Her Cheyenne Warrior (Harlequin Historical) Page 3

  “Well, now, I was just worried about the four of you out here all alone,” Jacob drawled. “Thought I best backtrack and check how you fine ladies were getting along.”

  “More likely you got kicked off the wagon train,” Meg yelled.

  Lorna agreed, but hushed Meg again. “We’re getting along just fine,” Lorna said. “Thanks for stopping.”

  “Thanks for stopping?” Betty hissed under her breath.

  “Shush,” Lorna insisted.

  “You can shush us all you want,” Meg snapped. “They ain’t leaving. Mark my word.”

  “I know that,” Lorna replied. “I’m just trying to come up with a plan.”

  “What you ladies whispering about out there?” Jacob shouted. “How happy you are to see us?”

  The others beside him chortled, and one slapped him on the back as if Jacob was full of wit.

  Intelligence was not what Jacob was known for. “Delighted for sure,” Lorna answered while gradually twisting her neck to see how far the opposite bank was. The men hadn’t yet stepped in the water. From the looks of Jacob’s greasy hair, he was either afraid of or opposed to water. If she and the others swam—

  Her brain stopped midthought. What she saw on the other side of the river sent a shiver rippling her spine all the way to the top of her head. Lorna shifted her feet to solidify her stance in the wet sand and get a better view, just to make sure she wasn’t seeing things. The way her throat plugged said she wasn’t imagining anything.

  “Indians,” Meg whispered.

  That was exactly what they were. Indians. Too many to count. And they weren’t afraid of water. Especially the one on the large black horse who was front and center. He was huge and so formidable the lump in Lorna’s throat silenced her scream as his horse leaped into the water like a beast arising from the caverns of hell. The very image of her worst nightmare.

  Water splashed as other horses lunged to follow him, and the Indians on their backs started making high-pitched yipping noises.

  Frozen by a form of fear she’d never known existed, Lorna couldn’t move, didn’t move until the screeches of the women penetrated her senses. She spun to tell them to hush, but her attention landed on the other riverbank, where Jacob and his cronies ran beside their horses, attempting to leap into their saddles before the animals left them afoot. All four managed to mount, and watching them gallop away would have been a relief if the riverbed beneath her hadn’t been vibrating.

  Waves swirled as the Indians rode past. Their stocky horses were swift and surefooted, and leaped out of the water to take after Jacob and his men. Their crazy yipping noises echoed off the water, the air, and vibrated deep inside her.

  “What are we going to do?” Betty was asking. “What are we going to do?” Lorna spun back around, toward the bank still lined with huge horses and bare chests. One by one, the horses stepped into the water, and her fear returned ten times over. As her gaze once again landed on the great black horse hurdling the opposite bank, she muttered, “Hell if I know.”

  Chapter Two

  Black Horse slowed his mount while signaling four warriors to pursue the white men. It would take no more than that. He then spun his horse around to return to the riverbank and the women. Moments ago the four of them had been frolicking in the water like a family of otters in the spring. The sight of it, how their white clothes had puffed up around them, had made his braves laugh. He did not laugh.

  One of his hunting parties had reported the women—four of them in two wagons—traveling alongside the river two days ago. At one time, many wagon trains traveled this route, but since the white men started fighting each other, the trains had almost disappeared. He had liked that, had welcomed the idea of fewer white people on Cheyenne land. The peace his people had known while his grandfather had been leading their band was his greatest desire. Inside, though, he knew peace would only happen when the white man and the bands learned to settle disagreements without bloodshed. He had left the last tribal council knowing that would not happen any time soon. Although many had agreed with him, some had not.

  If not for the white men reported to be trailing these women, he would have let the women pass through Cheyenne land without notice, but he could not allow Tsitsistas to be blamed for what could happen to them.

  Stopping at the water’s edge, Black Horse drew in a breath of warm summer air and held it. Bringing white women into his village would upset the serenity, but so would the army soldiers if something happened to the women. This was Cheyenne land, and his band would be blamed.

  The tallest woman, the one with long brown hair that curled in spirals like wood peeled thin with a sharp knife, was not crying like the others, or running for the bank. She stared at him with eyes the same blue as the living water that falls from the mountains when the snow leaves. There was bravery in her eyes. A rarity. All the white women he had met acted like the other three. Other than Ayashe—Little One—but she had been living with Tsitsistas for many seasons.

  Keeping his eyes locked on the woman’s, he motioned for braves to gather the others and hitch the mules to the wagons, and then nudged his horse toward the water. The woman did not move. Or blink. She stood there like a mahpe he’e, a water woman, who had emerged from the waves during a great storm, daring to defy a leader of the people. He had to focus to keep his lips from curling into a smile. Only a white woman would believe such was possible.

  She held up one hand. “We come in peace.”

  No white person comes in peace. Not letting anything show, especially that he understood her language, Black Horse lifted his chin and nodded toward the wagons. “Tosa’e nehestahe?”

  The frown tugging her brows together said she did not understand his question of where she came from. He had not expected her to know the language of his people, but had wanted to be sure. Others like her had come before. Dressed in their black robes that covered everything but their faces, they tried to teach people about a god written on the pages of a book. Each Indian Nation had their own god and no need to believe in others, or books.

  Faint victory shouts indicated his warriors had caught up with the men that had disappeared over a small knoll, and Black Horse waved a hand toward the wagons, indicating the woman should join the others.

  Her cold glare glanced at the other women putting their black dresses over their wet clothes. Only white people would do that. Their ways made little sense.

  Turning back to him, her eyes narrowed as she asked, “What do you want with us?”

  There were many advantages to knowing the white man’s language, and more advantages in not letting that knowledge be known. He waved toward the wagon again.

  Her sneer increased. “What? You grunt and wave a hand, and expect me to know what you want and to obey? Let me assure you that will not happen.”

  She was not like the other holy women he had encountered. They had all been quiet and timid. She was neither.

  Earlier she had skimmed across the water with the ease of an otter, and catching the sense she was about to do so again, Black Horse urged Horse into the water.

  The woman looked one way and then the other, and then, just as he expected, she shot under the water.

  The water was not deep enough to conceal her or her white clothes, and he tapped his heels against Horse’s sides. He caught up with her just as she lifted her head out of the water, and the look of shock on her face made him hide a smile.

  “Get away from me, you filthy beast,” she shouted. “Get away!”

  As one would a snake, Black Horse shot out a hand and grabbed her behind the head. Grasping the material between her shoulders, he lifted her out of the water. She was as slippery as a fish and her fingernails scratched at his arm while she continued shouting and kicking her feet. Despite her fighting, he draped her across the front shoulders of Horse. Keeping her there took both hands, but Horse needed nothing more than a touch of heels to spin around and return to the bank. He and the animal had been together since Hor
se had been a colt. Shortly after acquiring Horse, others had started calling him He Who Rides a Black Horse, and though many events had occurred that offered to provide him with a different name, he did not take one. He liked being known as Black Horse.

  Her kicking and squirming almost caused her to slip from his hold when Horse stopped on the bank to shake the water from his hide. In that one quiet moment, Black Horse could feel her heart racing against his thigh. It startled him briefly, the contact of another person. It had been a long time.

  Once Horse started walking again, she started her kicking, squirming and screaming all over and Black Horse renewed the pressure on her back. When Horse stopped near the wagon, Black Horse balled the material across her back into his hand. Just as he started to lift her, a sharp sting shot across his leg.

  Before her teeth could sink deeper, he wrenched her off his lap and dropped her to the ground. “Poeso,” he hissed. She had the claws and teeth of a poeso—a wild cat. There was no blood, because the hide leggings had protected his skin. They had protected him against far worse, but he still had to rub the sting from the area.

  His braves as well as the other women were watching, waiting to see what would happen next. If he had been only a warrior, the braves would have laughed at what the white woman had done, but because he was the leader of their people they stood in silence, waiting to follow his next move, whatever he chose it to be.

  The woman continued to hiss and snarl like a cat, having no idea she had just offended a leader of the Cheyenne Nation, and Black Horse accepted her ignorance. He prided himself on being a highly respected leader, one who did not make decisions based on spite, but on thoughtful deliberations. He ignored her screeching while gesturing for the men to finish hitching up the mules—until one word she said caught his attention.

  Black Horse jumped off Horse and wrenched the bundle of clothes out of her hands, searching until he found what she was after. Holding up the little gun, he laughed. It was smaller than his fingers.

  “Laugh all you want, you beast!” she shouted. “It can still kill you. It’s called a gun.”

  Why did all white people think only they knew what guns were? The fur trade wars over a century ago had brought guns to all the people, back before Tsitsistas had started following the buffalo. But guns wore out and could not be repaired, and were much less accurate when it came to hunting than bows and arrows. Their thundering noise scared more buffalo than their bullets killed.

  He tucked the gun in the pouch hanging on his side and tossed the clothes at the woman, along with the pair of stiff boots that were lying on the bank. Shrill calls from his returning warriors filled the air and he grinned. Just as he had known, each brave led a horse behind him.

  “They killed them that fast?” the woman asked, eyes wide.

  “Hova’ahane,” he answered, knowing she had no idea he had just told her no. Tsitsistas were not conquerors. Not the northern bands. His warriors rarely killed unless threatened. It was his goal to make sure it remained that way.

  “Tahee’evonehnestse,” he said, once again waving toward the wagon, telling her to get on with the others, who had obeyed his braves while this poeso battled him. There was always one. Always a he’e—a woman—who refused to listen; for a moment he wondered if saving her, if being a fair and just leader, was worth the trouble.

  * * *

  Lorna knew the brown beast of a man, with black hair hanging way past his shoulders and wearing a scowl as fierce as the rest of him, wanted her to get on the wagon with the others, but she wasn’t about to. Men, no matter what nationality, thought that because of their strength they could order women about, make them grovel and beg and plea. She’d lived that way once, and never would again. Furthermore, this man was worse than all the others she’d known. Stronger. The strength of his hold could have easily broken her spine, and his thighs had been harder than logs. The fact he hadn’t killed her said one thing. He was saving her for worse. Much worse.

  That wouldn’t happen again.

  Turning toward Meg, Tillie and Betty, who were peeking out of the canvas opening in the back of Meg’s wagon, Lorna shouted, “Get out of there! We can’t go with them!”

  “We don’t have a choice,” Meg answered. “We only have one gun, and if you haven’t noticed, there are twenty of them.”

  “I don’t care how many there are!”

  “You may want to be killed,” Meg said, “but I’d like to see tomorrow.”

  “Which we won’t if we go with them,” Lorna insisted.

  “These are Cheyenne Indians. They’re peaceful.”

  Just then the beast grabbed her by the back of her camisole again, and the back her bloomers. “You call this peaceful?” she shouted at Meg between screaming at him to let her go.

  Lorna kicked and continued to scream, but the black-haired heathen carried her to the wagon and tossed her inside as if she weighed no more than a feather pillow. Unable to catch hold of anything, she hit the other women and they all tumbled among the crates and chests. Before they managed to get up, a brave jumped in the back.

  His presence had Tillie and Betty whimpering, and Meg pulling Lorna’s hair.

  “Stay down,” Meg hissed. “The Cheyenne are peaceful Indians, but I’m sure they’ll only take so much from a white woman.”

  “I’ll only take so much from them.” Lorna wrenched her hair away from Meg. The wagon lurched and she planted a hand on top of a trunk to spin around. Another brave was driving. “Did you hitch up the mules?”

  “No,” Meg said. “The braves did while you were arguing with their chief in the middle of the river.”

  “How do you know so much about Indians?” Lorna asked.

  “I told you, I made the trip to California before.”

  Meg had told her that, but Lorna hadn’t believed it. Whether she acted like it or not, Meg wasn’t old enough to have gone all the way to California and back to Missouri. At least that was what Lorna had believed up until now. Meg did seem to know a lot about a variety of things they’d needed to know along the way, including Indians, it appeared, but she had figured Meg had learned most of it from reading about it. Just as she had. She’d also hoped they wouldn’t encounter any Indians. None.

  Flustered, Lorna said, “He’s not a chief. He doesn’t have a single feather in his hair.” Or clothes on his body, other than a pair of hide britches and moccasins. She chose not to mention that. The others had to have noticed.

  “They don’t wear war bonnets all the time,” Meg said. “White people portray that in paintings and books because it makes the Indians look fiercer.”

  Lorna glanced at the brave sitting on the back of the wagon. “No, it doesn’t.” If you asked her, a few white feathers among all that black hair might make them look more human. Not that humans had feathers, but wearing nothing other than hide breeches and moccasins, these men looked more like animals than humans. Especially the beast who’d plucked her out of the water. The one who’d stolen her gun. She would get that back. Soon.

  She was where she was because of a man, and another, no matter what color his skin might happen to be, was not going to be the reason her life changed again. Was not! She’d fight to the death this time. To the very death.

  “Give me those,” she snapped while snatching her clothes from beneath the feet of the brave who sat on the tailgate. It was difficult with the wagon rambling along at a speed it had never gone before, and with the others crowded around her, but Lorna managed to get dressed—minus the habit—and put on her boots.

  She then scrambled past Meg and over the trunks until she stuck her head out of the front opening. The brave was too busy trying to control the mules to do much else. Lorna climbed over the back of the seat—despite how Meg tugged on her skirt—and sat down next to him. The other wagon was following them at the same speed. The braves surrounding them had their horses at a gallop, too. The mules would give out long before their horses would; even she could see that.

 
Whether he was a chief or not, the man on the black horse was a fool to force the animals to continue at this speed. She needed these mules to get her to California.

  “What’s his name?” she asked, pointing toward the leader of the band. The one atop the finest horseflesh she’d seen since coming to America. If she had an animal like that, she could have ridden all the way to California, and been there long before now.

  The brave hadn’t even glanced her way.

  “What do you call him? That one on the black horse?”

  The brave didn’t respond.

  “Him,” she repeated, “on that black horse, what is his name?”

  The brave grunted and slapped the reins across the backs of the mules again.

  Lorna let out a grunt, too, before she cupped her hands around her mouth. “Hey, you on the black horse!” When he glanced over one shoulder, she added, “You better slow down! Mules can’t run like horses!”

  He turned back, his long hair flying in the wind just like his horse’s mane. The two of them, man and horse, appeared to be one, their movements were so in tune.

  “Did you hear me?” she asked.

  “Everyone heard you,” Meg said from inside the wagon. “Hush up before you irritate him.”

  “I don’t care if I irritate him,” Lorna answered. “He’s already irritated me.”

  “He saved us from Lerber.” That was Betty. “They all did. Shouldn’t we be thankful for that? Show a little appreciation?”

  Lorna spun around to let the other woman know her thoughts on that. Words weren’t needed. Betty cowered and scooted farther back in the wagon.

  “My guess,” Meg said, “is that is Black Horse. He’s the leader of a band of Northern Cheyenne.”

  Lorna shot her gaze to Meg. “How do you know that?” The name certainly fit the man.

  “I’m just guessing,” Meg said. “They’ll slow down after we cross the river. They are putting distance between us and Lerber.”

  “Distance? Why?” Lorna asked. “They killed Lerber.”

  “No, they didn’t. I told you they are Cheyenne. They just stole their horses.”