Reckless Desire (24 page)

A hoarse cry aroused Mary from a deep sleep. Opening her eyes, she stared at the hide walls and then, remembering where she was, she sat up, looking for Cloud Walker.

He was squatting beside his mother’s bed, his head bowed. As Mary watched, he took a knife from his belt and slashed his forearms. Mary stared in horror as the blood dripped from the shallow cuts. Singing Bird was dead.

After a long time, Cloud Walker stood up. Lifting his knife, he hacked off his long hair until it was only shoulder length. Only then did he notice that Mary was awake.

“She is dead,” he said tonelessly.

“I’m sorry.”

Cloud Walker nodded. “I wish to bury her according to our customs. I do not want the whites to put her in the ground. Will you help me?”

“Yes, of course.”

“There is a needle and thread in that basket,” he said, pointing to a small brown basket near the doorway. “Can you sew a blanket around her?”

Mary nodded.

“I am going out to find a horse to carry her.” Cloud Walker paused in the doorway. “Will you be all right here alone?”

“Yes.”

For the next half hour, Mary sewed a shroud for Singing Bird. She tried not to think of the frail body within the blanket’s folds, tried not to remember that fine, old woman had been alive only a short time ago. When Cloud Walker returned, Mary had finished her tusk.

“Let us go,” Cloud Walker said. “It is early and only a few of the people are awake. We must go before the soldiers see us.”

Nodding, Mary quickly pulled on her shoes and gathered their gear together. Cloud Walker carried his mother’s body outside and draped it over the back of a scrawny gray gelding. After helping Mary onto the back of her horse, he swung up behind the blanket-draped body of his mother and rode away from the lodge toward a distant hill that was thick with timber. Mary followed, leading Cloud Walker’s mount.

It was late afternoon when they reached the hill. Cloud Walker urged his horse steadily upward until he found a large tree with several sturdy lower branches. Dismounting, he lifted his mother’s body from the back of the gelding and placed it in the fork of the tree, high enough off the ground to be safe from wolves and coyotes.

Throwing back his head, he let out a long wail that Mary recognized as the Cheyenne death song. Then, drawing his knife, he dragged the edge of the blade across his cheeks and chest.

“Hear me, Man Above,” he cried. “Guide my mother’s spirit safely across the sky to the afterworld.”

Woodenly, he placed a small gourd of water at the foot of the tree, that she might have something to drink on her long journey. A small sack of corn meal was placed beside the water, that she might not hunger. A favorite shawl was folded at her feet to turn away the chill of the night. Lastly, Cloud Walker killed the scrawny gelding so that Singing Bird might have a horse to carry her on the long journey to the world of spirits.

Mary watched through eyes filled with tears. And as she wept, she seemed to feel the spirits of all her Indian ancestors gather around her, lending her strength and support for whatever lay ahead in the days to come.

Cloud Walker remained near his mother’s body for nearly an hour, his arms raised in silent prayer.

Mary gazed at his face, as hard and unyielding as if it had been carved from stone. She looked at the blood drying on his face and arms and chest, and she knew suddenly why the Indians cut their hair and slashed their flesh. It was a way of expressing a grief that could not be put into words, a hope that, in causing themselves physical pain, they might find relief from the pain in their hearts.

They were quiet as they rode down the hill and away from the reservation. Mary felt as though she knew who and what she was for the first time in her life, and she wondered if she would ever have been truly happy with Frank. He would never understand who she was, what she was. How long would she have been able to stay in Chicago, away from the endless prairie, away from the land that was in her blood? She belonged here, in this place where her ancestors had lived and fought and died. This was where she wanted to be, where she wanted to raise her daughter.

Cloud Walker’s thoughts were melancholy as they left the reservation far behind. Looking down the corridors of time, he recalled the days of his youth when Singing Bird had been a young woman. He had adored his mother. She had made much of his first kill, dressing the rabbit and serving it with a flourish. After his father died, she often told him stories of Tasunke Hinzi, of his bravery and cunning. Cloud Walker’s only memories of his father were of what he had heard from his mother. She had been a remarkable woman, able to make life fun even when they were forced to live on the reservation. He had hated the reservation, hated the soldiers who patrolled the boundaries. Singing Bird had made up games and stories and refused to let him be discouraged. She was always certain that things would get better, always hopeful when they did not.

Cloud Walker smiled faintly as he pictured his parents together again at last, walking hand in hand in a sunny meadow in the world of spirits. Life and death were but two sides of the same hide, his mother had been fond of saying. Death was nothing to fear. It was simply birth into a new life, a life that would last forever.

Mary was somewhat surprised when Cloud Walker reached for her that night. She had not expected him to want to make love to her so soon after his mother’s death, but he was eager for her touch. Their love was a symbol of life renewing itself, their union a token of hope for the future. Cloud Walker made love to Mary gently, tenderly, his hands warm and adoring, his eyes alight with an inner fire as his hands stroked her silken flesh. She was Woman, giver of life and comfort, and only in her arms could he find balm for his sorrow, relief from his pain. The warmth of her womanhood surrounded him and he emptied his life into her, praying that Maheo would bless them with a son.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Shadow and I were sitting in the kitchen playing poker when Mary came home. I had only to look at my daughter’s face to know that she and Cloud Walker had finally shared the love they felt for one another. Glancing at Shadow, I saw that he was also aware of the step they had taken.

“Welcome home,” I said, rising to give Mary a hug. “How was your trip?”

“Fine. But Cloud Walker’s mother passed away while we were there.”

“She was a good woman,” Shadow remarked gravely. “I remember one time when the Pawnee attacked our village. Cloud Walker’s father was away hunting, so Singing Bird picked up a war lance and his shield and defended their lodge. She killed a Pawnee warrior.” Shadow smiled. “Tasunke Hinzi was surprised to see his wife at the scalp dance the following night. He gave her a coup feather to wear in her hair.” Shadow laughed. “He was proud, but a little upset that she had used his best lance and ruined his medicine. Finally he gave the lance to her for a souvenir and made himself another.”

“I think I would have liked her,” Mary said. “I wish I could have known her better.” She ran a hand through her hair. “I need to wash up. Is Katherine asleep?”

“Yes, but she should be awake soon.”

“Did she give you any trouble?”

“Goodness, no,” I assured Mary. “That child is never any trouble. Dinner will be ready in about an hour, so you have time to take a nap if you need to.”

“Thank you,
nahkoa
.”

With a sigh, I sat down again. Mary gave Shadow a kiss on the cheek and then went to her room.

“Well,” I said dryly, “we knew it was just a matter of time.”

Shadow nodded. “I am surprised they managed to wait this long.”

“It’s hard to be young and in love,” I murmured. “Remember?”

Shadow reached over and squeezed my hand, his smile warming my heart. “I remember. You did not mention Frank’s letter.”

“I know. I thought I’d wait until after dinner. I just know it’s bad news.”

Mary’s face turned pale as she read Frank’s letter. “He says he wants me back,” Mary said tonelessly. “He says he’s sorry and wants to try again, and that if I refuse he’ll take me to court for custody of Katherine. He says she’s his daughter and he has a right to see her at least half the year.”

“That bastard,” Shadow said coldly.

“What am I going to do?” Mary asked. “You know he doesn’t want Katherine. He doesn’t care about her at all.”

“He obviously wants you back quite badly,” I mused, shaking my head. “Bad enough to blackmail you into coming home.”

“It isn’t fair,” Mary exclaimed angrily. “I can’t fight Frank in court. He’s got money and position and a mansion! And friends in high places back in Chicago. I know he’ll take Katherine away from me just for spite.”

Shadow took Mary in his arms as she began to weep. “I think you should go back to Chicago,” he suggested. “I think you and Frank need to talk. Perhaps you can work things out between you. If not, you will be no worse off than you are now.”

“But I don’t want to go back to Chicago,” Mary wailed unhappily. “I want to stay here. I want to stay with Cloud Walker.” Mary lifted her head and turned imploring eyes on her father. “I love him,
neyho
. I can’t go back to Frank. I just can’t.”

“I think your father’s right,” I said. “Why don’t you write Frank and tell him you’ll come home when the snow melts? Maybe he’ll change his mind between now and then.”

Cloud Walker was furious when he heard about Frank Smythe’s letter. He threatened to go to Chicago and cut out Frank’s heart. He ranted and raved and stormed through the house, and when he finally calmed down, he admitted that the best thing for Mary to do was to go back to Chicago and try to convince Frank to give her a divorce.

Mary and Cloud Walker spent every spare moment together. They took Katherine for walks in the snow, they sat together on the sofa in the evening, quietly spinning dreams of a time when they could be together, just the three of them. Sometimes Mary and Cloud Walker took long rides along the river, sometimes they spent the night in Cloud Walker’s lodge.

I did not judge my daughter, though my thoughts were divided. I did not like to think of her being unfaithful to her husband, yet I could not fault her for wanting to be with the man she loved. Love was such a fragile thing, so hard to find, so hard to hold.

Mary nestled in Cloud Walker’s arms. It was cozy inside the lodge. A fire burned brightly, sending long orange shadows dancing across the lodgeskins.

She gazed at Cloud Walker’s beloved face. This was to be their last night together before she left for Chicago, and she wanted it to be perfect, a night she could treasure the rest of her life. She closed her eyes as Cloud Walker lowered his head, his lips nuzzling her neck, the sensitive area just behind her ear, the curve of her cheek. Lifting her hand, she cupped the back of his neck, drawing him closer.

“Mary.” He murmured her name as he kissed her forehead, her eyes, the tip of her nose.

“More,” she whispered, and he slanted his mouth over hers, kissing her hungrily, his hands playing over her back and shoulders. Gently he carried her down to the ground, one hand molding her body to his so that they were touching from head to heel.

“Mary.” His voice was low and husky, thick with emotion. “I cannot let you go.”

“Please,” Mary murmured, placing her hand over his mouth. “You promised we wouldn’t speak of it tonight.”

Cloud Walker placed his hand over hers and kissed her fingertips, his eyes silently begging her to stay.

“I have to go,” Mary said, pleading with him to make it easy for her. “You know that.”

Cloud Walker nodded. He
did
know. And he understood. But deep in the back of his mind, lurking in bitter shame, was the thought that if Katherine had never been born, Frank Smythe would have no hold over Mary. He banished the thought as soon as it surfaced, for he loved Mary’s daughter dearly. But, oh, he loved Mary so much more.

Mary lifted her hand to his face, her heart swelling with tenderness as her fingers traced each hard line and angle from his straight black brows, down his hawk-like nose, to the strong square jaw. He was so beautiful, and she loved him so much. He was everything she had ever dreamed of, everything she had hoped Frank would be, and wasn’t.

“Love me,” she begged, drawing his head down toward hers. “Love me now.”

Cloud Walker needed no further urging. His arms tightened around her waist and his mouth slanted over hers. Mary gloried in his kiss. Reason told her it was wrong to let Cloud Walker love her when she belonged to another, but in her heart she knew it was right, and she returned his kisses passionately, desperately, knowing that these few precious moments would be their last. Her eyes moved softly over his face, loving the way his eyes burned with a fierce inner flame, reveling in his hard-muscled frame. He was every inch a male, rugged, virile, beautiful. How could she leave him? How could she go back to Chicago without knowing if she would ever feel Cloud Walker’s arms around her again, ever feel his skin brushing against her own, his kisses branding her lips? How long would it be before she again experienced the ecstasy she found only in his arms?

They clung to each other, every touch and kiss bespeaking their love for each other. Cloud Walker yearned to beg Mary not to go back to Frank, but he bit off the words, knowing they would only cause her pain. His hands wandered over her flesh, delighting in her softness, the velvety texture of her flat belly. He knew every inch of her body as he knew his own. Her softness molded to his touch, her breath quickened as his lips moved over her face and breasts and belly, trailing fire, until she writhed beneath him. Her hands clutched his hard-muscled flesh, sliding down his arms. Her fingernails raked his back as she urged him on, her hips arching forward, enticing him.

And still he held back, wanting to prolong the moment, to savor this last night in her arms. Lifting himself on his elbows, he gazed down into her face. Her eyes were cloudy with passion, her lips slightly parted, her skin flushed and moist. The firelight cast golden shadows over her face and hair and his heart swelled with such love it was almost painful. Gently he kissed her forehead, her cheeks, the curve of her throat, until, unable to restrain his passion any longer, he thrust into her, making them one flesh. For this one moment she belonged to him, body and soul, in a way she would never belong to Frank Smythe. The thought gave Cloud Walker a bitter sense of satisfaction. Frank might be Mary’s husband, but he would never have her heart or her love.