Gray Hawk's Lady: Blackfoot Warriors, Book 1 (14 page)

Blood ran out.

She shrieked and fell back, her head spinning as though she had twirled around a number of times, her throat raw.

Some of the blood spilled onto her dress. She squealed.

“
Haiya
!”
he said, coming over to squat down beside her, a look on his face that said he couldn’t quite believe it. “Have you never skinned a deer before?”

“Never!” She sat up.

“A squirrel?”

“No.”

“A rabbit?”

“Of course not!”

“
Haiya
!
Do your menfolk do even this for you?”

“Menfolk?” She shifted uncomfortably. “I don’t know to what or to whom you are referring, Mr. Gray Hawk, but I can assure you that my father and I have more than enough servants to handle such matters as this, thank you very much.”

He shook his head. He looked as though he might like to say something, but with a jerk of his head, he did no more than pick up the stone knife that she had dropped. He gazed at the deer for a long time, his thoughts unreadable, until at last he said, “I will do it for you this time, but you must mimic everything I do so that when next I bring an animal into camp, you will know what to do. Do you understand?”

She hesitated. She glanced at him, down at her dress, over toward the knife that he held, and to the deer, which still lay to the side of the camp. At length, seeing no possible way out of this situation, she nodded.

It seemed more than enough for him. With only a grunt for acknowledgment, Gray Hawk began his instruction.

He showed her the proper procedure for skinning an animal, how to cut the hide away from the muscle, how to preserve the pelt to make it ready for clothing, how to cut up the meat; he even showed her what do to with the sinew that ran throughout the muscle, how tough it was and why his people used it for thread. He showed her the use of several of the bones, the brains—how they were made into a paste for use in tanning skins. And finally, all this done, he demonstrated what to do with the leftover bones and any other remains of the animal so that the wolves and other night creatures would feed on it, the animals then effectively erasing any traces of the Indian camp.

He made her repeat each task and every motion after him.

It took until late in the evening before the whole job was done, so meticulously did he instruct her—even to the making of a fire and how to cook the meat slowly over the flames.

She’d never be able to do it on her own, but she didn’t tell Gray Hawk. A camaraderie had built up between them as they’d worked, and she found herself reluctant to break it.

Said Gray Hawk, as they later huddled around the fire, the work finished, “I am taking a chance, lighting this fire while we are in Sioux country. But it is late in the evening, not a good time for warring, and I scouted all around our camp today while you slept, and I saw no trace of the enemy. But this may be the last time we will have a fire. Take pleasure in it.”

She nodded. “I will.” She paused. “Does that mean we will remain here the rest of the night? It is awfully late.”

“
Saa
, no. We will move on.”

“I see,” she said. “Where do we go?”

“North.”

“Oh.”

Silence. An uncomfortable sort of silence.

“What is to the north?”

“My home, my people.”

“The Blackfeet?”

“
Aa
,
yes.”

“Oh.”

Silence again.

“Could you take me south to St. Louis?”

“
Saa
, no.”

“If I don’t arrive home with you, my father will be ruined, as I will be too.”

“That is your problem, not mine.”

“Please, Mr. Gray Hawk. We have time to go to my father and still come back to your people, I promise you. Couldn’t you make the trip south, just for a little while?”

“No.”

Silence. The kind that stretched on and on.

In due time, Gray Hawk said, “I might have gone with you willingly once—if you had asked.”

“You might have?”

“Once. But you did not ask.”

“I’m asking now.”

He shook his head. “It is too late.”

She sat up straighter. “Why is it too late?”

He shrugged his shoulders. “Do not ask the why of it. Know that it is simply so.”

“But—”

“You ask too many questions. And though this is not a bad trait, try to discover your answers by observing the person in front of you, as is the Indian way. Oftentimes, the answers you seek are there for you to see, if you will look.”

“That’s ridiculous. I’ve never heard of anything so—”

“Go ahead. Try it.”

“Why, I never. I…oh, all right,” she said, sitting forward to gaze at him more directly. “I will.” She stuck out her chin and examined him. “What I see is…” She suddenly giggled.

“Do not laugh. Look.”

She stared at him again, this time surveying him as though seeing him for the first time.

He sat before her in profile, and she took her time inspecting him. High cheekbones; a handsome, though foreign-looking face; a slightly aquiline nose; a clean, straight jaw; full lips, the kind that had felt just right against her own.

Her stomach dropped.

He glanced over to her at once, as though he knew what she’d thought. His gaze fell to her mouth while his lips parted slightly.

He whispered, “Do not be discouraged, Little Captive. Just look.”

He turned his head back around to profile. “Just look.”

Long black hair that fell from a center part; perfect physique; dark, bronze-toned skin; broad shoulders; muscular chest; flat stomach; the white man’s black breeches; protruding genitalia—

She gasped and stared away from him at once.

He chuckled. He knew. He said, “Do not worry, Little Captive. You are enemy to me and, therefore, safe from me.”

“Why, I never… I wasn’t… I…”

“You forget, white woman, that I have practice at this. I can see what is on your mind. Now look at me. Look, and tell me what you see. The answers to your questions are right there, if you will only observe closely.”

“All right,” she said, bringing her regard back to his face. “I will.”

She gazed, she gawked, she peered. Smooth cheeks, she thought, cheeks devoid of facial hair. Her stare touched him gently. Full lips; long, straight eyelashes; dark, dark eyes; thick eyebrows that reminded her of his namesake. He turned all at once to stare directly into her eyes.

Then suddenly it was there before her: his past, his present, his feelings for her.

She knew what he thought, just like that. She didn’t want to know. She didn’t want to see.

She gasped and turned away.

“What did you see, Captive?”

“Nothing,” she said. “I saw nothing.”

She felt that he watched her, her own face now in profile to him. And though she tried to hide it, she could sense that he read right through her. And despite her own misgivings, she came to a startling truth: she’d never felt so close to another human being in her life. In that single glance, she’d seen his intentions, past and present. She knew his thoughts. She knew him.

She didn’t want to.

He grinned. He understood.

“Come,” he said. “Let us end this now and eat this deer meat so that we can start on our way. We have already lingered here too long.”

Genevieve nodded. And while she helped him to clean up their camp, it came to her again and again: at one time, he had liked her. He had even wanted her. And in the beginning, he would have come with her had she done no more than ask.

This was more than she wanted to know about him, and she marveled at the reality of her knowledge, just from the simple act of surveying him. Here was a type of knowledge, of certainty, she’d never dreamed existed. And she wondered that the instruction had come from an Indian, a savage.

But there was more. She also knew that he liked her no longer. She had read that meaning just as easily as she had seen the other.

Yes, he wanted her still; but because of his dislike, because he did not feel an affinity for her any longer, she was safe with him.

She sighed and looked up into the star-filled sky, marveling that out here, on this deserted stretch of prairie, she had learned more about humanity in a few minutes than she had done in all her twenty years so far upon earth.

She bowed her head. Truly, the knowledge was more than she could easily handle.

Chapter Nine

They had stopped shortly before dawn, and she had begged for the privacy to go and wash her body, her dress, her chemise.

He had granted her that right but had made it clear that he would have to stand watch over her…for her protection.

The stream was shallow—not more than five feet deep in the middle—and cold, but refreshing for all that. And as she splashed into it, she was reminded of simple childhood pleasures: of swimming, of romping on a warm summer’s day, of England.

But this wasn’t a warm summer’s day. It was dawn, it was August, she was not in her safe English home, she was not a child and…she was not free.

He had gagged her again while they had traveled through the night. Despite all her promises to him that she would keep quiet, he had tied her, and they had carried on, running most of the time. She was barely able to keep up with him, her muscles protesting at this seeming abuse.

But it was dawn now, time to stop.

She breathed out slowly and ran her hand through the shallow water, the ripples and surges of the current carrying the pinks and blues of the morning sky from rock to rock as it made its way toward some unknown destination. She was glad the night was over.

She closed her eyes, listening to the sound she made in the water, enjoying the racket of her own splashing, while overhead a mourning dove cooed, welcoming in the new day.

“
Omaopii
,
be quiet.”

Her? Or the dove?

She looked up at him, and he motioned her to silence before turning his back to her.

She sulked and instantly stabbed a glare at him where he sat on the rise just above the stream.

This was too much. He had dragged her, tied and gagged, across the prairie until she thought she’d never be able to walk again, and now that they had stopped, now that she had a moment to herself to tend to her aching muscles and sore feet, he wanted her to be quiet?

She opened her mouth to say something scathing, but was reminded that he might likely tie and gag her again, even during the day as she slept, if she antagonized him too much.

She grimaced and opted for silence, plus a piercing stare at him, instead.

However, it gave her little satisfaction, and so she stomped her feet up and down a few more times before settling down into deeper water, if only to let him know what he could do with his silence.

Ah, the water felt wonderful. She relaxed into it with a smile, though her break didn’t last long. She had work to do.

She began to undress, it being no easy task. She was physically drained; she was sleepy. She was also grouchy, but she needed to get this chore done and over with so she could lie down peacefully and sleep the day away.

Yes, she thought as she removed her dress and petticoats and placed them before her for washing. She was tired and cranky, but she was also, conversely, excited.

She didn’t know why, but she was.

Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that she had come to understand, somewhere during their flight, that Gray Hawk would do her no harm, other than holding her captive.

He might talk fiercely at her. He might even growl at her for committing some Indian faux pas, but she no longer feared for her life around him. With this new understanding of him had come a measure of comfort, enough that she had been able to take note of her surroundings as they had traveled into the night.

For the first time since her abduction, she had been able to look, really look, at the environment. And she had found it strange, different…exciting.

The prairie sky at night reminded her of being aboard ship, with stars everywhere. Except here, instead of the sound of water splashing against the boat, one heard the hooting of an owl, the howl of a wolf or the cawing of a nighthawk.

Despite herself, she’d felt an affinity for this place growing within her.

“Hurry, Captive.” Gray Hawk’s words interrupted her thoughts. “Daylight is almost upon us, and we must be hidden by then.”

She scowled up at him, though his back was still toward her.

“I might hurry more if I weren’t so weary from having to keep up with you. I’m winded, I’m tired and I’m hungry, and I intend to soak my muscles until they are no longer sore.”

He chuckled, a sound she had grown to dislike. “I have seen the way you walk, and I think it is this that is at fault for your weariness. But I think,” he said, “that if you will watch the way I walk, with the toes pointed inward and the knees bent, instead of legs straight and toes out, you will not tire so easily and will able to keep up. This is how the Indian walks, and an Indian can travel a long time before he tires.”