To Tame A Rebel (16 page)

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Authors: Georgina Gentry

BOOK: To Tame A Rebel
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“Twilight, are you sure?” He paused and drew back.
“If we were to die tomorrow, I don't want to regret that I missed this,” she whispered, and pulled his mouth down to hers.
He hugged her fiercely, his mouth all over her body as he caressed her. She touched him, and he was rigid with need. She opened and enveloped him, her own greedy body pulling him deep within her. She could feel his hard lance pulsating in her as he kissed her deeper still. Then he began to ride her in a rhythm of love, and she had never experienced this soaring emotion before. She dug her nails into his broad back and hips, urging him deeper still in a frenzy of pumping and gasping. Then he began to give up his seed, and in her wonder, her own body responded, locking on to his so that he might not escape the grasp of her long legs until her body had what it craved from him.
For a moment, it was almost as if she were dying, because the firelight, the wind, everything faded but the emotion and the warmth of him riding her deep and hard, and she couldn't get enough of him. Finally, as she came to, she realized he, too, was gasping, limp and satisfied.
“Now the captain won't want you,” he whispered. “You've been taken by a savage.”
“Is that why you did it?”
He looked down at her. “I wanted to give you my son,” he whispered. “If I don't survive this, at least I will have left a son to carry on.”
Did he really care about her, or was it only his need to leave his progeny that had driven him? She dare not ask, because she was not sure she wanted the truth.
He leaned over and kissed her again, but he did not whisper words of tenderness.
What on earth had she done? Mating with a savage captor out in the middle of a hostile wilderness with possible death facing her tomorrow? She was greatly troubled, but her body was relaxing in sleep already. She felt Yellow Jacket cradle her in his arms as he rolled over on his side and they both slept.
 
 
Before dawn, Yellow Jacket shook her awake, and she blinked, uncertain how to face him this morning after last night's intimacy. She would pretend it never happened. The whole camp was stirring, babies crying, horses neighing. She knew without looking that in this bitter cold, some of the less fortunate had frozen to death last night. She might have, too, but for the warmth of Yellow Jacket's big body. Wordlessly he handed her a cup of hot water, and she looked up at him and said nothing.
Absently she reached into her pocket and touched the blue bead. She had forgotten about that. She brought it out and stared at it in the first light. Immediately, Yellow Jacket grabbed her wrist.
“Where did you get that?”
“Stop it! You're hurting me!” In their struggle, the blue bead flew from her hand and was lost in the white snow. “What's the matter with you?”
He glowered down at her. “My niece, Pretty, had a bracelet made of those. It wasn't found with her body.”
“Harvey sells beads of all colors; I picked this one up off the floor of the trading post.” She decided not to mention that it was under his bed.
Yellow Jacket's jaw clenched. “They say Pretty killed herself, but I think she was murdered.”
“Murdered?” She backed away, shaking her head.
“Your brother would turn a girl's head with jewelry and ribbons. Pretty was young and foolish. There were boot tracks where she was found, but they weren't those of a man who limped.”
She remembered the pebbles in Harvey's boot. Without the pebbles, he did not limp.
“What's the matter with you? You're pale.”
“N-Nothing,” she lied. “I doubt Harvey has the courage to kill anyone.”
“If I was sure, I would track him down and kill him very slowly,” he said. “Anyway, it doesn't make any difference now, does it? The Muskogee are on the run, and I've got Harvey Leland's sister as a hostage.” His cold tone hinted of revenge. She'd meant nothing to him but a moment's pleasure. What a fool she had been.
“I'll ride in the buggy today,” she said coldly.
“No, you won't. It'll be overloaded already with our sick leader and some of the women and children. You'll ride behind me. Now, get a move on; the others are already pulling out and who knows how far the rebels are behind us?”
There was nothing to do but let him pull her up behind him on the big paint horse. This time, his body felt tense and unrelenting when she put her arms around his waist. At least his body was breaking the cold wind. They started out again heading north, all the people stumbling through the snow, ignoring the dead and dying who lay along the trail.
“Don't look,” he muttered. “We can do nothing to help them, and they know it.”
She wanted to protest, but she knew he was right. “Maybe the Confederate soldiers will care for them when they catch up.”
He laughed, a short, humorless laugh. “You don't really belive that,” he scoffed. “Nothing will slow the rebels while they're trying to capture my people.”
He spoke the truth, and she knew it. The runaways' only salvation was reaching the Union troops, who would protect them and give them food and shelter. If the migration slowed or halted, they would be overrun and killed by the pursing Confederates.
Yellow Jacket reined in and dismounted, not looking at the white girl. He had almost begun to care for her—and then she had brought out the blue bead. How could he care about the sister of the possible killer of Pretty?
A small boy, perhaps seven or eight years old, stumbled by, half leading, half carrying a toddler girl who cried softly. The boy murmured to the baby as he fell in the snow and got up to walk again. Yellow Jacket spoke to the child in Muskogee. “Boy, where is your family?”
“Dead, all dead, but I can make it to the bluecoats, get myself a gun, and fight the graycoats.”
The frail child would never make it to Kansas despite his brave words, and they both knew it.
The little girl looked up at Twilight and whimpered, tears almost freezing on her cheeks.
“Oh, Yellow Jacket,” the white woman said, “I'll walk so they can ride.”
He made a gesture to halt her. Again to the boy, he said, “Is that your sister?”
The ragged child shook his head and dusted snow off the baby. “I found her by a dead woman who didn't make it through the night. I don't even know her tribe.”
“Or her name?” Yellow Jacket's eyes were suddenly moist. The little girl reminded him of his dead niece.
The boy shook his head. “I am Seminole; I do not know her tribe.”
Yellow Jacket turned to the white woman. “He's Seminole, they're a branch of the Muskogee. Their name means ‘runaways.'”
“Runaways?”
He nodded. “A long time ago, the Seminole went off to Florida, but the government gathered up some of them and sent them to Indian Territory.”
“I thought my brother said your people were Creeks.”
Yellow Jacket frowned. “That's what whites call us because when they first saw us, we were living on creek banks. We call ourselves Muskogee.”
The small boy said, “If we had a little food, we might make it.” His big dark eyes were bright with hope.
Yellow Jacket turned to Twilight. “Do you have any food at all?”
“I've got a little corn bread.” She reached for it, leaned over to hand it to the child. “We aren't going to leave them, are we?” she begged. “Maybe we could put them in the buggy.”
“The buggy is too full already. Any more and the horse won't be able to pull it.” He watched the two children wolfing down the cornbread. “Here, she can ride with you and I'll lead the horse.” He lifted the baby girl up to Twilight's waiting arms. The white girl looked so natural cuddling a baby. “Her new name is Pretty.”
The Seminole boy had finished his corn bread. “A good name,” he said gravely, and looked up at the horse with a hopeless wistfulness.
“You shall ride, too.” Yellow Jacket lifted him up to the saddle before Twilight.
The boy laughed with relief, and Pretty laughed, too, as Twilight wrapped her buffalo robe around them all. “Thank you,” Twilight said.
Yellow Jacket was embarrassed to be seen as sentimental by his captive. “There is no need to thank me; they are, after all, Indian children and we must save those we can.”
“All children are the same.” Twilight smiled down at him as she held the children close. “What is his name?”
Yellow Jacket took the reins and began to lead the horse through the snow. There were dozens of children who might not survive today, but these two would. “Boy,” he called back over his shoulder, “what is your name?”
“Wasko,” the child answered. “I thank you for this, Great Warrior.”
“It is no matter,” Yellow Jacket said gruffly, a little embarrassed by the child's gratitude. Then to Twilight: “The boy's name is Wasko, which means ‘Chigger.'”
He looked back at the boy, and the child's eyes were bright with hope. Twilight hugged the pair to her. “Yellow Jacket, can't we keep them?”
“We may not make it ourselves,” he muttered, and kept walking. The thought crossed his mind that the white girl looked very natural with a child in her arms, even an Indian one. Now he had a ready-made family.
Careful,
he cautioned himself,
you must not think of her that way. She is a hostage and the sister, maybe, of Pretty's killer. No good can come of that.
Still, it was hard to reason with his heart.
 
 
The day was long and cold as they trudged northward. When they stopped to rest, Yellow Jacket went hunting and brought back a rabbit, which fed all four of them. He found a stream and broke the ice to fill the canteens. There was no coffee, but he made a nourishing broth with the rabbit bones. That night, the pitiful procession of thousands finally stumbled to a halt to make camp. Twilight made sure the two children were well fed, then bedded them down wrapped in her buffalo robe.
She felt differently about Yellow Jacket because he had rescued the children, who were not even of his own tribe. He had gone off to confer with the old chief and the other leaders. He came back looking grim.
“What is it?” she asked.
“We gained some time when those Cherokee pin Indians deserted the rebels, but now they've picked up reinforcements and are in hot pursuit again.”
“What's a ‘pin' Indian?”
He shrugged. “The most traditional clan. They wear crossed feathers or pins to show they are Keetoowa.”
“Oh. Well, maybe you can whip them again.”
He looked tired. “We'll have to try. I have a good friend, Jim Eagle, riding with the rebels. He spared my life last time our paths crossed, only a few weeks ago. Now he'll be trying to kill me.”
“It makes no sense, but then, war never does.”
She watched his gaze go to the sleeping children. “Twilight, it's still a long, long way to Kansas. We don't have much of a chance of making it.”
“It can't be that far,” she protested.
“With the huge rebel army, including Stand Watie's crack Cherokee Mounted Rifles, chasing us? Ten miles would be too far. I think they'll catch up to us in the next several days. If I'm killed . . .” His voice trailed off, and he did not finish.
She wasn't certain what it was he meant to say. He seemed to be past his anger of this morning. Of course he had been wrong about Harvey. Her stepbrother might be of weak character, but surely he hadn't had anything to do with Pretty's death. She wondered if he was back there somewhere with the pursuing troops. She waited for Yellow Jacket to finish. Instead, he stared into the campfire, and the light flickering on his rugged face told her how concerned and worried he was. If he were killed . . . She realized suddenly that she couldn't bear that thought. Maybe it was only because if he were dead, she wasn't certain what would become of her and these two helpless children. She didn't want to think about what the next several days would bring. At the moment, she and these two children were being well cared for by the big Creek warrior, and she had to be content with that.
When she looked at him, he was sitting cross-legged by the fire, shivering a little in his worn, ragged buckskins. “Here,” she said, “I'll share my blanket with you.”
He looked at her, hesitated. The fire had died down, and the darkness seemed pitch black except for the snow reflected in the flames.
“I—I want to. We may not be alive tomorrow.” She held out her arms to him and he came to her, enveloping her in his powerful embrace, and she felt safe and protected. She was not sure whether he cared for her or was only blocking out tomorrow's possible terrors. As for herself, she didn't ask herself any questions; she only immersed herself in the heat and the power and the passion of the man. If he were going to be killed in battle tomorrow, she wanted to be in his arms tonight.

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