Wind Dancer (17 page)

“Quiet Fox. I have it from a reliable source that he is a trusted guide.”

“Never heard of him. Who told you he was so trusted?”

They stared at each other for a long moment, then Hope flushed and turned away. “Just the word around town.”

“When did they go?” Joseph demanded while pulling off a boot and wiggling his toes to stretch them.

“Weeks ago. I should have heard from them by now.” Hope took another chair at the table and leaned toward him. “I feel something has happened. Something bad.”

Joseph scowled at her. “You should have waited until I returned to make this decision.”

“How could I?” She looked up at him, pleading. “You are never here.”

“That's my work.”

Hope shook her head. “It's your heart. It is never here.” She looked toward the ceiling, wondering if God heard her weak, sorrowful tone. “You are always off somewhere, looking for something that I can't give you.”

Joseph scowled at her. “You know not what you say.”

Hope turned brisk, walking away from him, staring out the window at the town that was Vincennes. “I gave up everything to follow you here; you give up nothing for me and the children.”

Joseph stood, went to her, and grasped her hand and brought it to his lips. Gently, he kissed each knuckle. “I still love you, my Hope.”

She leaned her head to one side, tears springing up. He hadn't called her that in so long. But she resisted. “I need more than the words this time.”

“What can I give you?” He looked around the room. “I have given you a home. I have provided for this family and abided your moods when I wanted more children and you refused me night after night, while you weep and wail in some kind of prayer. Some men think I allow you too much freedom.”

She wanted to rise up and rail at him but instead smiled a kind but sorrowful smile. “Those are good things, and I am thankful. But Joseph, you have pulled away from my heart. We two no longer seem to be one. And I don't know how to regain that.”

“I will give you anything I can.”

“You want to give me something? Find our children.”

Joseph laughed, and it was a bitter sound. “Isabelle has likely convinced Julian to extend their little adventure, staying in Kaskaskia. She is the most misbegotten hellion I have ever seen.”

Hope screamed internally in frustration. Joseph never wanted to face anything, always believed whatever was most convenient for him. She watched in despair as he turned, scratching his head through his still-thick, dark hair and turned away from her, heading for their bedroom, likely to sleep until evening.

“If you will not go after them, then I must.” She stared into his dark-brown eyes, seeing the crinkles around them that didn't used to be there, the lashes gone slack and white, seeing years that had passed by.

Joseph turned with a short laugh. “You do that.”

She pleaded, “They should have been back weeks ago. Anything could have happened.”

He sighed, rubbing his rosy face with one hand. “If they have not returned within another week, I will go.”

It was the best she was going to get.

Samuel saw her from the other side of the camp, nearly a week after their recapture, and hardly recognized her. Isabelle's hair, that wild, living thing that became her like a best cloak, lay in tight braids on either side of her shoulders. Her head hung down, showing the tanned expanse of her forehead. She seemed to be looking for something lost on the ground. Two bright circles of red paint rode high on her cheekbones.

Her whole being appeared lost.

He shouted her name across the expanse of the camp, despite the attention it might draw. After a long moment, she looked up. He gasped at the shattered gaze, so unlike anything he'd ever seen, even on this ravished frontier. She didn't shout back or even look in his direction. She appeared … afraid. What were they doing to her?

He knew she had been going along with anything they demanded since that night at the river, and he had been doing much the same, outwardly at least, making them believe in his acquiescence—all the while hatching new plans of escape. He hadn't fooled them, he knew, but it was enough to keep his
scalp intact. The tribe maintained hope of his full assimilation in time. He prayed time would become his answer—the second their guard was down—he would make good their escape. All he needed was time, and time was all they had.

But he would never leave here without her.

Until the opportune moment presented itself, he had no choice but to abide—abide their laughing ridicule as he pretended weakness where there was none, as he feigned admiration where he abhorred their methods and their means. It wasn't that he had never learned anything from Indian ways. Oh yes, he'd learned them well. Back in Dunmore's War, when he was still green, a runaway lad, he had seen firsthand the advantages of the natives' ways over traditional English fighting techniques. Up against a tribal war party, the lines of red-coated soldiers, marching bravely in straight-backed formation, became a left-to-right death dance, convincing Samuel and others, George Rogers Clark among them, that there was much they could learn from the Indians in matters of warfare.

Honor came to a brave after death, not marching toward it. And so he had become one of them then, as much as he ever would. He and Clark had learned how to become hidden forest warriors, with cunning and skill. Lessons beyond the ken of hardened, disciplined British soldiers had come easy to the independent-natured colonists. After living in this land alongside the Indians for decades, the American frontiersmen had risen to the challenge, becoming death hunters with the eyes of the woodland on their side. They'd learned how to strike fear into the enemy's heart with shrill battle cries, immobilizing them before they had a chance to lift their better weapons.

The Americans latched onto this unfamiliar warfare like puppies to a teat, knowing, somehow, in their desperation for this land, its sure sustenance. They were a new breed, these Americans. Able to take the best from each culture and make it their own.
Able to rise up and fight with all that they embodied—Irish rebellion and independence, English endurance and confidence, German economy and warrior spirit, French artistry, African nobility, the joy of the Scots—and brought it all together in a melting pot of strength.

Samuel had seen it in their eyes when commanding a troop, the women's eyes when waving their men off with tears and pride, and yes, even in the children's eyes. The young boys would stand with pitchforks and field scythes waving above their heads, over their hard-won fields, determined to do a man's work while their fathers left to protect it. These people hadn't traveled a sea and left a country and their forebears for nothing. They would have a field of their own crop to defend, by the great Almighty!

It was a lesson ingrained in him, giving him an edge as a leader. He felt their passion, their pains to make it real. He knew, like he'd never known anything, that he was meant for more than life in his father's straight-laced household. This was something he could help make happen.

This was his destiny.

Sometimes Samuel awoke suddenly from strange dreams of a time where people lived in huge cities of stone, their buildings crowded, reaching into the clouds, where the green and forest and woodland had given way to a hard, gray, people-packed civilization. But he didn't feel sad when he dreamed it. He would awake with an indrawn breath of exultation. “What is it, Lord?” he would wonder aloud amid his tangled covers. “What do You have planned for this land?”

But the morning always dawned on the edges of a forest yet to be hewn, of green as far as the eye could see, of promise and sacrifice for that promise, of work and sweat beyond measure with an early death almost certain, of vision, a vision so strong that they didn't really know where it came from, yet it lived like a fire in
each of their hearts so that they were willing, eager even, to give up everything to possess it. This America. These Americans.

That was his daylight. But now, for the first time, Samuel wanted something more than acres of belly-filling dirt and a hand-hewn cabin to call his own.

He wanted a woman.

This woman with the wild hair that wrapped her when she danced.

And he would wait. Wait until he could snatch her back from the enemy haunting them both. He
would
ride off with this stolen prize. If he accomplished nothing else in his whole life, he would conquer this thing.

* * *

“
JE M'APPELLE
ISABELLE,” she whispered to the hide she was scraping, “so nice to make your acquaintance.” She curtseyed to the brown fur, hiding her smile at the absurdity and yet knowing that she must continue to do this. Something inside told her not to forget. She had promised to go by “Cocheta” now, and she was, gaining small ground of trust with the tribe, convincing them that they had finally conquered some small part of her. But secretly she rebelled. Since seeing Samuel across the camp, since hearing her name being called, she'd been shocked out of her slow slide into their ways. It had ignited a spark back to life inside her, like a lightning bolt. She would remember who she was. She would say it out loud at every opportunity.

* * *

HOPE ROSE EARLY, quietly packing, though something in her knew Joseph would wake up and see.

“What are you doing?” His voice was groggy with sleep, confused.

Hope turned, looking at him from over her shoulder. She was still a beautiful woman, her blonde hair darker now, pulled back in a messy knot at her nape, strands escaping in her early-morning haste, her eyes still sleepy but determined. “I'm going to Kaskaskia,” she said quietly, belying the fear within.

“I told you I would go in a week or two if they don't return.” Joseph pulled on his breeches as he spoke. Going to the bedroom door, he leaned against the edge. “Come back to bed.”

Hope shook her head. “You have never listened to me before. I can't expect that you will now.” She walked off toward the kitchen, intending to pack any means necessary to vital sustenance on a journey of this sort. What would she need most? She pondered her cupboards, hearing Joseph follow her into the kitchen.

“Just give it some time, for heaven's sake,” he was mumbling as he pulled his shirt over his head.

Hope turned from her packing. She looked at him, felt the familiar attraction, and fought it. He was still a fine-looking man. A little gray in his hair, but that added an air of distinction. A broad, unlined, and rosy face. Eyes that twinkled when he was happy, snapped when he was impatient or angry or worse, frustrated by lack of understanding what was going on around him. She'd seen that face often in the rearing of their children. Joseph understood Joseph and little else. He was never one to be able to walk in another's shoes. No, it was almost as if he expected that everyone else should wear
his
shoes. And if they didn't,
they
were the ignorant ones.

Hope took a long breath and faced him. “I'm going. There is nothing you can do. Something is wrong, I know it. I have to go.”

Joseph looked off into the distance and scratched his head. “Can't you wait a week? I have one more run, and then I will have some time. You can't go after them alone.”

Hope shook her head sadly. “There is always ‘one more run.'” She paused, knowing the impact. “I am not going alone.”

His face reddened. He puffed out his cheeks like a bull ready to charge. “Who is it?”

Hope turned away, not able to face what was in his eyes. “You needn't worry,” she said. “I will be safe.”

“Who is it?” he demanded. But they both knew.

Hope bundled some bread into her pack, followed by dried cherries, dates, persimmons, and jarred honey. “I ran into Adam while you were gone. He offered to help.” She dared not look at him in the ensuing silence.

Finally he said, “You would harlot yourself then? For the children, I am sure.”

She whirled on him. She had never been so angry. “Adam Harrison would never ask anything of me, and you know it. Shame on you for thinking such a thing!”

He nodded and smiled. It was the smile she dreaded, said everything she never was or could hope to be.

“The man is just biding his time, Hope. Waiting for the time I don't make it back, some Indian's arrow in my chest. Don't be a fool.”

“Not every man is like you,” Hope said with quiet conviction. “He respects me.”

“Oh yes,” Joseph agreed. “He
respects
you all right. He will hold you on a pedestal until you succumb to it. That grand respect.” He turned, his hand flinging out toward her. “Go on with you then. Save your children. But don't expect a home when you get back.”

Hope watched him trudge off to the bedroom, wondering how sure his threat was. There was fear inside her, a fear of losing him, though that had happened long ago. Fear of not finding a solid roof over her head when she returned. She reminded herself, as she turned to place the essentials of fire and bed in her pack, that her God was the God of the Israelites, a people that in their most abject sin had clothes that never wore out and food, the food of angels, that appeared with each morning dawn. She battled internally as she packed, not knowing the future, yet knowing, like only a mother does, that her children needed her and that, whatever the cost, she would go.

Isabelle stood with the women of her lodge house. Today was the day of the Green Corn Festival, a day of dancing and feasting to celebrate the emergence of the season's first shoots of corn. The women of the tribe had been cooking all day to prepare for the great feast, assigning Isabelle the simplest of tasks. But before the feasting began, she had learned by the stilted speech and pantomime of her new mother, that there would be a ball game.

The tribe of over two hundred had divided themselves, men against women, on either side of an open field. They waited as the old chief slowly made his way to the center of the grass. He held a ball in his hands and a gleeful smile on his weathered face. Suddenly, with more energy than he seemed capable of, he threw the ball high into the air. Everyone yelped and cheered, rushing forward toward the ball as the old chief hurried off to the side to watch.

Isabelle found herself running, not knowing the rules, not knowing what she would do should she happen to get hold of it. A young brave reached the ball first and kicked it toward a
goal of two stakes on the women's side of the field. One of the younger women quickly scooped it into her arms and began to run toward the other goal. Isabelle laughed, a little shocked, as one of the braves stepped into the girl's path, wrapped his arms around her and shook her with such force that the tightly clasped ball fell from her arms. Isabelle was surprised when the brave didn't scoop it up; instead he kicked it back into a large group of women and men.

Isabelle caught sight of Samuel's blond hair gleaming in the late-afternoon sun. She ran toward him, dodging the running feet and flailing arms of her teammates. Reaching his side, she ran with him, and asked, laughing, “What are the rules?”

Samuel grinned back at her and yelled, “Get the ball through your goal. I think the women can carry it and throw it, but the men can only kick it.” He laughed. “All I know for sure is that they warned me not to touch it with my hands or …” He made a slicing motion across his throat.

Isabelle gave a quick nod. “I guess that makes us enemies.”

Samuel laughed, running toward the ball, “For this hour only, my sweet.”

Isabelle watched as Samuel tried to muscle his way through the throng of people toward the tan skin ball. She quickly sized up her opportunities and decided on a different tack, making her way toward their goal and into the open. She laughed as she ran, feeling light and happy, her hide skirts keeping her from breaking into a full stride.

There was so much laughing and shrill yelping going on that Isabelle had to call out at the top of her lungs when she saw that Sinchi, a young woman who had only shyly smiled at Isabelle these past weeks, had actually managed to grasp the ball. The woman was surprisingly quick footed, darting in and out of the groups of men following her. One of them grasped hold of her
skirt as he went down, dragging her to a stop. Before he could rise to his feet and shake her, Isabelle yelled, “Sinchi! Here!” Isabelle raised her hands high, hoping the woman would understand. There was a smile, and then the woman reared back to throw it. All eyes watched in some amazement as the ball sailed through the air, straight into Isabelle's outreached arms.

“Whooo!” Isabelle yelled, her moccasins turning in the grass, her legs straining against the blasted dress. She ran toward the goal with all her might.

Suddenly she felt strong hands grasp hold of her shoulders, felt panting breath on her bare neck. Thinking it was Samuel, by the excited rise in her chest at his touch, she half-turned toward him, pulling away from the grasp as hard as she could, with a huge grin on her face. But it wasn't Samuel. It was Sunukkuhkau.

And he looked like he wanted to win something bigger than a ball game.

Isabelle's grin faded. Her eyes slanted in determination. He would not get this ball. He would not.

She'd kept moving forward through the exchange, just within the reach of hands, but he didn't have a firm grip on her yet. Jagging quickly to the right, she was able to dislodge one of his hands from her shoulder. Now she twisted suddenly, elbow out and sharp, and was able to drive it into his ribs, catching him off guard. The moment his hands lost their contact, she drove her feet the other direction, running as fast as she could toward the goal.

Sunukkuhkau had recovered quickly though, and now there were about twenty more braves at her heels. She'd lost precious time, and there was no one closer to the goal to throw the ball to. She had two choices: throw it toward the goal, which was still a good distance away, or keep running.

The choice was made for her as Sunukkuhkau and another brave grasped her, hard this time, nearly knocking the wind from
her. But she fought on, dragging them along in her slow steps. Sunukkuhkau shook her hard, but Isabelle raised the ball high above her head, as tight in her hands as her teeth were clenched together, knowing that he couldn't touch the ball.

“You won't have it,” she shouted in his face, knowing he alone could understand her. “I can fight you here, in this game, with your rules.” The ball now represented her freedom. “I won't give it to you!”

He grinned, wicked and determined. “Yes, you will,” he answered, following his proclamation with a long howling scream.

The scream, more than his words, caused a shiver to snake down her spine.

The whole crowd was crushing them now, surrounding them, but Isabelle remained on her feet with the ball above her head. Then she heard her name being called. She turned her head, saw Sinchi, a little ahead of her, her face glowing, her head nodding, arms long and outstretched. Isabelle reared the ball back and threw it with all her might, going down to the ground now, beneath some kicking feet as the crowd burst away from her and toward the ball.

Sudden hands reached down and snatched her bodily from the ground, placing her on her feet and then stood, blocking her from harm. She looked up to see Samuel saving her from being trampled.

“Did she catch it?” she yelled.

Samuel pointed. “Look!”

Isabelle turned toward the women's goal just in time to see Sinchi cross it with the ball still in her hands, dragging four or five braves behind her, like trailing barnacles on a canoe. She'd done it! They had done it! Isabelle ran with the rest of the woman toward the goal, cheering and yelling and jumping up and down together.

It was the best moment she'd had with these people, and Isabelle let herself feel the joy of it.

* * *

SHE HAD EATEN so much at the feast that Isabelle didn't know if she could move, much less dance. But the women of the tribe didn't seem to care about that, dragging her with them into the middle of the ceremonial ground, giggling at some mysterious joke that she was once again left out of due to her lack of understanding their language.

It had been a … fun day, the first day she'd had brief moments where she had forgotten what they had done, how they had destroyed her family, and she felt waves of guilt roll over her for allowing it. They didn't deserve her happiness, even Sinchi, as they had jumped up and down together, forearms clasped in glee over their victory at the ball field.

She stiffened her body in renewed rebellion as the group of women approached a brave who had always appeared tall and silent to Isabelle. Now though, he drummed, came to life as only music brought out some people, pounding on a round drum cradled against his bare, crossed legs.

“What is it?” Isabelle asked Sinchi, her new best friend it would seem.

The girl had barely left Isabelle's side since their combined feat, eating next to her, always nodding and smiling at whatever Isabelle said, laughing when Isabelle made a face as she ate their food. There couldn't be another woman in the tribe more her opposite—Sinchi was shy, thin, and open-faced, but she'd attached herself to Isabelle's side nonetheless; and, really, what choice did she have but to let the girl follow her around like a new puppy. She seemed innocent enough.

Sinchi made the motions of a chicken, clucking in her throat, her eyes bright with glee.

“Chicken?”

Sinchi nodded, giggling. Would she ever stop this girlish laughter? It was starting to grate. Then Sinchi swayed her hips and took tiny steps to the left and right. Isabelle couldn't help her answering smile.

“Dance?”

“Chi-ken-dace,” the girl nodded, so proud she'd made Isabelle understand. Isabelle was just glad someone was trying to speak English instead of the other way around.

The brave started singing, a chant really, to the beat of the drum. His voice was low and rich, his tone clear and full of … some meaning. She'd noticed something, living with the Shawnee for a few weeks: This people knew something of music. Theirs was the kind of rhythm that could take over a person's pulse, as it was commanding hers now.

All the women had gathered around the drummer, and then they began to sing with him. She didn't know the song, didn't know their words, but … it was happy and made her want to dance. At Sinchi's nudge, she began to catch on, singing along, not knowing what she sang but starting not to care. It was music. It was dance.

After two more songs, Isabelle learned the steps if not the words, then the women suddenly stopped. Eyes aglow, they turned away from their drummer and faced the men, sitting in a tight circle around them. A few giggled, a few looked determined, a few fluttered their hands. Isabelle didn't know what would happen next, but she could feel these women's excitement.

Sinchi rushed over toward her, ready to instruct, as the whole party grew quiet. There was quiet laughter among the men as they whispered together and looked excitedly toward the women.

“Choose,” Sinchi said in Isabelle's ear, pointing at the men.

“What?”

“Choose a … man.” The girl had learned more English than Isabelle had thought, and she decided that she might be a worthy friend after all.

“For what?”

“
Peleewekaawe
… dance … man to be dance with.” And then she was off, running to her choice, a tall young brave with bold features and a long eagle's feather trailing from his hair. She was the victor today, and Isabelle smiled as she watched her slim form run with abandon. Sinchi could have any man she wanted this day.

Isabelle's eyes found Samuel's over the red-orange glow of the firelight between them. He had been watching her, she knew, as she danced with these deerskin-clad women, watching the way she moved, the way she put her own hip-sway into the movements and twirled, arms over her head. She'd caught his glance, known it like the heat that it was, turning, consciously and unconsciously toward him, growing closer, then further, then closer and closer, their eyes locking and holding every now and then.

And now, it would seem, she could choose any man.

She
should
choose Sunukkuhkau; it would be expected of her. But the thought of going to him and extending her hand when she had a choice … she found she could not do it. She glanced at the warrior, saw that he was watching her intently, expecting her to turn toward him. Instead, she looked down at her moccasins.

These were
their
rules.

“I can choose anyone,” she assured herself as she watched her decorated feet turn toward the only man she wanted. A tiny laugh escaped, and then she quickly smothered it, keeping her head down, watching them make their way toward Samuel.

Nearly there, she raised her head and locked gazes with him, amber and gray-blue colliding. Everyone else faded—all their noise, their watching eyes, their judgments. Her hips swayed as she stepped toward the only man in the world that she would willingly call “husband.” Then she smiled down at him as she reached for his hand.

He sat on the ground with the rest of them, legs loosely crossed, his face tilted up toward her, a small growth of beard on his chin and cheeks.

“Will you dance?”

Her token gift, a few blue stones, smooth from the water that ran beside the camp, passed from her hand to his. She hadn't known why the women had gathered these treasures yesterday, but she'd been told to put them in her pocket, and now she understood. It was a token, a payment for the dance. He reached for them, feeling them with his fingers, then tucked them safely within his jacket, rising to his feet while his gaze never left hers.

He took her hand. She noticed how brown his hand had become from the summer sun. Their fingers touched and grasped, the fringe of their Indian dress meshing, but for this moment she would be as the woman she was—English from her mother's side, French from her father's, and American—because that was the future. That was what she had decided she would be.

Samuel uncoiled, rising gracefully to his feet, taking a firmer grasp of her hand, an ownership, a wicked grin on his face that spoke of nothing evil, only more good and a night of dancing under the moon.

She laughed with the joy of it, her throat exposed as only a trusting person would do to a true friend. She clasped his strong hand and led him to their dance.

The drums were loud, pounding in the air around them, resounding in her chest and causing her heart to rise up to match
it as they followed the simple steps of the chicken dance. Samuel followed along, she leading, as she taught him with touch and step and nod and glance.

He was a quick learner.

Then he led her into the Virginia Reel, a twirl. Suddenly it didn't matter where they were and what they were supposed to be. It only mattered that they matched one another, step for step, close then far apart. Isabelle was dipped into a backbend, her black hair pooling in the grass, her back bent so that the onlookers must think it would break in two.

They forgot the chicken dance. They forgot everything and everyone. They made the music their own.

Her breath came fast and heavy. She had danced alone so many times, had twirled and writhed and undulated in front of no one save God. Now this. Who could have known Samuel could lead her in something she could never do alone. He lifted her, and she flew. And this native company, this audience, was left breathless watching them.