Clash of cultures . . .
Like so many before her, schoolteacher Carolina Hammond came to South Dakota looking for a new life, but the reality of living in such a wild place soon had her rethinking her rash decision. Especially when the winds began to howl and the skies turned black . . .
One minute, she was outside watching the skies and the next, she found herself plucked onto the back of a horse and out of the tornado’s path to safety. But then she met her rescuer and realized she was anything but safe. This man was dangerous—to her reputation and to her heart.
Jacob Black Hawk had never met a white woman like Carolina. She was strong, independent…and incredibly passionate. More importantly, she made him feel like a man—a man she wanted. Though they came from worlds society said could never meet, the desire blazing between them would not be denied.
But a love like theirs could not remain a secret for long. When the truth came to light, would Jacob have the strength to let the woman he loved walk away? Or would he claim her as his own . . . even if it made her an outcast from her own people?
Kathleen Eagle is a mother, grandmother, teacher, chief cook and bottle washer, and best-selling writer. She has published over fifty books during the course of her long career. She lives in Minnesota with her husband of over 40 years, the Lakota cowboy who continues to inspire the stories readers treasure.
Chapter One
North Dakota, 1896
CARBON-COLORED clouds stacked up high in
the sky. Carolina Hammond opened the cabin door and stepped outside to watch
the brewing of her first prairie storm. Above the jagged horizon, slashed by
buttes and rolling hills, the sky took on an eerie, yellow-gray glow. Carolina
folded her arms and walked tentatively toward the bank of the creek that
drained the hills, keeping her eyes on the sky. The wind picked up suddenly,
lifting her skirt and twisting it around her like a corkscrew. Wisps of hair
escaped the tight knot at the back of her head and blew across her face. She
brushed them aside, intent on watching
As she approached the creek, Carolina
noticed the way the small stand of cottonwoods swayed in unison until the wind
changed tempo and their dance became wilder, nearly bough-breaking. When the
rain came, it offered no warning drops. It gushed from the sky in a sudden
torrent. Carolina turned toward the cabin, but the wind’s shocking punch left
her staggering like a wounded animal.
She heard pounding hoof beats and felt
the rush of the horse’s body at her back at nearly the same instant. The
horseman’s identity became part of the blur of motion. Carolina lifted her
hands instinctively to protect her face. An arm hooked her around the middle
and jerked her off her feet, knocking the air from her lungs. Suspended at the
waist, she bounced like a sack of meal over the horseman’s thigh. Through
tearing eyes she watched the animal’s churning forelegs as she fought
desperately to catch her breath.
"Hang on to me or I might drop you!”
Carolina tried
to turn toward the voice, but the man’s grip was too tight. She reached back
and grabbed his shoulder; it was an awkward position, but it was all she could
manage. Now he had both arms around her, and she felt as though she were slipping.
The horse careened down a steep slope into a ravine, and Carolina closed her
eyes. Lord help me. This man isn’t
holding the reins.
The rider
snapped up the reins as the horse skidded to the foot of the embankment.
Carolina was unceremoniously dropped to the ground. She made an effort to pick
herself up as the horse skittered to one side, but she was snatched roughly to
her feet and dragged into the hollow of a rocky outcropping just ahead of what
sounded like a locomotive roaring through the ravine. She sank to her knees
and curled herself into a tight ball. The man’s body wedged her against the
rock, and the howling wind blocked everything else out of her mind.
The prairie shuddered
from the wind’s assault. Carolina sucked her whole being into the deepest part
of her brain, tucked her head against her thighs and fancied herself hidden from
nature’s madness. Nothing existed but the thunderous wind and the weight of the
horseman.
"If I should
die before I wake, I pray Thee, Lord, my soul to take... if I
should die... if I should die... I pray
Thee, Lord...” The words bobbed up and down in her mind like
flotsam on the flow of her fear.
"IT’S ALL
RIGHT now. The worst is over.”
The voice
echoed at the far end of a long tunnel, barely rising above the wild thrumming
in Carolina’s ears. She was all ears, surrounded by all sound, all fury,
receding now, leaving her with heartbeat, yes, and breath, eyes hiding against
her knees, arms holding herself tight lest her quivering body fall to pieces.
"It’s all
right,” the man repeated. "It’s gone.”
Carolina
raised her head, opened her eyes and looked straight up at the swirling
iron-colored clouds. Not gone completely. She looked for the source of the
voice.
"I’ll take you
back.”
Back?
The man was
all darkness—hair, face, eyes. His eyes were intent on her, concerned for her,
assuming charge of her safety. He was a strong man. He had picked her up and
brought here. He would take her back there. She was out of place.
"If your cabin
is still standing, you will need to start a fire in your stove. You’re hot with
fear now, but soon you’ll tremble with cold. Come.” He leaned forward and cupped
a hand beneath her elbow. She was supposed to move.
"The wind
still roars in your ears.” One side of his wide mouth lifted in a slight smile.
"I hear it, too.” What there was of the smile slid away. "Are you hurt?”
Carolina
blinked. She’d been staring, carefully putting pieces together—the face, the
words, the rock wall, the pressing clouds. "Hurt? No, I don’t think so.” She
straightened her back slowly, relaxing her limbs a bit at a time, which only
made her body tremble more. She tried to stand, but legs wouldn’t cooperate,
and she wasn’t sure they were even connected to her any longer. She fell back
to the ground and landed squarely on her bottom.
"I’m sorry,”
she whispered. "I’m all topsy-turvy.” Even her voice wasn’t all there. Her
shaking was an embarrassment. The only way to regain her dignity was to speak
sensibly. "I’ve never seen a thunderstorm like that before.”
"Thunderstorm?”
He scowled. "Didn’t you see the funnel cloud? I thought you were a crazy woman
when I saw you standing out in the open like that.”
Carolina pushed
a sodden clump of hair back from her face and stared, wide-eyed. A funnel
cloud! She’d heard of these sudden prairie storms barreling across the flat
land, and she cursed her cowardice for preventing her from taking a peek.
The man was
familiar to her, but she had not been introduced to him in the short time since
she’d arrived in central North Dakota. She’d met few people, actually, and none
of them were Indians. She thought that strange, since this land was part of the
Standing Rock Indian Reservation.
He suffered
her scrutiny—ignored it, in fact—as she watched him remove a leather pouch from
deep inside his wet buckskin shirt. The pouch was suspended from a thong, and
from it emerged tobacco and paper. He rolled a cigarette as he quietly assured
her that he didn’t mind waiting a few minutes before taking her back to the
cabin. Carolina’s attention was drawn to his brown hand, which struck a match
on its own thumbnail. Her eyes followed the match to his face, and the pieces
came together now, the full picture. His face stunned her.
She
wasn’t sure whether it was the rich brown hue of his skin or the strength of
his features that struck her first. His face, with its high cheekbones and a
strong, angular jaw, could have been chiseled from the very rock they’d used as
shelter. Wet black hair hung in braids over his shoulders, and a narrow strip
of buckskin was tied around his forehead. He drew on the cigarette and glanced
up at her with dark, inscrutable eyes as he turned his face slightly to avoid
blowing smoke at her. His hooded eyes held hers in frank mutual appraisal.
"What
have you decided?” he asked finally.
"About
what?” The spell had been broken, and Carolina resumed her shivering.
"About
being carried off by an Indian.” There was no smile, and his tone was
emotionless.
"I’m
grateful to you, of course, Mr.—”
He
stood up, taking another drag on his cigarette. Carolina uncurled herself
slowly, following his lead as she tried awkwardly to straighten her wet
clothes. Her eyes sought his as another trail of smoke was expelled. She felt
as though she were being tested.
"It’s
Black Hawk,” he said.
"I’ve
seen you. You work for Charles MacAllistair, don’t you? With the horses? Is it...
Jacob?” She could almost feel the cogs and wheels in her brain beginning to
turn again.
"Yes.
Jacob is my given name, as they say.”
"I
guess I work for Charles MacAllistair, too. He’s the president of the school
board.” She tried to smile as she extended her hand. "I’m Carolina Hammond, the
new teacher. At least, I shall be a teacher when the school is built. May I
call you Jacob?”
"Why
not Mr. Black Hawk? It has a nice ring to it, wouldn’t you say, Miss Hammond?”
"Yes,
it does.” It was clearly a rebuff, but when she added, "Mr. Black Hawk,” he
took her hand. He applied no pressure as he enveloped it in the warmth of his.
When she reluctantly withdrew her hand, her teeth began to chatter, and she
folded her arms tightly under her bosom. "I thank you for what you did. I must
have looked like an idiot, just standing there, but I really didn’t see it
coming. I mean, I knew it was going to storm, but the sky... so
big and beautiful.” She drew a deep breath. "And terrible. And fast, so—”
"I’ll
get my horse. Can you ride astride?”
"Better
than I ride hanging over the side.”
That
brought a smile back to his face. He took a last puff on his cigarette before
grinding it out beneath his boot heel.
The
stout, stocking-footed sorrel was grazing close by, the reins trailing. The
horse picked up his head but stood calmly as Jacob gathered the reins. With
fluid grace, he levered himself up and swung his left leg over the horse’s
back. He trotted the sorrel to Carolina’s side, then reached down to her. "Pull
yourself up along my arm. Use my foot as a stirrup.”
She hoisted herself up as he instructed, but she found herself clutching him again.
She wasn’t sure she could manage to swing her leg over the horse’s rump from
this angle. The helpless look on her face and the timid glance she offered made
him chuckle. "Try to swing your leg up behind me. I’ll pull you up.”
Again Carolina
followed instructions, and Jacob caught her leg behind him with his opposite
arm. She tugged frantically at her skirt while
he pulled her up behind him. He nudged the horse with his heels, and
Carolina slipped to the right as their mount stepped out. Jacob reached back to
steady her.
"Hold on to
me, Miss Hammond, or you may find yourself on the ground again.”
She wound her
arms around his waist, seeking security. "You don’t use a saddle?” she asked
for want of a better comment.
"Not today. Good
thing. Wouldn’t want to try picking you up at a dead run from a saddle.” He
muttered something under his breath. "My blanket must have blown away. Lost my
hat, too.”
There was no
more talk until they reached the top of a hill overlooking the river and the
cabin, which stood seemingly untouched. Carolina took heart, at least
momentarily. The only reason she’d been given a home of her own was that it was
already there. Had it been destroyed, she would have had to board with the
MacAllistairs. She scanned the scene below and noticed the little stand of
cottonwoods. Half a dozen trees had been uprooted. They leaned at various
angles like so many onion plants, roots ripped from the clay bank. Exactly
where she’d been standing when he’d swept her off the ground.
"You should have
plenty of firewood next winter, Miss Hammond,” Jacob said as he leaned forward for
a quicker pace down the hill.
He reined in
near the cabin door and held Carolina’s arm while she slid down the animal’s flank.
Her feet found solid perch, but her knees buckled. Jacob dropped to her side.
Humiliating.
"I’m sorry,
Mr. Black Hawk.” Her voice quivered. "I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I
can’t seem to collect myself.”
He bent to
help her to her feet, and she found herself leaning against him. Tears burned her
eyes and clogged her throat. She hid her face in her hands. She never cried, never, and she had no reason to now. She
felt as though she were watching someone else’s shameful display. She
covered her mouth with her hand and gasped for her own breath between some
child’s pathetic groans. Surely it was the child who leaned heavily against the
man who’d risked far more than his hat to rescue her.
JACOB FOLLOWED
HIS instincts. A man was born to protect the helpless ones. No matter who she
was, the woman was helpless. He had to put his arm around her to get her
through the cabin door. Everything about her made him uncomfortable—tumbledown
hair, slender limbs, childlike voice. She was a lightweight for sure. He closed
the door behind him, gave his eyes time to adjust to the dim light, located a
rocking chair near the big cast-iron cook stove and gently deposited the woman.
If he hadn’t been with her the whole time, he might have guessed from the way
she was rubbing her face that she’d been hurled against a rock wall instead of
sheltered by it.
"Try to get
hold of yourself, Miss Hammond. If anyone comes along and hears you, he’s
liable to think I’ve hurt you. He’ll shoot first and ask you about the details
later.”
She made a
funny sound—half gasp, half giggle—and shook her head.
His best move
would have been out the door. He could stop at the ranch house and let somebody
know the state she was in. Yes, that would be a good way to go. Maybe swaddle
her in a blanket like a squalling newborn so she’d feel secure. Instead, he put
his hand on her quivering shoulder and gave her a little squeeze. Sympathy had
overtaken what wisdom he’d gained, mostly the hard way.
"You’re cold.
Spring rain seeps into the bones. I’ll get the stove going. Is there wood?”
She looked up,
all big round eyes, and nodded.
Jacob found
the wood box and built a fire in the stove. Then he struck another match and
lit the lamp on the small table near the stove. Out of respect, he would ignore
her struggle now. Such tears were an embarrassment, even to a woman.
He stepped
away from the light and the woman, and surveyed the one-room cabin. In addition
to the stove and the rocker, there was a little table with its four straight-backed
chairs, a sideboard with upper shelves, a spool bed in one corner with a large
trunk at its foot, more shelves, books, small boxes, bits of glass, and painted
pottery. Two braided rugs softened the plank floor, and blue-and-white curtains
dressed the small windows on either side of the door. The cabin had a
comfortable feeling about it, Jacob decided, and he relaxed his guard.
He turned to the
woman who’d become, for the moment, his charge. "You must take off those wet
clothes, Miss Hammond. The house will be warm in a few minutes. I’ll be going now.”
She took a
slow deep breath and wiped her eyes with her wet skirt. "I hate this,” she
mumbled. "It makes me feel like a child. I saw the trees go wild, and I saw myself
standing in the midst of something beyond my ken, and I didn’t move. You must think
me a fool, Mr. Black Hawk.”
"I think
you’re cold.” He paused, watching her attempt to dry her face. "It’s the cold
of death, which has just passed close by.” She lifted her head, and he saw a
circle of white around the blue in her eyes. "It’s also the cold of being wet
to the skin. You need to change your clothes.” He started toward the door.
"Mr. Black
Hawk, I would be grateful if you would stay a little while.”
He paused.
Reluctantly, he turned.
"I don’t want
to be alone. I feel as though I left half my wits out there by those rocks.”
The woman closed her eyes, rested her head back against the chair and suffered
another tear to slip quietly down her cheek.
Jacob wondered
at the fact that her tears moved him. His contact with most other human beings
was impersonal. Living in two worlds, he was a man in his mother’s house and an
Indian elsewhere—at Fort Yates, where the Indian agency was; at the ranch where
he was employed; in the white communities that were springing up everywhere.
But this woman was willing to call him Mr. Black Hawk, and she had asked
for a favor, rather than ordered a service.
"Do you have
any coffee, Miss Hammond? That might help both of us.”
Carolina rose
from her chair and made her way to the cupboard. "No, but I do have tea,” she
offered. "If you wouldn’t mind taking a few moments to get some water from the
well, I would change my clothes and brew a pot. It is getting a bit warmer in
here, don’t you think?” She fluttered about the sideboard, assembling the tin
of tea, the kettle, and the cups and saucers, which clattered in her hands.
Jacob took the
bucket she handed him and left the cabin. His horse remained ground-tied by the
doorway. He picked up the reins and led the sorrel away from the nearby
vegetable garden and its succulent new shoots. A low, uneven wire fence, held
up by a variety of sticks leaning this way and that, surrounded the little
patch. She must have done that herself, he thought.
He thought,
too, of his mother’s little patches of planted ground. She listened to the
missionaries and tried to follow their suggestions, hoping to supplement the
family’s rations. Some disaster usually befell her efforts—raccoons or horses
or drought—but she always tried, and sometimes she was rewarded with a little
produce. We are not farmers, he
reminded himself as he picketed his horse on a grassy knoll several yards from
the house. Then he took the bucket to the well.
The dark
clouds were rolling overhead, pushed by a cold northeasterly wind. It felt
like more rain. There had been much rain this spring, which was good for the
grass, good for the horses. Good for his mother’s garden, he admitted, and with
a wry smile, he included Carolina’s. These women adapted.
Even so, the
prairie was ruled by the sky, and the wind, the clouds, and the occasional
tornado were reminders of that. At least that was something the white man had
found no way to change. He commanded the wind to turn his windmills, and the
wind obliged at its convenience, but when the white man needed a lesson, the wind
unleashed its fury and battered the contraptions to the ground. Jacob was
still smiling at the thought as he hoisted the bucket off the edge of the well
and headed for the house.
"Please come
in. I’m dressed, Mr. Black Hawk.” The woman slipped a shawl around her
shoulders and drew it close as Jacob came through the door. Her face seemed to
brighten at the sight of him.
He looked away
quickly, intent on taking care of what was needed. Nothing more. He set the bucket on the sideboard and moved to the stove."You could go to the MacAllistair place for tonight, Miss Hammond. I’ll be
going back there myself.” The cast-iron door creaked on its hinges when he
opened it to stoke the fire. "I don’t see a horse around here. Didn’t they give
you one?”
"Mr. MacAllistair
said he’d have a small corral built here for me and leave a horse for my use,
but he hasn’t done so yet. I think they’re still hoping that I will decide to
move down to the house.”
Jacob stripped
off his buckskin shirt, which was uncomfortably soggy. He felt chilled, too,
and wanted to dry out before facing the cold spring wind again.
"But it’s so good to have a place of my own,” she went on. "I have employment,
and I’m earning the right to stay here—at least, I will be once school starts.”
Carolina glanced up as she set the kettle on the stove. She frowned and brought
one of the ladder-back chairs near the stove.
"I certainly
don’t mind your removing your shirt, Mr. Black Hawk. Under the circumstances,
it’s the sensible thing to do.”
He allowed one
corner of his mouth to turn up in amusement when she took the shirt from his
hands, draped it over the back of the chair, and found more words to keep her
going. "I’ll have tea ready soon. Please bring another chair over here by the
stove and warm yourself.”
Jacob chuckled.
"I’m not yet so civilized that I feel inclined to ask a woman’s permission to
take off a wet shirt.”
But he did move
the chair.
He seated
himself and watched her go about a woman’s business. Her hands trembled as she arranged
her delicate little pot, her painted cups, the plates, the spoons and the other
tools that were small and wasteful, designed to serve no more than a single
purpose. He wanted to laugh when she realigned the teapot in the row she’d
built, but he didn’t because she suddenly summoned the nerve to look at him
without pretense, to take his measure openly.
Ordinarily, he
knew what a woman was thinking when she looked at him the way she did, but he
decided to give this one more time before he came to any conclusions. She was
still shaken, and maybe he was, too. Why else would he feel such strong empathy
for her? Why else would he sit there waiting for her to serve him tea in a
little cup with flowers painted on it? By anyone’s standards, she was too old
to be unmarried and too young to be living alone. For all of that, she was a
handsome woman in her own fair-skinned way. Curiosity had always been a
weakness of his, and he’d cursed himself many times over the years for his curiosity
about people so unlike his own.
But he wasn’t
ready to curse himself over the Hammond woman yet. He’d given her his help.
He’d opened her door and walked into her home, and there he sat. His curiosity
would be satisfied.
"Why do you
choose to stay here when the ranch house would offer you more comfort and
safety?”
"I
feel safe here. The prairie is safer than city streets. Boston has its storms,
too.” She put her fists on her hips and stared at the kettle as though it had
ears. "I came to North Dakota for the opportunity to be self-sufficient. Charles
MacAllistair promised me separate quarters when I inquired about the teaching
position. I want independence. Perhaps it’s a romantic notion, but I’m hoping
the West might offer a woman the same promise it holds for a man—the opportunity
to be one’s own person.”
Jacob
turned the idea over in his mind. Being one’s own person. Meaning what? Owning
one’s self? Cutting away, cutting yourself off from others? For how long?
Forever, he had once been told. For good. What good, he’d asked? Whose good? He’d never heard anyone call
it being one’s own person, but it
didn’t sound like an opportunity. It sounded like a separation, and he knew how
lonely such a life could be.
He
watched her sit down in the rocker and pull the shawl tightly about her. Her
hair was still wet, but she had taken the pins out and combed it back from her
face. It was long and dark, sleek like the wet fur of an otter. She kept
staring at the kettle as though willing its contents to boil. He studied her
profile, with its high forehead, the long, straight nose, and full lips. He
liked the roundness of her eyes and the dark, heavy fringe of lashes that
framed them. There was innocence and honesty in those blue eyes, he thought. A
rarity.
She
had a good face for a white woman, now that a little color had returned to it.
For her sake, he would wish for more. He would have her invite the sun to chase
away the sickly look of the white-skinned. She was on the thin side, and Jacob wondered
why white men did not feed their women better. Of course, this one had no man. And
he wondered what made her covet this strange white man’s ideal of independence.
Among his own people, to be put out of the community was the ultimate censure.
To leave it voluntarily was madness. But he had learned that white people
valued other things. Their notion of independence was an example. But for a
woman? He’d known a few white women, but none who spoke to him the way this one
did.
She
folded her hands in her lap.
"I’m
not interested in living under anyone else’s roof, you see. I brought my own
furniture with me. I want to serve tea from the teapot left to me by my mother,
and I want to ask people to stay or invite them to leave as I see fit.”
"Among
my people, the home and its furnishings belong to the woman, not the man,” he
told her.
"Is
she free to live alone if she chooses?”
He
shrugged. "It used to be that a woman needed a man to provide meat.”
"I
don’t,” she said firmly. "I can provide my own food.”
"Do
you hunt, Miss Hammond?”
"No.
But I garden and can, and I hope to have chickens at some point.”
"My mother
does some of those things, too. She’s getting better at it. Do you allow red
meat in your diet?”
"Certainly.”
"Do you like
venison?”
"I think I
would if I knew how to prepare it properly. I haven’t had much—.”
"I hunt, Miss
Hammond. I am willing to trade.” She gave him a puzzled look, and he chuckled.
"My mother’s garden isn’t always productive, and she dries most of what she is
able to grow. I’ve come to enjoy canned food as well.”
"Perhaps we
will have to do some bargaining, then.” She relaxed and permitted herself to smile.
"I certainly plan to learn about local fare.”
It seemed like
a good plan for one faced with feeding her own person. "What kind of a man are
you running from?” he asked.
"My father.”
Her quick answer surprised them both, and she quickly added, "But I’m not
running. I didn’t seek his approval to come here, simply because he has never
approved of me. Or my actions, anyway. He allowed me to attend a woman’s college
after my mother’s death because it meant I would be out of the way. I had
foiled his attempts to arrange suitable marriages, and he wanted me out of his
sight.”
"Your
traditions allow a father to select a husband for his daughter,” Jacob
observed. "It is his way of providing for her.”
"I don’t want
to be provided with some rich old man who thinks he has the right to come to my
parlor and put his hands—” Her mouth clamped shut, her gaze strayed from his,
and her tight smile did little to contain her frustration. "I imagine your
people permit a man to foist an unwanted husband off on his daughter, also.”
Jacob laughed.
"Not often. Young men wait in line outside a woman’s door to court her. She
chooses the one she wants, and then the families make the arrangements. Her
father’s permission and the exchange of gifts between families are part of the
ceremony.”
"That’s the
way it should be. He chooses to court her, and she decides whether he’s the
one for her.” Carolina nodded. "Marriage shouldn’t be part of a business deal.”
"Why did you
choose North Dakota?”
"Because it’s
a long way from Boston. Some of my friends at school aspired to do missionary
work, and there was much discussion of Indian Territory out West. I made a
number of inquiries and found Charles MacAllistair to be the most tolerant of
my idiosyncrasies.”
"Does your
father know where you are?”
"I wrote to
him. He probably read my letter and said something like, ‘The devil take her,
then!’ He didn’t need me any longer to care for my mother, who’d been ill for
years before she died, or my brother, Andrew, who’s grown up to be Father’s
protégé. Most of the men he fancied as prospective sons-in-law didn’t want me
any more than I wanted them. I refused to be a quiet parlor decoration, and I stood
my ground when it came to—”
"When it came
to the old men’s hands.” He caught himself, enjoying her victory. She’d
assumed Indian men decided everything for their women, and he’d assumed a white
woman on her own must be a little mad.
"Yes,” she
said. "When it came to that.” She went to the stove, grabbed a potholder, and
moved the steaming kettle. "Forgive me for going on so. I haven’t told anyone
around here that much about myself, and I probably just told you more than you
wanted to know.”
Jacob decided
to remain silent on that particular assumption. He stood and walked across the
room to the window. It was raining hard again, and it had grown dark outside,
even though it was midafternoon. When the rain stopped, he would take her down
to the house before someone came up to check on this independent newcomer. The
MacAllistairs had left early to visit Marissa’s parents in town, as they often
did on Saturdays. The road would be a quagmire if the rain kept up, and they
probably would not return tonight.
The bookshelves
caught his eye, and he moved closer to examine the titles. As he touched the
spines fondly, he murmured, "So you, too, have brought us the Word of God, Miss
Hammond.”
"Oh, no, I’m not a missionary. I came to offer a
lay education to the children here. I hope... I plan to teach the Indian children along
with those of the ranchers who hired me.” She turned from the sideboard. "Our
tea is ready.”
He returned to
the chair and accepted the steaming cup from hands that trembled slightly, even
now. The cup and saucer clattered. In his hand, they seemed absurdly delicate.
She seated herself in the rocker.
"Do you enjoy
reading, Mr. Black Hawk?”
His eyes
narrowed. "Yes, I enjoy reading.” He paused to savor the tart taste of the rose
hips in the tea. He preferred wild mint. It was good for the digestion. "Does
it surprise you that I can read?”
"No. You’re an
interesting combination of two cultures, Mr. Black Hawk. Your flawless English,
your clothes, your job at the ranch—I’m guessing you’ve used up quite a bit of
chalk on a student’s slate.”
"Your friends,
the missionaries, got hold of me at an early age. I liked chalk and slate, but
not the rod and the lye soap.” He grimaced. "Still, I learned the language for
my mother. She thought it would help me walk in the new way. I learned to read
for myself, because it was like a game and came easily to me. I enjoy books,
but there aren’t many available to me.”
"You’re welcome
to read anything I have. I’ve sent for more.”
He nodded. "Have
you always lived in Boston?”
"I attended
school in western Massachusetts, but my father’s house is in Boston.”
"I have not
been to Boston, but I have been to the East,” he said. It was a part of his
life that he rarely discussed, and he wondered at the fact that he even
mentioned it now.
"Oh, really?
What part?”
Her interest
seemed genuine, and it occurred to Jacob that this woman might regard him
simply as a person, as fully human as she was. "I was sent to Carlisle Indian
School in Pennsylvania. I was there four years.”
"I see why
you’re so well educated, Mr. Black Hawk. You are a college man.” She smiled at
him as though they were compatriots.
He shook his
head. "I was supposed to learn a trade, so that good hard work would take the
savage out of me. I spoke your language. I was curious about the white world,
and I wanted to learn, but I did not want to learn about carpentry and
farming.”
"Was that all
they taught there?”
"No,” he said
quietly. "They taught us shame. They cut off our braids and made us wear their
uniforms and their shoes. They told us that, although we could never actually bewhite men, we should try to be like them.
"But they knew
nothing about us. We were from many nations. Our languages and traditions were
different, one from another. Some of us were ancient enemies. I almost killed a
Chippewa man over the use of a horse, but because I was considered the better
student, it was he who was sent back home.” He smiled, remembering. "Sending a
man back to his people was their idea of punishment. They wondered why some of
the students took their own lives when they were on the verge of becoming
civilized. When they said I had reached that goal, I looked in the mirror and wondered
what they meant, who they thought I was.”
"Who did you
think you were?”
He turned, surprised
by the question. "It doesn’t matter. I know who I am now.” His feeling that she
posed no threat to that knowledge surprised him even more. "And I have not told
anyone around here that much about myself, either.” He lifted one corner of his
mouth. "It was probably more than you wanted to know.”
"On the
contrary, Mr. Black Hawk. I hope to have Indian children in my classroom this
fall, and you are the first Indian I have been able to talk to. I’m certain I
have much to learn.”
"Then you
should know first that there are government boarding schools and mission
schools for our children. You will seldom find Indian and white children in the
same classroom.”
Carolina
looked puzzled. "I understand that farmers and ranchers have bought land here,
but I was under the impression that this was still a reserve for Indians.”
"It is.”
"If we’re to
build a rural school, wouldn’t there be some Indian families living in the area
who might want to send their children here, rather than to board them away from
home?”
Jacob sipped at
his tea. This woman really did have a lot to learn. "Indian children are taken
away from their families, Miss Hammond.”
"Taken away?
Do you mean they have no choice? But you were...”
"I was
educated by missionaries who came to live among us, but that was some time ago.
Now, our villages are deathly quiet during the winter months. The children are
put in boarding schools to have their traditional lives scrubbed from their
minds.”
Carolina
shivered. She adjusted her shawl. "Could they come to my school if I...
if I invited them?”
"I think you
would have to discuss that with MacAllistair, and he would discuss it with his
board. Or you might discuss it with the Indian agent, and he would discuss it
with his superiors in Washington. The army might have something to say about
it, or the church mission boards.” Jacob gave a dry chuckle. The new teacher’s
intentions seemed refreshingly simple. "Your invitation might get lost
somewhere along the line.”
"I thought the
MacAllistairs were friendly to the Indian people,” Carolina insisted.
Jacob studied
the bottom of his teacup for a moment. "Marissa MacAllistair’s grandmother and
my grandmother were sisters. Her mother is half Indian, her father is white. It
is not uncommon for a white man to take an Indian woman. The Indian agent who
left here last year had an Indian wife. McLaughlin, his name was. People
thought they could trust him, but it wasn’t so.
"MacAllistair
is a fair man, but I am the only Indian he employs. I think he would hire more
of us if more would work for him. But for most, it isn’t possible. We are a
people whose way of life is passing, and yet we know no other way to live.” He
was not speaking to her of these matters with his usual bitter tone. He wasn’t
blaming her.
Refreshingly simple.
"What will you
do?” She was leaning forward in her chair now, and she was wide-eyed with
interest. "What will happen to all those people? And to you, Mr. Black Hawk?”
She had asked
the question that burned in his soul, and he was not ready to share any of his
guesses, certainly not with a woman whose people sought to determine all the
answers.
Instead, he
returned his empty cup to the sideboard. "I don’t know about them,” he said
lightly, "but if anyone comes up here to check on you and finds me here, my future
might be in doubt.” He turned to offer a pointed look. "Not only mine, but
yours. A white woman who entertains an Indian man alone in her house might not
be welcome to teach anyone’s children. As soon as this rain stops, I’ll give my
horse a rubdown, and we can both ride him back to the house.”
"That will be
fine, Mr. Black Hawk,” she said as she rose from the rocker. It teetered at her
back, nudging her skirt. "Be assured that, should anyone come, we shall explain
what happened, and you will receive credit for saving my life rather than
criticism for unseemly conduct. Now, will you join me for supper while we wait
for the rain to stop?”
"Do you have
any red meat?” he wondered aloud with a soft smile.
"I do, in fact. And I baked this morning.”
She opened a cupboard door to display three golden-brown loaves of bread.
"Aren’t they tempting?”
His smile
broadened considerably. Of the "four white sins”—salt, sugar, flour and
alcohol—the three he could not resist were best served baked.
THE STEW SHE prepared
warmed them both. Carolina sensed that whatever grudge Jacob Black Hawk bore
her race, he was considering setting it aside for her, as he apparently had for
Charles MacAllistair. For her part, she had found few men’s company as
stimulating as Jacob’s was. Moreover, she was comfortable with him.
"One thing you
should know about Indian people,” he began as he leaned back in his chair for a
final sip of tea, "is that we don’t think of ourselves as Indians. Most of us
who have been herded onto this useless patch of ground called Standing Rock are
of the Lakota nation. The Lakota, have seven council fires, which are bands of
people, like large families. Extended, you know? And the seven bands are
related, but not closely related. Iam of the Hunkpapa band.”
"But you have
used the term Indian in our conversation.”
"You said you
wanted to learn about us.” The look in Jacob’s eyes grew hard. "When I am among
white people, I think in English, and I use their term Indian so that
they will understand me. They can’t think in Lakota, nor do many of them want
to. But if you wish to know about my people, then you should know who they knowthey are, not who the white man says they are.”
Carolina
offered a tentative smile. "You’re right, of course. Like anyone in new surroundings,
I’ve come with some preconceived ideas. I’ve heard your tribe called Sioux.
Where did that name come from?”
"It was given
to us by our old enemies, the Chippewa. It means ‘little snake’ in their
language. They don’t like that name, either, but your government chooses to use
it.”
"It’s strange
the way the wrong name sticks. When someone calls me Caroline I’m quick with a
correction.” His raised brow prompted her shrug. "Not quite comparable. Well,
then, I’m not really fond of being categorized as a white woman, but I suppose
that will be the way you see me. My mother is from the South—a Rebel—my father
a Yankee from the North. That’s almost like—”
He cut her off
with a sardonic laugh. "Sioux and Chippewa?”
"There was a
horrific war, you know.”
"Yes,” he said
softly. "So many killed. Your weapons destroy much more than the lives of enemy
warriors.”
"Not...
not my weapons. I don’t have any...
weap—” She shook her head. "That’s not me. Not I.”
"Who are you,
then?”
"I’m a woman named
Carolina, a teacher, the daughter of a Yankee farmer and a Southern...”
The image of her mother made her smile. ". . . lady. I don’t mind saying she was quite a lady. And I’m a newcomer
here, a little naïve about the life here, the climate, the power of the wind.”
She laughed. "But asked about my origins, I would not say, ‘I am white.’”
"You wouldn’t
have to, Miss Hammond. Your warriors have taught us to recognize you.”
"Our warriors
are not teachers.”
"No?” He drew
a deep breath. "I will make a bargain with you.” A smile lurked in his eyes. "I
will not call you the white woman if you will not call me Injun. Agreed?”
Carolina
returned his smile. "I would take that bargain one step further. You’ve saved
my life and shared supper at my table. I should think our friendship could
progress to a first-name basis.”
"You are still
blind to the way things are here.”
"How much more
must I learn before I may call you Jacob?”
He shook his
head. "Nothing other than discretion, Carolina. I’m called Jacob by the few
white people who are friendly to me, and you seem to be one of them.”
"And will you
teach me more about the Lakota and the Hunkpapa?”
His face
sobered. "Visits between us would cause too much talk. I would not be a friend
if I caused people to talk about you in that way.”
"Maybe it
wouldn’t be quite so scandalous if you were to keep your shirt on.” She smiled.
"True.” Jacob
folded his arms across his chest and leaned his chair back on two legs. "The
Lakota are very conscious of manners. We always dress properly when we take
meals as guests. My uncles would have taken me to task for my behavior today.”
"But your
shirt was wet.”
"Excuses are
not acceptable. My family tells me that I’ve been among the whites too long and
have forgotten what is proper. I would also be reminded that it is not proper
to be alone with an unmarried woman in her house. Not proper, not permitted,
not even safe.” They looked at each other while the words spun in the air like
the wind that had brought them to this moment.
And they burst
out laughing. It was the kind of shared laughter that grew as one voice fed the
other, the kind that drained away slowly and ended in shared sighs.
And shared
quiet.
"It’s good
that you’re willing to make up your own mind about me,” he said, "but you
should not be so trusting. You must not invite strange men into your home when
you’re alone.”
"I had no
choice but to trust you.” She pushed her chair back and began gathering dishes.
"It’s hard to argue with someone while on a galloping horse.”
"But still,
you didn’t know me.”
She looked up
from her handful of dishes. The man was simply being sensible, but she was still
feeling jittery. From her harrowing horseback ride, no doubt. But there was no
horse present, no wind, no downpour. There was only the man.
She hated to
see a grown woman flutter simply because there was a man about, but she was
doing just that. Fluttering on the outside, shuddering on the inside. He was
watching her, challenging her, maybe even trying to scare her with doubt. She
was all feeling at the moment, and not a thimbleful of good sense. There were
doubts to be considered, senses to be recovered. Otherwise, a woman could find
herself in more peril than mere wind and rain could ever bring down upon her.
He stood up
from his chair. He was taller than she was, but not especially tall for a man.
He wore two leather pouches around his neck. The thongs passed over the
well-defined muscles of his bronze chest, forming the lines of a V, echoing the
shape of his long torso. The pouches dangled in front of his flat abdomen. His
denim pants, cinched by a wide leather belt with a brass buckle, rode low on
his slim hips. Carolina glanced from the buckle to his face. He smiled at her
more easily than she thought fair.
"I know a bit
about you now, Jacob. Jacob?” He nodded, and she smiled. "You are a considerate
man. You can be sure that I’ve met few men who fit that description, and there
are fewer still who would be welcome in my home under these circumstances.” He
looked at her curiously, and she glanced at the rafters. "Mmm. I can think of
none offhand.”
Her fingers
brushed his as he handed her his cup and saucer, but it was her unsteady hand
that caused the china to rattle.
He gave a
humorless chuckle. "And only one who makes you this nervous.”
SHE HAD REASON
to be nervous.
It had been a
long time since Jacob had wondered what it would be like to hold a woman close to
his body and comb her hair with his fingers. But now he’d imagined the length
and the scent and the feel of this woman’s hair. Big mistake. He was about to
take her back to the ranch, where, as soon as she recovered her own person, she would be untouchable.
She would be aloof, and they would not share this easy conversation between two
equal human beings. Too soon, she would see how it was here. She would read the
signs, sense the boundaries, see him treated with disdain, and she would choose
sides. He shoved the chair under the table.
Carolina
turned from unloading her dishes into the washbasin on the sideboard. His noisy
gesture had startled her, but he saw no fear in her eyes.
"Please smoke if you wish to, Jacob,” she suggested quietly. "It will take me a
moment to clean up, but I should be ready to leave shortly.”
Jacob reached
for his shirt. It was damp, so he turned it over. "Enough time to give my horse
a rubdown. Otherwise we’ll be in for a wet ride.”
She offered a
long-handled ladle and a handful of clean rags, and Jacob left the house to
attend to his horse.
The rain had
stopped, and the early-evening sky was brightening. The mud sucked at Jacob’s
boots, but he strode through it, hoping the cool air on his bare chest would
bring him to his senses. She was just another pale-skinned woman, an immigrant,
probably even less sensible than most. He had only followed his instincts when
he’d sheltered her from the storm. But now they had shared food, thoughts, and
memories, and he had seen her as a true woman. She had stirred needs he’d willed
silent. He had no woman, but he had family. He had relatives, but he was short
on friends. Not that he needed more people in his life, but this woman
intrigued him. She was different. She was no longer just another pale-skinned
woman. He would have her see him as a true man, a Lakota who deserved welcome
in a friend’s home.
He did what he
could to dry the sorrel’s wet hide, rolled himself a cigarette and respectfully
called out to the woman before he went inside. He kept his eyes from her properly
as he walked over to the chair, took up his shirt, balanced the cigarette on
the edge of the stove, took up his shirt and pulled it over his head. Then he noticed
the mud he’d regrettably tracked across the plank floor. She was watching him, and
he knew it. He retrieved his cigarette and watched her as he drew hungrily on
the smoke.
She moved like
a bird caught in a trap, fluttering to put the dishes away in the overhead
cupboards. Whenever he was quiet, she seemed to feel the need to talk.
"I’m finished
here, Jacob. We can leave when you’re ready. I know I’m a little unsteady on
the back of that horse, but I’ll do my best not to topple us both.”
"You will ride
in front. I’ll see that you don’t topple us both.”
She grabbed
the broom and swept up the little clods of dried mud. That done, she brushed
her hands together. He finished his cigarette and tossed the butt into the
stove. Smoke trailed from his lips as he approached her.
"I like you,
Carolina. We’ve become friends in a short time. But at the ranch, when other
people are around you, I won’t be friendly to you.” He found it necessary to
touch her in some way. The look in her eyes seemed to welcome the hands he laid
lightly upon her shoulders. "It would cause too much speculation,” he said
quietly. "Just know that I am your friend.”
She gave him a
pretty smile. "I like you. You have yet to call me a strange bird, or
any of a number of epithets I’m accustomed to hearing. I have no intention of
pretending. I am who I am, and people may think whatever they choose to think.”
His restive
fingers flexed, and he lifted the edges of her shawl and pulled it snugly
around her slight shoulders. Pretense, perhaps. He would have preferred to wrap
her in his arms.
And soon, he
would. It would be both pleasant and painful—a worthwhile challenge for a
worthy warrior.
"The air is
still cold from the rain.” But he would put his back to the wind. It was a fine
thing to think on how he would warm her.
He made a stirrup
with his hands and invited Carolina to fill it with her foot and her weight, to
swing her free leg over the horse’s back and pull herself aboard. He handed her
the reins. An agile vault brought Jacob over the horse’s rump, and he settled himself
close behind her, slipped an arm around her waist and held her lightly against
his body. His thighs ensured his seat and steadied her legs at the same time.
She was securely tucked in the envelope of his strength.
"What is your
horse’s name?” she asked.
"Sagi.”
"Sagi,” she
repeated carefully. "What does it mean?”
"It’s his
color, the red brown.”
"He seems very
reliable. He doesn’t wander away when you leave him standing by himself.”
"A necessary
thing. I trained him young.”
Jacob looked
to the west at the streaking expanse of rosy glow in the blue-gray sky. Holding
her felt good, and he could not fault himself now for enjoying the feeling. She
had braided her hair and twisted it into a knot at the back of her head. There
was a soft look just below her ear, like the down beneath the dove’s feathers.
He detected the tremor of the pulse in her neck. Her breathing seemed too fast,
and he lowered his eyes to catch sight of the rise and fall of her chest with
each breath.
"Still
frightened?” he asked softly, his lips brushing her ear.
"No. I’m fine
now.”
She felt as he
did. He smiled to himself. His flesh was hard and warm and alive where her
slight weight rested against him.
He tightened
his arm around her body. He might have stilled the slight stirring of his
fingers at her waist. But he didn’t. She drew a deeper breath and shivered as
she expelled it slowly. Yes, he knew she felt as he did, but she probably did
not even recognize the feeling. Even as he berated himself for desiring a white
woman, he turned his face toward her hair and inhaled its rainwater smell.
THE TINGLING surges
of warmth inside Carolina’s body confused her. The muscles in the horse’s
shoulders and across his back caressed her intimately. The animal’s moist body
heat penetrated her clothing. Even more unsettling, she felt a little
breathless with every movement of Jacob’s body against hers. And none of it was
unpleasant.
She heard thudding
hoof beats of approaching horses just as the sorrel topped the rise. Ranch
foreman, Jim Bates, and two of the hands, Tanner and Culley rode below, horses
nose to tail. Bates’s hearing must have been even sharper than Carolina’s, for
he looked up suddenly and then spurred his mount uphill.
"Miss
Hammond!” Bates hauled on his reins. "We come to see if you’re okay. We was fussing
around over the damage the wind done down to the calving barn, and Culley here
recollected you being alone up there at the old cabin. Figured we’d better look
in on you.”
"The house
wasn’t touched, but the cottonwoods by the river were ripped from the ground.”
Carolina smiled and made an effort to look as though she were completely at
ease riding double with Jacob. "Fortunately, Mr. Black Hawk saw that I was in a
precarious situation and helped me take shelter.”
"How did you
happen to be up there, Black Hawk?” Culley demanded, as though he had some
sort of authority.
Carolina felt
the tension in Jacob’s body, and she empathized. Culley made her skin crawl. The
ferret-faced little cowboy peered past her, looking for something from Jacob.
"I sent him up
there,” Bates said. "One of the studs got out last night.”
Jacob steadied
the prancing Sagi and offered an explanation for his boss alone. "I was looking
for cover when I saw this woman standing out in the open. I spotted the funnel
cloud at the same time.”
"Mr. Black
Hawk’s quick thinking and expert horsemanship saved my life,” Carolina added,
pointedly ignoring Culley. "He found shelter for us among some rocks, and then
the storm hit. I’ve never seen the like of it.”
Squinting past Carolina, Culley persisted. "We didn’t see no twister.”
Carolina
dismissed the comment without sparing the cowboy a glance. "You missed quite a
sight, then.” Truth be told, she, too, had missed the sight, but not the ear-splitting
roar, not the driving force of the wind, and not the terror. She wouldn’t bring
any part of it back for Culley.
"I ain’t
sayin’ it couldn’t’ve been one,” he said. "Just sorry you had to—”
"Did the
MacAllistairs return safely, Mr. Bates?” Carolina asked.
"Not yet. I
expect they might not come back ’til tomorrow. Road’s pretty muddy now.”
"I’m going to
stay at the house tonight, anyway,” she told him. "I’m still a bit shaken.”
Bates nodded
as Culley leaned over and mumbled something near his ear.
Bates straightened,
looking uncomfortable. "Miss Hammond, would you care to ride with me? You might
be better off with a... a saddle.”
"Thank you,
Mr. Bates, but Mr. Black Hawk has offered to take me to the ranch, and I’m
eager to be on our way. The storm left such an unsettling chill in the air.
After what happened, it cuts to the bone.” Carolina turned her head as far
around as she could and caught a glimpse of Jacob’s stoic expression. "You
don’t mind, do you, Jacob?”
"No, ma’am.”
He nudged the sorrel with his heel, informing Bates as he passed, "I’ll track
that stud down in the morning.”
Sagi took the
slope at a smooth trot, leaving the three riders behind to discuss this turn
of events. The big sorrel carried his added burden easily, putting a comfortable
distance between the couple and the cowboys by the time the trio turned to
follow. Comfortable for Carolina, with Jacob between her and Culley.
"It bothers
Culley to see you sitting on the same horse with me,” Jacob said.
"Mr. Culley
would do well to mind his own business.” The very sight of the man put Carolina
in a huff. Since the time she’d arrived, he’d been appearing around every
corner. "That man’s ears prick and his nose twitches at the very thought of
hearing something that doesn’t concern him. He emerges from the woodwork when I
have a bag to carry or a piece of furniture to move. Or he sees me and thinks
he has to amble over and say hello. Doesn’t he have a job to do?”
"I try to stay
away from Culley. His job doesn’t concern me.”
"Yours seems
to concern him. He’s nosy. He’s unctuous. He acts... strange.”
"Strange?” Jacob
chuckled. "Some might believe you to be a little strange, Miss Hammond.”
"Do you?”
"I haven’t
decided.”
"Why not? My
earlier behavior was uncharacteristic, I assure you. And my first impression of
Mr. Culley was spot-on. We agree on that.”
"We do. Bates
keeps Culley and me apart. We’ve had some run-ins. I’m happy to ride ahead and
leave him in the dust, and I do admire the way you dismissed him with a few
simple words.”
"I’ll do
better next time. I’ve had some practice.” She squared her shoulders and took
her satisfaction. "Such puffery deserves its reproach, and I have no trouble
delivering it to those in need.”
"Staying away
from Culley is the best way to deal with him. He might think he has something
to say to you about today, since he and I don’t get along.”
They crested
the last hill. The ranch lay on the flat ground below. The ride had been too
short, Carolina thought. "Don’t worry about Mr. Culley on my account, Jacob.”
Jacob tightened his arm around her waist. She touched the back of his hand.
"I’ll have no trouble convincing him to twitch his nose elsewhere.”
"He might have
trouble listening. Tell me.... Tell MacAllistair right away if Culley bothers you.”
The sorrel
stopped in front of the ranch house’s stately veranda. Jacob hesitated to pull
his arm away, and Carolina dreaded the moment when he would. She would have to
go into the house, and he would retire to the bunkhouse. She wanted to ask him
to sit with her on the veranda. They would talk as they had at the cabin, and
she would serve the coffee he’d craved earlier. She thought she felt the subtle
stirring of his fingers at her waist again, but his hand was gone before she
had time to savor the small gesture.
He might have
been an acrobat. He slid over the horse’s rump, dropped to the ground and moved
quickly to Carolina’s right side and reached for her. "The Lakota mount on this
side. Don’t confuse my horse. Come.”
Carolina swung
her leg over the horse’s neck and planted her hands on Jacob’s strong shoulders.
He lifted her off the horse, set her down, and there they stood.
"I’m grateful
for your help, Jacob.” She would not be first to step away.
"Among my
people, a good deed brings honor to the giver, and gratitude is not necessary.”
"For your
part, that’s lovely. For my part, the gratitude stands.” As did she, lost in
his dark eyes. "I hope we’ll be able to talk again,” she said tightly. "Soon.”
Jacob smiled,
but at the sound of approaching horses, he dropped his hands to his sides.
Carolina turned away, and disappeared into the house.