Badlands Bride. Cheryl St.John
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“We are Oglala,” the boy replied, as if that answered everything.
“Where is the rest of your family?”
“Most are at the reservation without enough to eat, treated like dogs.”
“Is that why you’re here?”
He looked at his mother before answering. “Here we have food and firewood.”
“You take care of yourselves?”
“My father was murdered.”
The bit of information shocked her. “How awful.”
“Cooper is my father now,” he said, raising his chin indignantly.
That took a few minutes to register. Hallie regarded the soft leather shirt in the Indian woman’s hands. It was identical to the one Mr. DeWitt had worn yesterday. She raised her eyes to her pleasant, dark-skinned face. Chumani made his shirts?
Chumani spoke softly with her son while Hallie stared into her coffee. “Te-wah-hay, ” she said.
“What did she say?” Hallie asked.
“We are Cooper’s family,” the boy said.
A spark of disappointment and anger flickered in her chest. The boy considered DeWitt his father, and the woman made him shirts. She’d heard of mountain men and trappers taking Indian wives. The idea wouldn’t be disturbing by itself. She stared into her tin cup.
What really sent a jolt of annoyance sparking through her blood was the fact that he’d advertised for a wife when he already had an Indian woman hidden away back here. What kind of man was Cooper DeWitt? And why had he wanted to bring a city woman out here?
She recalled the wording of his letter. He’d needed a woman to read and write. Someone to help him with his business. She remembered his words about not expecting the bride to fall at his feet. Hallie’s eyes wavered back to Chumani. Now she knew why nothing but education had been important. Cooper DeWitt already had a wife.
Chapter Four
Silently fuming, Hallie finished her breakfast and managed to drink the cup of strong black coffee with only the merest grimace. Did this Indian woman know Mr. DeWitt had sent for a bride? Everyone else knew. But she obviously didn’t speak English; it would be easy for him to hide it from her.
A bride wouldn’t be so easy to hide, however. Hallie watched Chumani intricately stitch a row of tiny beads across the front of the shirt. What did the poor woman think of Hallie spending the night in DeWitt’s cabin? Hallie knew nothing of Indian customs. Perhaps bigamy was acceptable. Perhaps, no matter how uncouth the man was, it was better having him take care of her than starving on a reservation, as Yellow Eagle had pointed out.
Whatever did the woman do to keep herself busy all day? Hallie would go crazy in this cramped space with only a little sewing to occupy herself.
“Thank you for the meal,” Hallie said.
Yellow Eagle translated.
Chumani gave her a soft smile.
Hallie had a hundred questions she’d like to ask. She turned to Yellow Eagle instead. “Do you know where Mr. DeWitt is now?”
He nodded.
“Can you tell me?”
“He’s working.”
“I only want a word with him.”
“He won’t like it.”
“I can deal with that, thank you.”
The boy snorted and stood.
Hallie nodded politely as a means of excusing herself from the table, and followed Yellow Eagle from the sod house and toward the freight building. Leading her around the side, where the sound of wood being stacked echoed, he stopped and pointed, a smirk on his youthful face.
Three bare-chested men were unloading the back of an enormous flatbed wagon. Hallie had never seen so much skin in her life! She stumbled over a clump of grass and caught her balance.
Two more wagons stood to the east of the building, bulging tarps evidence of similar loads. Two of the men, whom Hallie had never seen before, noticed her, and stopped their work to stare back, pushing their sweat-stained hats back on their heads.
The third, Cooper DeWitt, pulled a stack of lumber forward, the muscles in his broad back and shoulders flexing beneath the sun-burnished skin. When neither man picked up the other end, he became aware of their distraction and turned to the cause, studying her from beneath the brim of his hat.
A queer enchantment held Hallie motionless. It was impossible not to look. The morning sun gave his chest and shoulders a warm glow. The wind caught the thick blond rope of hair hanging down his back, and it fluttered like the tail of a wild horse.
He came to life, gave the others an aggravated glance and shoved the boards back into the stack. Speaking curtly to the men, he turned and walked toward her. Hallie made up her mind not to stare at his shocking display of flesh and muscle. He made a rapid series of gestures. Yellow Eagle replied, gave Hallie a smug grin and ran back toward the soddy.
Hallie watched his approach, appreciation and apprehension tumbling in her stomach. Determinedly, she thought of the kind Indian woman making him a shirt, and annoyance won out. “I need to speak with you.”
“Stay near the house,” he said, ignoring her request.
She kept her eyes on his face. “I am near the house.”
“I mean, you shouldn’t come here.”
“Why not?”
“The house is safer.”
His words managed to take off some of her cheekiness. She glanced around. “Do the grizzlies come around in the daytime?”
“Animals aren’t the only danger.”
Her attention wanted to flutter downward, but she steadfastly stared into his eyes. “What do you mean?”
He set his jaw, accenting his generous lips and square chin. “Men come and go here all the time.”
“I was raised around men, Mr. DeWitt. I’m not intimidated.” All the men she’d been raised around were gentlemen and kept their shirts on, but she wasn’t going to point that out.
“The men in these parts don’t see many women. Especially not young, pretty ones.”
She couldn’t help the flush that rose in her cheeks. He thought she was pretty? Hallie had to remind herself why she’d come out here. “I need to speak with you.”
“I’ll see you at mealtime.”
“This is important.”
“I have work to do. I’ll see you at noon.”
“What do you expect me to do until then?”
His assessing blue eyes flicked over her hair and face. “What did you plan to do when you came here?”
“I planned to get a story!”
“Then write a story.” He turned and walked away.
Hallie’s gaze dropped from his broad back to his narrow waist. She didn’t let herself take note of the muscles beneath his buff-colored, fringed trousers.
Frustrated, she turned back toward the house. Boston Girl Dies Of Boredom, she thought humorlessly. Chumani was working beside a fire pit, so Hallie sauntered back to watch her. The top of a good-sized cylinder of tree trunk had been hollowed into a bowl shape. Chumani placed damp kernels of corn in the well and pounded them with a wooden beater.
Before Hallie’s eyes, the corn