one there.

Closing the door behind her, she went through the desk until she found a ring of keys.

Black Wind was waiting for her, his hands fisted around the bars set in the heavy wooden door. She could feel his gaze as she put first one key and then another into the lock until she found the right one.

Instead of unlocking the door, she withdrew the key and took a step backward. “You won’t hurt me, will you?”

He stared at her hard for a moment, then shook his head.

“Shoot, you don’t even know what I’m saying.”

Certain she was making the biggest mistake of her life, she unlocked the cell door, then stepped back as he opened the door and stepped into the room, ankle chains rattling.

Taking the keys from her hand, he squatted on the floor and unlocked the shackles from his ankles. They were raw and red from the iron’s constant chafing. Rising to his feet, he tossed the manacles aside.

Moving toward the back of the room, he took several boxes of ammunition from a shelf, then went through the drawers of the desk. He grunted softly as he removed a knife in a beaded sheath, then pulled an amulet of some kind out of the drawer. He slipped it over his head, shoved the knife into the waistband of his clout, then left the building.

Susannah followed Black Wind outside, stood in the shadows, watching, as he bent over the unconscious guard. Removing the man’s jacket, he shrugged it on, slipped the ammunition into the pockets of the coat, then picked up the rifle.

Motioning for her to follow him, he headed toward the stables.

As if she had no mind of her own, Susannah trailed after him, her heart pounding wildly. She knew she should cry out, call for help, but she couldn’t. No man deserved to be locked up for three years just for butchering a cow.

Tate Sapa dispatched the stable guard with a blow to the back of the head, then dragged the man inside and dumped him into an empty stall.

Moving quickly, he found the black stallion, slid a bridle over its head and led it outside.

“I hope you make it back home,” Susannah said.

He stared at her a moment, his dark gaze moving over her face. She shivered, wondering if it was caused by the cold wind stirring the dust, or by the sudden desire that blazed in the Indian’s black eyes.

She swallowed hard, knowing she would never see him again, wondering why the thought filled her with such sadness. She didn’t really know him, after all.

“Su-san-nah.” He closed the distance between them. Slowly, he lifted his hand and caressed her cheek. She had not realized how tall he was. The top of her head barely reached his shoulder.

Oh Lord
, she thought,
he’s going to kiss me
. She swayed toward him, then gasped as he caught her around the waist and thrust her onto the stallion’s back.

Before she could think or cry out, he was up behind her, his heels drumming into the horse’s sides. The stallion bolted forward.

There was a shout from one of the sentries, a warning to halt and be recognized, followed by a gunshot, more shouts, more gunfire.

She heard Black Wind grunt softly as they raced by one of the sentries. For a moment, she thought he had been shot, but then he kicked the horse again, demanding more speed, and she decided she had been mistaken.

The sounds of gunfire and shouts were swallowed up in the whoosh of the wind and the pounding of the stallion’s hooves.

And then there was only the darkness of the night and the sound of her own heart hammering in her chest, a quick tattoo that seemed to echo the sound of the stallion’s hoofbeats.

As fear subsided, she became aware of the cold wind tunneling through her hair, stinging her eyes, of the big horse beneath her. Thunder reverberated through the heavens, unleashing a torrent of rain. But most of all, she was conscious of the strong arm locked around her waist, the solid wall of flesh at her back.

He urged the stallion on, unmindful of the wind, the cold, the rain that pelted them with ever-increasing intensity, until she was cold and wet clear through.

“Stop, please,” Susannah begged, but he continued onward until, too cold and tired to care, she rested against him and closed her eyes, not caring if the horse stumbled and broke all their necks.

She came awake with a start, wondering what had awakened her, wondering how on earth she had managed to fall asleep on the back of a moving horse.

She realized it was the cessation of movement that had roused her. At the same time, she realized she was alone on the horse, it had stopped raining, and dawn was just brightening the edge of the horizon.

“Black Wind?”

She glanced behind her, but saw only darkness and a distant flash of lightning.

Hanging onto the horse’s mane, she slid to the ground, turned and stumbled. Over the Indian.

He was lying face down on the ground, not moving.

For a moment, she stared at him. She had read her share of Westerns, seen her share of cowboy movies. Indians were supposed to be one with their horses. They weren’t supposed to fall off.

Kneeling beside him, she shook his shoulder. “Black Wind.”

No response.

She shook him again, a little harder, and he groaned softly.

“Are you all right?” she asked dubiously. Her hand slid down his right shoulder and encountered something warm. And sticky. “No.” She shook her head, refusing to believe what she knew to be true. There was blood on her hands.

She sat there, unmoving, while night turned to day. The rising sun painted the clouds with broad streaks of crimson and ocher. Thunder rumbled overhead, unleashing a soft, gentle rain.

Black Wind stirred. He groaned softly as he opened his eyes.

He muttered something that sounded very much like a curse as he sat up.

“You look awful,” Susannah observed. He looked remarkably pale; his eyes were dark with pain.

“I feel awful.”

Susannah blinked at him in astonishment. “You…you speak English.”

He nodded. “I need your help.”

“What kind of help?”

He looked at her as if she had just asked the world’s stupidest question, which, she supposed, she had.

“I need you to bandage my wounds.”

“Wounds?” Plural.

He nodded again, wincing.