Cheyenne Wife. Judith Stacy
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a horse was tethered to the corral fence at the corner of the stable. It stamped the ground, stirring up little dust clouds, and tossed its head fitfully, pulling at the rope.
The animal was no more comfortable at the fort than she was, Lily thought.
She sat back, trying to get comfortable, trying to relax, willing herself to shake the feeling of foreboding that still hung over her like a dark cloud, and turned her thoughts to her aunt in Richmond.
What would Aunt Maribel be doing at this exact moment? she wondered, turning her face skyward to catch the sun.
Or better still, what if Lily had talked her father out of making this trip altogether? Yes, that was a better fantasy, she decided. He’d be well and healthy, going about his business, as usual, in Saint Louis.
But the prospect of how different her life would be at this very moment if she’d gone to visit her wealthy aunt instead of making this trip, came unbidden into Lily’s mind once more.
She sighed quietly, indulging herself in the imaginary scene her mind conjured up.
She’d have spent her first week in her aunt’s lovely home getting acclimated to the new house, recovering from the journey, learning about the city. She’d luxuriate in a steaming tub, nap often, and be fawned over by a parade of maids and servants. Then preparations for the social outings to come would commence. Fabrics and patterns discussed, new gowns commissioned. The parties, teas and luncheons given in her honor to introduce her and welcome her to the city would take weeks, all amid ladies and gentlemen of good breeding and impeccable deportment.
Yet here she sat on a wooden crate, civilization but a distant memory, with the vague odor of animal manure in the air.
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,