Untamed (3 page)

Long Belly wandered throughout cabin sniffing the air.

"What happened in here during my absence? Did something crawl under your bed and die?"

Daniel couldn't detect an unusually foul odor, but then he'd been stuck inside so long, even the stench of a dead skunk would have grown on him by now. If he'd had two good legs under him, he probably would have taken out the garbage sooner and cleaned up after himself a little better. And that gave him a pretty good idea where the odor might be coming from.

"Maybe if you'd stayed here and dumped the slop pail instead going off chasing ghosts, your delicate nose wouldn't be so damned offended."

"I do not chase ghosts." Long Belly swung the rabbit onto the table, and then headed for the pungent pail. "We owe you much, but this preparing of the food and tending to your wastes is woman's work, not fit for a great warrior."

He stopped just short of raising the bucket off the floor. Then he turned to Daniel, a sudden thought shining in his dark eyes. "Perhaps I should make you a gift of my sister, Owl Face. She would make a fine mother to your sons and an obedient wife."

"Oh, no you don't."

It wasn't that Daniel hadn't thought of marrying again, but having one Cheyenne wife had been nearly enough to send him back to the isolation of a mountain man's way of life. Although he'd found some pleasure in Tangle Hair's company during the short time they were together, and the union had produced a pair of beautiful twin sons, living with the woman had been an even bigger trial for Daniel than having her arrogant Cheyenne brother as a roommate. When a burst appendix claimed Tangle Hair's life less than two years after the birth of the boys, Daniel's grief had been tempered by an almost equal sense of relief.

If marrying again had an attraction, it was the chance for his sons to come live with him again. Due to their tender years and the fact that Daniel's job took him away from the ranch for extended periods, the twins had been living with their mother's family on the reservation since her death. Although he visited the boys regularly, Daniel missed them and couldn't wait until they were old enough to join him again. Still, it wasn't worth the risk of marrying Owl Face or anyone from her tribe. Cheyenne women were strongly opinionated and so highly regarded by the tribe, it seemed as if they, and not the chiefs, ran the camps. On more than one occasion, Daniel had seen a man chased from his own lodge by his club-wielding wife or her mother. Sometimes by both. Once Tangle Hair had even gone after him with a cooking pot simply because he'd complained about her stew. Daniel's mother had been even worse, according to his father.

Glaring at Long Belly, making sure he understood, he said, "I'd just as soon marry a grizzly as another of your sisters."

The Cheyenne nodded solemnly. "I remember your troubles with Tangle Hair and understand why you do not wish to accept Owl Face as your wife. Perhaps you would be more pleased if I found a white woman for you this time, someone from your father's people?"

Daniel burst out laughing. "That's one hell of a fine idea, brother. I'm sure that any self-respecting white woman would beg you for the chance to come live with a half-breed like me and his two motherless sons, especially in the middle of an Indian Reservation. Yessir, you'd probably have to beat them off with a war club."

Again he laughed, sure that Long Belly would see the folly of such an idea and join in. He didn't. Instead the Cheyenne took a long, hard look at Daniel, then flashed a stoical smile and headed out the door, slop pall in hand.

"Long Belly?" Daniel called after him. "I'm kidding, you know. You do know that, right?"

No response save the whistle of the wind.

"Long Belly? When I'm ready for another wife, I'll round her up myself, dammit." Daniel cocked his ear toward the silence. "You hear me, Long Belly?"

* * *

Seventy miles north and two days later, Josie finished folding the laundry for the night and headed for the kitchen to make a sandwich or herself before the evening crowd began to arrive. As she mad her way down the stairs, she pondered her situation and the likelihood that it would change for the worse once Lola got back from burying her mother in Denver.

It wasn't exactly Josie's idea of freedom, this business of scrubbing the soiled sheets and bedclothes of fancy women and their customers. Then again, it wasn't as insufferable as taking endless orders from an overbearing stepfather or cleaning up the dirty diapers of his progeny. In addition, she'd managed to learn a few more things about the goings-on between men and women, up to and including a peek at a couple in the throes of the hurdy-gurdy. Enough of a glimpse, anyway, to convince Josie that staying a virgin was the correct choice.

Best of all, no one at Lola's seemed to think she ought to step into the kitchen and fix them some grub. If she never again had to face a slab of raw beef or crack another egg over a sizzling skillet, Josie figured it'd still be too soon.

The problems would begin when Lola returned and insisted that she move into one of the upstairs bedrooms to start earning her keep in earnest. Josie had hoped that day wouldn't come before she was good and ready to light out on her own—a day that would be long in coming if she didn't find some financial backing or a partner, and soon. She'd been at the pleasure palace just short of two weeks now, time enough to earn her keep and a few toiletries, but precious little else. So far the upstairs ladies had been good about lending her the essentials, especially Sissy, a dark-skinned girl of undetermined origins who had lent her a clean dress and a frilly, if slightly immodest, nightgown. Nice, but Josie would just as soon have had a tough pair of denims and a thick flannel shirt. What she needed even more than clothing was money.

Fretting over ways of getting her hands on some cash without dirtying them in the bargain, she made her way down the stairs and turned on the landing to head for the kitchen. About that same time the front door to the pleasure palace suddenly banged open and in strode a wild Indian.

The savage was wrapped in a great buffalo robe and wore a bright red scarf around his throat. His shiny black hair hung down across his chest in braids, and a pair of eagle feathers flopped about from their anchor at the back of his head. Light from Lola's gaudy red chandelier reflected bloody beams across his high cheekbones, painting his cinnamon skin with eerie stripes of glittering war paint.

Terror-struck as memories of her family's fateful journey out West washed over her, Josie froze on the bottom step of the staircase, one white-knuckled hand clasped to the balustrade, the other fisted and shoved into her mouth. Everything seemed to stand still or move at one-tenth its normal speed. Time, the way the Indian moved, even his words, which sounded as if they were spoken through a tunnel of mud, all came to her with agonizing slowness.

"I come to buy a woman," said the savage, slapping a few coins on the counter. "I am told you sell them."

Marabelle Pickle, an aging whore who was Lola's first in command during her absence, looked up at her visitor in surprise, not with the terror Josie felt.

"That's right, injun," she said saucily. "But we ain't allowed to do no business with your kind. You'd best skedaddle on out of here."

After the Indian tossed a couple more coins on the counter, he whipped an axe out of his robe and buried it in the desk top. Marabelle shrieked as the weapon cracked into the cheap pine. When she looked up at the savage again, the proper terror shone in her eyes as she said, "C-course, if you insist..."

``I do." The Indian glanced around the room, which was deserted except for Josie, and settled his gaze on her. "Why does this woman have a spotted face? Is she sick?"

Marabelle giggled a little. "She's the healthiest one here. Them's just freckles, injun. I reckon your kind don't get freckles."

"Freckles?" After another long look at Josie, he turned back to Marabelle and said, "I will take her. Is this the right price?"

The worn-out whore didn't even count the coins. She nodded rapidly, the turned to Josie and said, "Take him up to room number three, and don't give him or me no argument about it."

Josie opened her mouth in protest. She wanted to scream, to gasp, to holler, to do something, but she couldn't speak or even think straight. In fact, she could hardly breathe. She felt as if she were a child of three again, a terrified mute watching the Indians approach the wagon train, hiding silently as they attacked and brutally murdered her father and brother.

The Indian in the whorehouse glanced at her again. "Tell this spotted-face woman that I want her to come to me now. I will take her with me."

"Take her with you?" Although Marabelle pretty much hated the sight of Josie and often complained that she wasn't doing her share around the place, especially upstairs, she came to her defense. "You can't take that girl out of here. We got plenty a nice rooms upstairs for you to do your business in."

"My business with you is finished. I have paid for the spotted-face woman, and now I will take her with me." He pulled the axe out of the desk and brandished it at Marabelle. "Yes?"

She nodded. "Yessir. Whatever you say."

Josie screamed. At least in her mind she did. Her mouth was a perfect circle, but nothing came out of it, not even as the big brute started for her. The three-year-old child inside her trembled as he drew near, but she could do nothing to stop him as he picked her up and slung her over his shoulder. As he turned to walk away, he paused in mid-stride, his attention diverted by something at the top of the stairs.

Sissy's voice floated down from above, as calm as always, a perfect monotone. "What do you figure on doing with her?"

"I have bought this woman. She is mine."

Footfalls sounded on the stairs, and the next thing Josie knew, her only friend in the world was standing right beside her. She twisted her neck and angled her head, straining to get a glimpse of Sissy. She held the awkward pose long enough to see the Indian reach out with his free hand and touch Sissy's great tumbleweed of dark brown hair. Then Josie collapsed face first against the back of his pungent robe.

"How much for this one?" the Indian asked.

Marabelle sputtered a moment before saying, "Ah... that one ain't for sale."

The Indian turned so quickly that Josie's face whisked across the buffalo fur as if she were a human broom, kicking up' particles of dirt that smelled like old socks.

"I will have her, too. How much?" the savage repeated as he strode over to the desk.

"The usual, Marabelle," said Sissy, joining them. "It will be easier for her if I'm there, too."

Upside down as she was, Josie couldn't actually see her friend, but she took some comfort in the sight of Sissy's purple satin slippers.

Marabelle grumbled a little, but didn't argue. "Suit yourself, but Lola ain't gonna like it one bit. This one'll cost you five bucks, injun."

As the Indian counted out more coins, Sissy's purple slippers turned and started for the stairs.

The savage stopped her in mid-stride. "We go now."

"Go?" The slippers hesitated, and then turned. "What's he mean by that, Marabelle?"

"He says he don't want no room here, that you got to go somewhere with him."

A giddy sense of relief swept through Josie as those satin shoes strolled back within spitting distance.

"Where are we going?" Sissy wanted to know.

"To a lodge in the mountains. Come, we must go now."

This time when the Indian turned around and started for the door, Josie's head swung out and connected with the edge of the desk. Her captor didn't stop or slow down, even though surely he realized what he'd done. She rubbed the lump at the back of her head and glanced at the floor again, hoping against all hope to find the purple slippers following her out the door.

All Josie saw was the spot she'd missed while moping the floor this morning, a palm-sized area of dust that seemed to represent her chances of living through the night as the captive of a crazed Indian.

It had been foolish to think for one minute that the dark-skinned prostitute would follow her and the savage. Just because Sissy was the only one in the entire place with the exception of Lola who'd shown Josie a moment's kindness, it didn't mean that she would also risk her life in the name of friendship. After all, lending a nightgown was hardly on the same level as following a crazed hostile to his lair. But that didn't stop Josie from hoping for the impossible.

As the savage slipped out the door and into the night, he paused, apparently waiting for his second purchase to join him. After several moments passed and she still hadn't appeared, the Indian continued on his way.

Sissy wasn't coming. Josie knew that now. She was alone, at the mercy of a brutal savage, the kind of man who'd killed most of her family, then terrorized her mother so badly that the poor woman was never the same again. Sick enough of mind anyway to wed the tyrannical Peter Baum and let him run her into the ground.

As she thought about her mother and the despair that had never left her eyes until the day she died, Josie suddenly found the courage to fight for her freedom. And with it, she found her voice.

Kicking her legs against her captor's grip and beating her fists on his back as hard as she could, she screamed, "Let me go, you no-account, murdering savage. You let me go this instant, or I swear—"

The savage abruptly released her. He dropped her so fast, in fact, that Josie didn't have a chance to react or to break her fall.

She hit the ground head-first, and then she screamed no more.

Chapter 3