Cheyenne Wife

Lily settled her feet onto a lower crate and wrapped her arms around her knees. Another wave of loneliness washed over her. She’d never felt so isolated in her life. So vulnerable. So lost.

Tears pushed at the backs of her eyes, but she forced them down. If she allowed one single tear to fall, a torrent would follow—and she hadn’t thought to bring a handkerchief with her. Madame DuBois would be appalled.

The stallion tethered to the corral across the alley tossed its head and nickered, its eyes widening to circles of white. Fighting the lead rope, it pulled back, pawing at the earth. The animal was young and strong, a fine specimen of horseflesh. Lily knew he’d fetch a fine price—if he didn’t injure himself trying to escape.

A man appeared at the corner of the stable inside the corral. He wore trousers and a pale-blue shirt, with a black hat pulled low on his forehead that shaded his face.

Had she seen this man yesterday? Lily wondered. Something about him seemed familiar. Was he the man tending the brown mare she’d glimpsed as she’d spoken with Mr. Fredericks? The only man in the entire fort who hadn’t walked over to gawk at her?

A gasp slipped from Lily’s lips when she saw him headed toward the stallion. She almost called out a warning, but his slow, relaxed steps stopped her.

Low on the breeze, his voice came to her, a rumbling whisper. She couldn’t understand the words, but the tone was mesmerizing. The stallion thought so, too, apparently. As Lily watched, the man continued to speak softly as he inched closer, and by the time he reached the horse, it had settled down.

Still murmuring quietly, the man patted the horse’s neck and brought its big head against his chest. The stallion stood quietly.

Awe and mystery stirred in Lily. How had the man done that? Gentled the horse with nothing more than his words? She’d never seen anything like it.

Patting the stallion, the man turned his back to Lily. She gasped aloud. Straight, jet-black hair hung past his shoulders.

Indian.

A rush of emotion swept through Lily. Fear, apprehension, curiosity.

Everyone on the wagon train had warned her about these Indians, their savagery, their heinous acts, the atrocities they committed—things so vile men wouldn’t whisper them to a decent woman.

Yet this Indian seemed anything but menacing, despite his size. Tall, broad shouldered with thick arms and a lean waist. His pressed, well-mended clothing was the cleanest she’d seen at the fort.

And he had gentled the stallion. With words and measured actions, he’d not only brought the horse under control, but calmed it as well.

Sitting perfectly still on the crate, Lily watched as the breeze pulled at the man’s shirt and ruffled his black hair. One evening on the wagon train she’d spoken with a young woman who’d told her that Indian men had no hair on their chests. For the first time, Lily’s stomach tingled at the notion. Could it be true?

She’d seen a bare-chested man a few times in her life. On the journey west when the men of the wagon train had been forced to engage in some difficult work in the heat of the day, they’d occasionally taken off their shirts.

But what would a smooth chest look like?

Beneath the fabric of his shirt, muscles bunched, expanded, contracted. Were they bare? she wondered. Smooth, slick—

The Indian turned sharply, his gaze finding her on the crates and pinning her there.

Lily gulped. Good gracious! He’d caught her staring. Could he possibly know that she’d been thinking about his chest—of all things?

She shrank deeper into the crates, drawing her legs up under her. Humiliation burned her cheeks. How unseemly of her. How unladylike. Ogling a man. Wondering about his chest. Madame DuBois would indeed be appalled.

Desperate to escape the hiding place that had suddenly become a prison, Lily froze as she heard footsteps. Easing around the edge of the crate, she saw a man—this one rail thin with blond hair—walking from the passageway beside the carpenter’s shop toward the corral.

She’d not seen this man before. Lily was sure she would have remembered. His buckskins hung loose on his thin frame, blond hair streaked with gray lay across his shoulders, a heavy mustache drooped past his lips. His hat shaded most of his lined face.

The Indian saw him, too, watched as he approached. He’d not seen her at all, Lily realized. It was the blond-haired man who’d drawn his attention.

The two men faced each other through the corral fence, a contrast of tall and muscular, thin and stooped. Neither smiled. They didn’t shake hands. A few words were exchanged, but Lily couldn’t hear them.

The Indian glanced up and down the alley, then pulled something from his trouser pocket—a packet of papers, a wad of money, perhaps?—and passed it to the other man. He shoved it in his own pocket and walked away. The Indian glanced around once more, then turned and disappeared behind the stable.

Lily waited for a moment, the feeling of foreboding that had plagued her for so long growing stronger—but for a very different reason this time. Just as the Indian had done, she checked around to see if anyone was watching, then slipped quietly from her hiding place among the crates and hurried back to her room.

“There’s just no easy way to say this, ma’am,” Oliver Sykes said, ducking his head, refusing to make eye contact with Lily.

“What?” She looked back and forth between Sykes and Hiram Fredericks, both men grim faced and solemn. “What is it?”

Standing outside the door to her room, Lily gazed at the evening shadows stretched across the plaza bringing a cooling breeze with the disappearing sun. Sykes had come by to see her father again, then left and had just now returned with Fredericks. They’d called her outside.

“Your pa’s bad off, I reckon you know that,” Fredericks finally said.

“But he’s getting better,” Lily insisted. “He slept straight through the night, and he’s been resting quietly all day. He’s—”

“No, ma’am, that’s not so,” Sykes said with fatherly kindness.

“Yes, it is,” Lily told them. Why were these two men saying such things? She wanted them to leave. “Now, I must go back inside and see to my father—”

“He’s dying.” Fredericks closed his hand over her arm, holding her in place. “The fever took its toll.”

“It was just too much for him,” Sykes added. He paused, then added, “Your pa probably won’t make it through the night.”

Tears sprang to Lily’s eyes. “No…”

“He roused up a bit a while ago,” Sykes said. “He’s asking for you.”

Lily shook her head, her throat tight and thick. “But…”

“Go on inside,” Fredericks said kindly. He guided Lily into the room, then closed the door behind her.

Lily clung to the door, afraid to cross the room, afraid to approach the cot. Her father couldn’t be dying. Fredericks and Sykes meant well, but they had to be wrong—they simply had to be.

“No, Papa, you can’t—you simply can’t,” she whispered. “Not now. We haven’t even…”

But her father lay so still, awash in a gray, ghostly pallor, that she knew the men were right. Tears sprang to her eyes. Lily covered her face with her palms.

“Lily…?”

Her head jerked up at the sound of Augustus’s voice. She rushed to his bedside and dropped to her knees, joy filling her heart.

“Yes, Papa?” she said anxiously. “Oh, I knew you wouldn’t—”

“It’s…gone,” he whispered.

Lily frowned. “What—whatever do you mean?”

With effort, Augustus lifted his head from the sweat-stained pillow, but collapsed again, his lips moving as if trying to speak.

Lily leaned closer, her ear to his mouth. “What, Papa? What is it?”

“Money…” he whispered. “All…gone.”

She looked at him, unable to follow his reasoning. Why was he talking about money—of all things—at a time like this?

“Bad deals…lost it all…nothing left.” Augustus drew in a ragged breath, then wheezed. “That’s…that’s why I came West…to…to start over.”

“No, Papa,” Lily insisted. “That’s not true. You told me yourself that you’d always wanted to come West, to explore, to seek new adventures.”

His head moved back and forth with effort. “A lie. I told you that so…” He coughed. “Thought I could make my fortune over again…in Santa Fe. Thought I could…”

“But, Papa—”

Augustus’s eyelids sank.

“Papa? Papa!”

Chapter Three

Lily stood beside the mound of fresh-turned earth and the wooden casket that would be her father’s resting place for eternity, cold despite the heat of the midafternoon sun that bore down on them.

Augustus had passed away peacefully in his sleep during the night, just as Oliver Sykes had predicted, with Lily at his side.

Hiram Fredericks had made the funeral arrangements; he seemed to be in charge of such things, much like everything else at the fort.

Oliver Sykes, who had worked diligently to heal her father, had arranged for his casket to be built, then had laid him in it. Lily didn’t know who’d dug the grave, here among the other wooden markers outside the fort.

Fredericks read from the Bible, the thin pages rattling in the breeze, his white hair undulating on the unseen current. About a dozen men—most of whom Lily didn’t know—gathered there also. She wondered if they wanted to pay their respects, or simply craved a diversion from their daily routine.

Jacob Tanner, the young man who worked in the kitchen and had brought meal trays to her and her father, stood near the back of the gathering, his hands clasped in front of him, his eyes lowered respectfully. Lily appreciated his presence and felt his intentions were honorable.

Not in attendance was the Nelson family, the people her papa had paid to drive their wagon and assist them in their journey. Nor were the men from the wagon train, who’d come with them to the fort, present for the service.

Lily sniffed, choking back tears—bitter tears. Augustus deserved so much more at his passing. The presence of his friends and business associates in Saint Louis who really knew him and would have truly mourned his death. A carved, marble marker befitting a man of his stature, rather than a simple wooden cross. Men—knowledgeable men—who would have stepped in.

Someone who would tell Lily what was to become of her now.

She touched her finger to the corner of her eye, catching another tear. In the plain wooden casket lay her father. More of a stranger to her now than she’d ever imagined. She’d thought she knew what sort of man he was, but after his deathbed confession last night, she obviously did not.

Could it be true? she wondered as Fredericks’s reading of Bible verses droned on. Had Augustus really lost their entire family fortune?

Sitting at his bedside last night, hearing his confession, Lily had thought it was simply more of his nonsensical fevered ramblings. He’d been incoherent for days. He’d talked to people who weren’t there, flailed his arms against unseen foes. Surely something in his dying mind had prompted this delusion, fabricated the loss of his business empire.

But didn’t the mere fact that they were here in this forsaken wilderness give credence to his confession? Her father had lived his entire life in a large comfortable home, waited on by a number of servants, his every need catered to by others. When he’d told Lily of his dream to go West and explore new lands, she’d thought it odd. So unlike him.

Yet it made perfect sense if he’d indeed lost all his money and wanted to start over in Santa Fe.

It also explained why he’d been so reluctant to have Lily accompany him on this trip.

Other thoughts floated through Lily’s mind as the men, gathered around her father’s gravesite, sang a hymn.

Last Christmas she’d wanted to travel to Memphis to spend the holiday with her friend’s family. Augustus had told her no. When she’d asked for funds to commission several new gowns, he’d never sent the money; she thought he’d simply forgotten. Just before her graduation, he’d appeared unexpectedly at her boarding school and met privately with Madame DuBois. Now Lily wondered if there had been a problem with her tuition; that would explain why some of the other girls had whispered behind their hands as Lily passed them in the halls.

Fredericks gently touched Lily’s arm and she realized the service had ended. The men nodded toward her, putting on their hats, respectfully touching the brims, then drifted away. Jacob lingered a moment as if he wanted to say something to her, but finally he wandered away after only a respectful nod.

“Thank you,” she managed to say, her voice tight, barely more than a ragged whisper. She fought off another swell of emotion. “Thank you very much, both of you, for arranging everything.”

Oliver Sykes, standing on the other side of her, nodded. “It was a nice turnout.”

“I thought the Nelsons would be here,” Lily said, gazing around as if she might see them. “They helped us all along the journey. We’d gotten to know them quite well, I’d thought.”

“Oh, they left already,” Sykes said.

“Left?” Lily looked back and forth between the two men, an odd feeling tightening her belly. “What do you mean they left?”

“Gone on to Santa Fe,” Sykes explained. “Them and those other fellas from the wagon train who drove in with you. They all left at dawn.”

“But…” Stunned, Lily just gazed at the men. They’d gone? Left her behind? Abandoned her in this place? Without so much as a farewell wave?

“But my father paid the Nelson family to look after us,” Lily said, desperation creeping into her voice. “They’re supposed to do the cooking, drive the wagon, take care of the horses.”

The two men exchanged a troubled look that squeezed Lily’s stomach into a tight knot.

“This isn’t hardly the best time, right here at your father’s funeral, but I guess you’ve got to be told.” Sykes pulled at the back of his neck. “I mean, you’ll find out, sooner or later.”

Lily pressed her lips together, afraid to ask what he was talking about.

“Last night…” Fredericks cleared his throat. “Well, last night, your horses were stolen.”

“Stolen?”

“Yeah, and your wagon was looted.” Sykes shifted uncomfortably. “Pretty much everything you had in there is gone. The wagon was torn up, too.”

Her horses were stolen? Her belongings stolen? Lily pressed her hand to her forehead as the world suddenly pitched sideways.

She was penniless—and stranded?

“Who—who did it? Who’s responsible?” she asked.

Fredericks shrugged. “Don’t know. Sam Becker—he’s the blacksmith—he saw what had happened to your wagon this morning, then went to check on your horses and realized they were gone.”

“Shouldn’t we report this to someone?” Lily asked, spreading her hands.

“Well, Miss St. Claire, it’s not like we got a real lawman here at the fort,” Sykes said.

“Me and the boys, well, we just take care of things as they come up, best we can,” Fredericks explained. “Becker said he didn’t have any idea who might have taken your belongings.”

“I—I’d like to go lie down,” Lily gasped, feeling light-headed.

“That’s a good idea,” Fredericks said.

“Yeah, good idea,” Sykes agreed, as if he were glad to be rid of her.

“I’ll walk with you—” Fredericks began.

“No.” Lily pulled away from him. “No, thank you. I can manage.”

Though she wasn’t sure that she could, Lily somehow made it to her room and closed the door tight behind her. She fell back against it, her heart thudding in her chest, her mind whirling.

Her horses and her belongings were gone. Her wagon damaged. And she had no money.

Without cash how would she buy horses? How would she repair the wagon, let alone reprovision it?

How would she ever escape this dreadful land?

Lily pressed her fingers to her lips, holding back a sob. What would become of her?

Her gaze landed on the cot across the room, the cot on which only yesterday her father had lain, then died. She’d never felt so alone.

Bile rose in the back of her throat, closing off her breathing in this airless room.

She had to leave. She had to escape. She couldn’t abide this room—this fort—another moment.

Lily opened the door and slipped out of the fort into the prairie.

North paused outside the trade room as he glimpsed a swish of skirt disappear out the gate. Even without seeing her face he knew it was Lily St. Claire, the woman whose father they’d just buried. No other woman wore that sort of dress.

And no other woman would be foolish enough to leave the safety of the fort.

North shook his head. Why would she do this? Didn’t she know any better?

Or did she simply not care that she was a danger not only to herself, but to others who might have to go after her?

Since arriving at the fort she’d been waited on hand and foot, seemingly unable to accomplish the smallest task, or fend for herself. Was this customary behavior for white women?

North recalled the stories his father had told about women in the East, his mother, sisters, aunts, left behind like all his other family members. Women so unlike North’s own Cheyenne mother, his sisters and the other women of the tribe.

North waited and watched the gate. No one else, apparently, had seen Lily leave. The routine of the fort continued on, as usual. Minutes dragged by. The sun drifted toward the Western horizon.

He watched. Still no sign of her.

He hoped she’d realize that the prairie was no place for her and come back on her own. He waited longer. She didn’t return.

North glanced around. No one, still, had noticed that she was gone. That meant he’d have no choice but to go after her himself.

He hesitated. Something about that woman bothered him. He didn’t know what it was, exactly. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it. But it was there, lurking in the back of his mind, and in the pit of his stomach.

“Damn…”

North headed for the stable.

A dark shadow fell across the ground startling Lily. She gasped and twisted around. A man stood behind her, his approach so silent she hadn’t heard a sound.

Seated on the ground, Lily brushed the tears from her eyes, then shaded them against the setting sun, squinting to see his face.

“Who are you?” she asked, unwilling and unable to sound pleasant.

He didn’t reply, just looked down at her quizzically.

Lily leaned her head back to see him clearly. He was the Indian she’d seen whispering to the stallion in the corral, she realized.

She gazed past him and the horse he’d left grazing a few yards away, to Bent’s Fort, now small on the horizon. She hadn’t realized she’d gone so far. She’d walked—then run—through the short, green prairie grass to the river, then followed its banks, finally collapsing here beneath a cottonwood tree, mindless of the distance.

She didn’t know why this man was here or what he wanted—and she didn’t care, either. All she wanted was to be left alone to cry, to scream, to indulge the ache in her heart and the emptiness in her soul. Was that too much to ask? Surely it couldn’t be, after what she’d been through today.

“Go away,” she told him, turning away, tears filling her eyes once more. “I want to be by myself. I don’t want any company. Can’t you understand that’s why I came out here in the first place?”

He walked closer, still staring down at her. Though he’d said nothing, his presence seemed to demand something of her.

“This has been the worst day of my life. Everything—absolutely everything—has been just awful. Why, I didn’t even have anything decent to wear to my own father’s funeral.” Lily shook the skirt of her green dress, the simple act bringing on another rush of emotion and a fresh wave of tears. “Why, I—I—I don’t even have a handkerchief!”

The magnitude of her woes descended upon her, crushing her. She sobbed into her hands, not bothering to hide her tears or wipe them away.

“My horses were stolen!” she wailed, turning her face up to him. “My belongings, too! My wagon is ruined! And I don’t have any money!”

She flung herself onto the ground and cradled her head against her arms, sobbing and gulping in ragged breaths of air.

Lily glanced up. The man still stood over her, his head tilted slightly to the side, watching her as if she were an insect in a jar.

“Is that all you can do?” she demanded. “Stand there and stare?”

His brows drew together, but still he didn’t offer a response.

She pushed herself up and huffed irritably. “Don’t you have any manners at all?”

His frown deepened.

“Do you speak English?” she wanted to know. When he didn’t answer, she asked again. “Eng…lish. Do…you…speak…English?”

The man rocked back slightly, regarding her with caution.

“Oh, lovely!” Lily dug the heels of her shoes into the ground and launched herself to her feet. “Here I am pouring out my heart to someone who doesn’t even speak a civilized language!”

She whirled away and flung out both arms. “What sort of godforsaken place is this? Savages running loose! With no sense of decorum! No manners! Unable to even communicate!”

“What’s wrong with it?”

Lily gasped at the sound of his voice, and spun toward him. Embarrassment heated her cheeks. “You do speak English.”

He watched her curiously. “Your dress. What’s wrong with it?”

Lily planted a hand on her hip and pushed her chin up. “You should have made your language skills known earlier, sir, and not allowed me to carry on like that. And you should have introduced yourself.”

“North Walker,” he said, seemingly unperturbed by her scathing accusations about his heritage. “Your father has just died. Yet your concern is with your dress?”

“It’s the wrong color,” she told him and shook her skirt once more. “It should be black, not green. Black is always worn to a funeral—in civilized places, that is. And, of course, I’m upset about my father’s death.”

Tears filled Lily’s eyes again. Emotion swelled in her, robbing her of her strength. She sank to the ground, her skirt pooling around her, not wanting to put forth the effort to stand.

“We were supposed to be a family—finally—on this trip. But now Papa’s gone, and I’m alone. All alone,” she whispered. Tears tumbled down her cheeks once more. She covered her face with her hands. “This was our last chance…our last chance to be together.” After a few minutes, she sensed North move closer, his nearness somehow calming her emotions.

“Your father is dead,” North said softly, kneeling beside her. “Gone to a better place.”

Lily sniffed and lifted her head.

“Isn’t that your belief?” North asked gently. “That he’s in heaven among the angels, free of pain and suffering, in the presence of the Holy Spirit?”

“You’re a Christian?” She swiped the tears from her face with the backs of her hands, unable to keep the surprise from her voice.

“I know God.” North waved his hand encompassing everything around them. “I know the spirit of the land and all things in it.”

“But—but you’re an Indian?”

“I’m a lot of things,” he told her.

North closed his hand over her arm. Heat seeped through the fabric of her sleeve, oozing outward, filling her with warmth.

He looked directly into her eyes. “Your father is at peace. Rejoice in his place in heaven. Don’t wish him into the torment of this earth again.”

Lily gazed into his eyes—rich, dark eyes that seemed to peer into her soul and, somehow, lift her burden. Almost magically, a sense of peace filled her. Her problems drifted away as if they were feathers on the breeze.

“Thank you for your kindness,” she whispered. “You’ve made me feel so much better.”

“It’s the same way I talk to my horses.” North rose and said. “But horses have more sense than to come out onto the prairie alone and get themselves in such a dangerous situation.”