Lakota Surrender (5 page)

The sun beat down its warmth upon them, and its tawny rays caught a fiery red highlight in his hair, reminding her of fire and passion. All at once, Kristina thought she might burst.

She turned away, but this time, he touched her. It was a light graze, its length only a moment, its intent clearly to keep her from leaving. A simple gesture. That’s all it was. And yet Kristina felt a jolt all through her body.

He motioned her to sit.

She complied, almost without thinking.

“Sing,” he motioned.

“Sing?” she asked aloud.

He motioned towards the keys, signing again, “Sing.”

“Oh, I see. You want me to play.” She fingered the keys lightly, not pressing down on them. “Like this?”

With one hand, he motioned “yes.”

She played then, her attention not on the notes, but rather on the man who stood at her side. Without thought, her fingers moved over the cool, ivory keys in the haunting melody of Pachelbel’s “Canon”; Kristina closed her eyes, trying to concentrate on what she was doing, not on the virile Indian watching her intently. It made no difference. Every other sense she had was alerted to him, from the clean scent of him to the muffled sound of his soft, white-bleached clothing as he moved.

Moved? Kristina played the last note and opened her eyes to find the Indian not at her side as she had thought, but in front of her, the height of the piano between them. She gazed up at him, over the piano, catching a look in his eye that might have been—admiration? She couldn’t be sure because it was so quickly gone that she wondered if she had only imagined it.

“Kristina,” Julia exclaimed, bursting onto the scene. “Come quickly. There’s news that…there’s…” Julia’s words gradually slowed. “That…there…are wild Indians… Kristina, I think you’ve discovered this for yourself.”

“Yes,” Kristina said. She glanced down as she rose from the piano. She had to get away. She wasn’t sure what had happened to her just now and she needed time alone to consider it. Without stopping to think she quickly signed a good morning to the Indian, smiled unsteadily in his direction, and dashed toward Julia. The tingling sensation at the back of her neck told her the Indian’s gaze had never left her.

What had happened?

Why did he look so familiar?

Tahiska watched the white woman flee. In truth, he was somewhat relieved. He had never seen a white woman before, and frankly he had never paused to wonder at the white man’s woman. He could not be sure if he found her at all attractive—perhaps if the eye adjusted. She was small and slim—slimmer than what he was accustomed to—and she only reached to his chin. Her hair burst with color the same as the sun, her eyes glistened like a spring forest, and her skin filled with a flush not unlike the beauty of the wild rose.

He stared at the empty space where the woman had been and then at the piano itself. Coming around to the side of the instrument, he touched a note and listened for the sound. He had never heard music such as this. He had never seen such a woman. They were good medicine, both the “song-maker” and the woman. Great medicine.

Completely honest with himself, Tahiska, considered the pleasure that had shot through him with the white woman’s touch. That she had felt it, too, was without doubt. He was not a young boy never affected by passion, never tasting the pleasures between a man and a woman. He thought he was worldly wise. Now he wondered. He had never felt such an intense pleasure from a relatively simple action. An image of the woman locked in his embrace crept into his thoughts. His body immediately responded, causing Tahiska discomfort. The sensation was a surprise. He disciplined himself.

He was on tribal business. The matter for which he had come was of the utmost importance to him, and its urgency was the only reason he was here at the white man’s fort. He tried to conjure up his anger at the whole of the white race, but his efforts were in vain. He snorted, and disgusted with himself, he turned away. He would spare neither his time nor his thoughts on the white woman.

Chapter Four

“Ah, Miss Bogard. There you are.”

Kristina smiled, and letting herself into the commanding officer’s quarters, stepped into the room. Her full skirts rustled as she moved, creating the only sound in the silent room. Even her slippers, usually muffled by surrounding noise, fell in a hushed echo as she crossed the wooden floor toward Colonel Wheeling’s desk. She had never been more aware of the sounds of her movement than at this moment.

As she came further into the room, she tensed. Something was wrong.

Immediately she espied the three Indians standing at the opposite end of the room, their expressions blank, their posture stiff. While her attention lingered on the Indian dressed in white, a sensation, similar to the one she had felt earlier that morning at the piano, flitted over her nerves. She eyed him cautiously. Why did her body react so at his mere presence, and why did she feel as though she knew him? She took an unsteady breath, then turned away.

“Good day, Colonel Wheeling. I understand you asked to see me. Is there something I might do for you?” Although she stood with her back toward the Indians while she addressed the officer, every nerve in her body screamed that she was being observed—hostilely. Why?

“Yes, Miss Bogard,” the colonel replied, gesturing to a chair. “Won’t you, please be seated?”

When she had complied, the colonel took his seat as well. “I must ask a favor of you this afternoon. These three Indians have come here to have council with me. They have some business here, but I am hard put to understand them. I don’t know their tongue and I’ve never mastered that language they use with their hands. In your short time here at the fort, I have observed your fluency in this sign language. Would you be so kind as to act as translator for us?” The colonel followed this request with an engaging smile.

Kristina was taken aback. She had never been asked to perform such a duty before; and she was well aware of the unusual nature of this request.

“Have you asked my father to translate?” she asked the colonel.

“He has been gone from the fort for a few hours, and we don’t expect him back before sunset.”

“I see,” Kristina said. “And the half-breed translators?”

“None are available. Most started their celebration early and already are in bed—drunk. No, Miss Bogard, because this is a holiday there is no one else here to help. And these men are anxious to speak.”

She paused, then, treating the colonel to an enchanting smile, she said, “I’d be happy to help. Have you ascertained anything yet?”

“Only that their business is pressing,” he retorted. “But that’s from observation alone, not because we’ve managed to communicate.”

“I see,” Kristina said, standing. She twirled around and for the first time gave her full attention to the Indians, or rather, Indian. She noticed no one but him. However, none of the Indians paid her any attention, and it gave her a chance to step closer to them.

She stopped short. An image flashed before her; her heart began to pound, and unconsciously, she swept, a hand over her eyes. Suddenly, she realized why he seemed so familiar. Her head spun; her heart began to race. She blinked, feeling as if she were on the verge of fainting. Still, he stood proudly before her and she knew he had stepped out of her dreams, into reality. He was the one from her vision. She put a hand to her throat and gulped in air. She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t act as translator. She needed to think. She needed distance. And most of all she needed time to pull herself together.

She spun around to face the colonel, wondering if she looked as haunted as she felt.

“Why, Miss Bogard, are you all right?”

“I…” she gasped. “Sir, I don’t believe I can act as translator for you.”

“Of course you can.” The colonel eyed her cautiously. “There’s no reason for you to be afraid of these Indians. After all, I’m here to protect you.” This was said so tonelessly that Kristina wondered for a moment at that “protection.” “Perhaps,” he continued, “you’ve had too much sun today. This might be a welcome relief for you. Why not just see if you can ascertain their business, my dear?” The colonel chose to pin her with a charming smile, but Kristina was beyond such influences. She could react to nothing but of nothing but
him.
Think
him.

“I can’t.”

“Yes, you can. Now just turn around and ask them why they are here,” he replied, the impatience in his tone obvious.

She gulped and knew she would have to do it. Short of running from the room as though she were pursued by demons, she had little choice. She took a long, unsteady breath, then turned around. She couldn’t look at him. If she did, she wouldn’t see him, only her dream.

She stared at the floor, unaware that she was trembling. She wondered what he thought of her actions. Would he think she was crazy? It was this last thought that propelled her into motion. Through sheer willpower, she forced her gaze upwards, to meet his.

Her smile was weak, her movements hesitant as she began to sign, “Good day.” She swung her hands in a sweeping arc over her head, ending with her right hand pressed down over her heart, telling them she hoped all their days were happy. There was no response. Her hands trembled, and she could only hope that they had understood.

“Halt!” There was no mistaking the thrust of his right hand. The one in the middle, the one from her vision, shot forward. His expression grim, he glared first at her, then at the colonel. His eyes remained on the colonel. “You would insult us by bringing in this woman!” His movements cut through the air, his motions so quick, Kristina could barely follow. “We have come here for council. We have come a great distance to talk of a matter of grave importance. We represent the Lakota nation and you insult us in this way? Since we have arrived in this fort, we have endured such bad manners from the soldiers that we begin to wonder if they are feeble-minded. But this—bringing in this girl—is an insult no Lakota need abide. We do not council with women. Our meeting is at an end.”

He hesitated and Kristina saw that he stared at her trembling fingers. He glanced up at her and she could have sworn that she caught a fleeting look of tenderness in his expression.

It was quickly masked, though. Tearing his gaze from hers, he shrugged, and motioning to his friends, stalked to the door.

“No!” Kristina gasped. “Wait!”

The Indians paid her no heed. Their flight was so fast, yet so graceful, they were almost away before Kristina forced herself into action. “Wait!” She darted across the room and unmindful of her own discomfort, she reached out to
him,
placing her hand upon his arm. Again, a charge shot up her arm, vibrating through her whole body. And if Kristina had shrugged off her reaction to him before, she was more than reminded of it now. The atmosphere around them fairly exploded.

All three men stopped at her gesture. All three men scowled at the hand that lay upon the Indian’s shirt. One man looked up at her fiercely, though beneath her touch she felt him shiver.

“We mean no insult.” Kristina had recovered herself. The trauma of his reaction to her simple greeting of “good day” had jolted her out of reverie. Her only intention now was to somehow save this council, and she motioned the gestures of sign with her right hand, her left still detaining him. “This is summer. Most all our men are gone with the wagon train to trade furs across the Missouri and Mississippi Rivers. We celebrate today. It is a holiday and many of our men are not here. There is no one else to translate because our chief does not understand sign language. It is because we value you and do not wish to waste your time that I have been brought here. I am only an interpreter. I do not add ideas to the council. I am here only so you and the chief can talk.”

She had never looked at anyone so directly. She felt mesmerized and doubted that she would be able to look away. He stared back at her. His gaze was intense and as potent as a caress. It was an odd sensation, this looking at one another, and for a moment she could have sworn she knew his thoughts as though they were her own. She swallowed, then gestured, “We do not mean to disgrace you. We only try to communicate.”

Her hand tightened upon his arm, and she continued to stare at him. He was so close she could smell the clean scent of prairie grass that clung to the deerskin he wore, plus another indefinable scent that could only be marked as his own. She wondered if she should step back, away from him, but she couldn’t force herself to move.

He watched her while long moments passed; his study of her was so intense that for a moment she was certain he could see into her soul. And she wondered if he would dare to do the unthinkable and listen to her.

He shifted his gaze so that he stared at her fingers, where they touched his arm, and Kristina held her breath, praying that he could see beyond his pride and know that she would never intend him insult. Finally, he responded. “Perhaps you do not intend to demean us.” His motions were slower now, not so erratic. “But your chief does. He must know our customs to be chief at a trading post. I think he is afraid. I think he hides his fear behind the skirt of a woman. I think he uses you.” He looked down his nose at her and, though he tried to pretend differently, Kristina noted with a sense of elation that he watched her not with hostility but with admiration. It gave her hope to go on.

“Maybe you are right,” she gestured. “I do not know him well, but still he is chief. If you have business here, you will have to speak with him.”