Beverly Jenkins (15 page)

“Any guesses now as to what this is used for?” He looked around the room, but no one had any new theories. “It’s a flute,” he explained, smiling. He played a few notes, and the children responded excitedly.

“But it’s a very special flute. Sioux braves only use it to play music to someone they love.”

Cara’s attention shot up, but he seemed not to notice.

Chase continued by telling the class the legend of how the Lakota acquired the flute with the help of the
wagnuka,
the redheaded woodpecker who came to a lost hunter in a dream. At the end of the tale he looked out over the rapt brown faces of the children to Cara. “Suppose we pretend that Miss Henson is my
winchinchala?”

The students all giggled. They knew from the telling of the legend that the
winchinchala
was a pretty girl.

“Is that all right with you, Miss Henson?”

That he could ask such a thing with such an innocent, disarming face made all manner of retribution flash through Cara’s mind. Damn him, damn him, damn him. But she kept her composure. “That’s fine, Sergeant, go ahead.”

“Thank you, Miss Henson. Now, Indians are pretty shy, and sometimes the flute can say the things a brave cannot. . . .”

He began to play. His outstanding talent revealed
itself in the first few notes. His fingers moved over the holes with both precision and grace.

Cara’s surprise at his adeptness soon faded as she became caught up in the sound of the song. The slow, pure notes, so hauntingly filled with yearning and desire, floated in the room like a rising, melodic breeze.

His dark eyes above the instrument were for her only. Those twin dark jewels of heat, coupled with the fluid, oscillating music, touched, stroked, and seduced, making her body come alive and her lips part as the notes flowed sweetly into her core. There was no pretense in this, Cara noted. This was real. Eventually the music slowed, then stopped.

The children clapped in enthusiastic approval; for them it had been merely a pretty song. Cara used the moment to escape Chase’s scrutiny and regather her scattered senses. When she had, she stood. “Children, let’s thank the sergeant for visiting with us today.”

He received another rousing round of applause.

“Can he stay and have lunch with us, too?” asked little Rilla Walker.

“Yeah,” said someone else, “can he stay and play baseball?”

Suddenly, the small classroom echoed with competing, pleading requests that their hero remain. Cara silenced the din with one teacherly clap of her hands. She wanted Chase here no longer than absolutely necessary. The students had other hopes, however. One look around the room showed tensely waiting faces. Cara’s only hope lay in Chase’s refusing. “Children, maybe the sergeant has other plans for this afternoon. He’s been kind enough to share most of the morning with
us. We really shouldn’t impose any more on his time.”

They turned away, their disappointment obvious. The resulting silence pulled at her heart. She felt like an ogre. “All right,” she said in surrender. “If the sergeant has the time, he’d be more than welcome to stay for lunch and baseball.”

All eyes turned to the soldier. When he accepted with a smile, their joy rang to the roof.

Lunch was taken on the grassy knoll behind the school. Sophie’s staff always provided a picnic lunch on Fridays, and today’s basket held slices of succulent ham, thick edges of freshly baked bread, an assortment of fruit, and a large, cold container of Asa’s famous lemonade. Most of the children took their portions of the meal over to where Chase sat, eager for more of his stories.

After lunch had been consumed and the clean-up finished, the children ran off for a game of tag. Cara repacked Sophie’s basket.

“Need some help?”

Cara looked up from her task. “You know, Sergeant, I can hardly avoid you if you show up at my door.”

“That is a problem, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is.”

With easy grace he lowered himself to the grass beside her and lay flat on his back, letting the sun warm his face. “I’m here for the students, not for you, schoolmarm. . . .”

“And stop calling me that.” She’d never heard the word spoken so . . . so sensually. Every time he called her that, his voice did strange things to her insides.

He turned over on one elbow. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing that seeing you ride out of town wouldn’t cure.”

He sat up, and when she made a move to straighten, he stayed her with a gentle hand on her arm. “You really are upset.”

“Yes, I am. First you tell me to keep my distance, lest you be forced to marry me, and today you show up here and seduce me in front of my students.”

Chase hid his smile. “Is that what I did, seduce you?”

“Yes—I mean, no!”

Again she tried to rise, but he kept her near. “You and your damn
siyotanka,”
she added accusingly.

“Would it make a difference if I told you I’ve never played it for any other woman before?”

“No,” she lied.

Chase smiled. Lord, she was tough. When he left the day after tomorrow, he’d miss her a great deal.

“I have to see about the children,” she told him. He didn’t try and stop her this time, so she wasted little effort putting a fair amount of distance between them.

Friday afternoons were reserved for baseball, a game Cara loved as much as the students did. Usually she made sure the teams were evenly divided by ability, with Cara pitching for both teams. Today the teams were split up by gender, boys and girls. Cara played on the girls’ side, boys on Chase’s team. Cara stood with the rag- and twine-wrapped ball in hand waiting for the striker to get ready for the pitch. It was the last inning, with the girls ahead by two runs. The boys’ team had two outs but all three bases had a screaming, cheering boy chomping at the bit to score. And Chase was up to bat.

Preparing to pitch, Cara looked back at her girls. They seemed ready, their faces a study in concentration. One more out and they’d win. She slowly swung her attention back to the waiting striker. He, too, had a face serious with concentration. She’d made him strike out twice already today. Did she have the skill to do it one final time? “Are you going to be able to hit one this time, Sergeant?” she called to him sweetly.

“Just throw the ball, schoolmarm,” he growled.

So she did. The pitch came in belt-high and blazing. Chase swung, and this time the force of the wood slat meeting the ball echoed loudly and sent the ball sailing over the heads of the girls in the field. Chase took off for a tour of the bases, while the girls took off to find the ball. Retrieval came too late. First the other boys scored, then Chase touched home. The grin he shot her made her laugh. She held no grudges. His team had beaten hers fair and square.

After the game Cara rounded up her students and their honored guest for the return to the school. The day was over.

Cara’s assignment homework drew groans, but the students gathered up their belongings, then lined up to share a final farewell handshake with Chase. Five minutes later, they ran out of school, yelling into the freedom of the sunshine.

When the last one disappeared, Cara turned to Chase. “Today meant a lot to them. Thank you for keeping your promise.”

“They’re a good bunch,” he replied. “Where in the world did you learn to pitch such a wicked ball?”

“Not wicked enough,” she corrected, remembering how he’d won the game. “My friend William taught me at Oberlin. It’s quite the pastime back
East.” She noticed the rewrapped
siyotanka
on the desk. “Where did you learn to play the flute?”

“I played life for a unit back in Philadelphia when I was young. The transition to Sioux flute was simple after Dreamer showed me the fingering.”

“Dreamer is the Sioux brave you told us about today?”

“Yes, I met him during those years in Philadelphia.”

“There are Indians in Philadelphia?”

“Probably. But he lives in Dakota Territory. His father sent Dreamer and his sister, Eyes Black As Raven, back East for schooling.”

“How’d you meet him?”

“In a fight one day on the street.”

Cara looked up, surprised.

“You remind me of him in some ways. He likes to cause a ruckus wherever he goes also.”

“Get on with the story,” Cara cracked.

He chuckled. “I came around a corner one day and saw Dreamer getting the tar beat out of him by four locals. I stepped in to even the odds. We’ve been friends ever since.”

“Did you know him before that?”

“Nope.”

“Then why did you join in?”

“He needed the help.”

“What were they fighting about?”

“Whether the locals were going to continue to call his sister ‘dirty squaw.’ ”

Cara nodded her understanding. She thought Chase would be a good friend: loyal, fearless. She remembered the way he’d taken on that brute with the horses back in Topeka. A better friend than lover, she thought regretfully. “You seem to know a lot about Indians.”

“Dreamer’s fault. He said a soldier posted in the West had an obligation to learn, and he’s right. The government doesn’t agree, however. If they feign ignorance, they don’t have to acknowledge land claims or honor treaties or see to it that those captive in reservations are provided the basics like food and shelter. After all, they’re just savages. But we owe the native peoples a lot. Most of the roads in the country are based on trails they blazed hundreds of years ago. All those so-called explorers who were going around discovering everything would still be standing on the dock if the Indians hadn’t shown them around. Canoes. Corn. Dreamer says his brethren on the East Coast should have let those first Pilgrims starve. Would’ve saved everyone a lot of grief.”

“Are his people suffering very much?”

“Yes. We’re seeing the end of an era. A way of life is being wiped out right before your eyes, and no one cares because, after all, they’re just savages.”

Cara could almost touch the bitterness in his voice. No one she knew spoke of Indians with such passion. She glanced over to the now rewrapped
siyotanka
on her desk. She could still feel and hear its compelling tones. “Despite what I said outside, it’s very beautiful. How long have you had it?”

“Let’s see, probably, nine, ten years. It was a gift from Dreamer’s father. Told me I might need it someday.”

Their eyes held for a long spark-filled moment. Cara’s attractions to him seemed to be growing stronger, and she had no idea how much longer her defenses would hold. She wanted to share all with this man because no other like him would ever cross her life’s path again. That shocking admission
made her turn away and direct her attention to something less volatile. She busied herself with rearranging the array of papers crowding the desktop.

Chase was finding that no matter the moment, location, or circumstance, every time he came near her he wanted to touch her, kiss her. Considering that their futures would never intertwine because of the career he’d chosen, he found the depth of his urge not only irrational but also a bit frightening. Why couldn’t he simply walk away, forget her? No woman before had ever sent him through such a maze of uncharted territory.

Still fussing over the desk to keep from throwing herself into his arms, Cara gave him a quick glance and met the inferno burning deep in his eyes. She shimmered in the heat, swallowing in a suddenly dry throat, while
mariposas
took flight in her blood.

“Cara, you’re a teacher. Explain to me why I want to make love to you whenever we’re together. I’ve been trying to be a gentleman about this, but it’s hard . . . damn hard.”

Cara rippled in response, the heat of him beginning to weaken her will. She tried to deny herself and him. “Chase, it’s getting late. . . .”

He slid from the desk and came over to where she stood behind the desk. He stopped less than a breath away, and lifted her silent face to his eyes. “Never in my life have I ever met a woman like you.”

In the charged seconds following his murmured declaration, Cara trembled as he continued to view her with a brilliant hunger. Their last interlude came back in a rush, and though she tried to thrust the images away, just the warm, firm pressure of his hand beneath her chin made her pulse
beat loud in her throat. He lowered his head to brush his lips oh so fleetingly against her own before pleasuring her with a kiss that put a sweet weakness in her knees.

“I want to see you tonight.”

“You wanted me to stay away.”

“I lied.”

He gathered her in and the kiss deepened, plunging her into a dazed and hazy state of being. The world and reality could not compete with the intoxicating pressure of his lips or the heat of his palms roaming slow patterns over her back and waist. Cara felt drunk, disembodied. She shuddered as he left her mouth to trail caresses down the fevered skin of her neck and slid his hands boldly over her hips, instilling a blissful ache.

“Say you’ll have dinner with me, Cara, and I’ll go.”

She didn’t want him to go. Last night she’d been unaware of just how powerful desire could be. Today she embraced it gladly, openly. She didn’t protest when he undid the first few buttons of her shirtwaist and kissed the skin he bared with a tenderness that made her moan. His hands caressed her breasts, plying the nipples until they tightened with begging response. He moved aside the flimsy cotton camisole and flicked his tongue against the bud he’d already prepared. He feasted then, gently, passionately, and Cara’s world began to soar.

The rumbling sounds of a buckboard passing by outside reawakened reality and Cara pulled back, breathless and shaken with wanting. His brilliant gaze held such burning passion she had to look away, her hand moving to still the wildly throbbing pulse at the base of her bared throat. Turning away did not help. The exposed skin over the
pulse point still held traces of the dew left by his tongue. The dampness reignited her flaming senses. She closed her eyes as wanton response spiraled anew. No man had the right to wield such power over a woman, she thought. No man. Especially one riding out of her life in less than forty-eight hours.

The sounds of the buckboard faded off into the distance, leaving the classroom silent.