Reckless Desire (31 page)

The following day, Hannah received a wire from Mattie Smythe asking if she had seen Frank and Mary.

“What are we going to do?” Mary asked, showing Cloud Walker the newspaper and the wire that evening.

“I do not know.” The trouble he had foreseen was bearing down on them, he thought bleakly, and he was powerless to stop it. He would have to face the white man’s law, or make a run for it. Either way, Mary would be lost to him.

Murmuring her name, he gathered her into his arms and held her tight, his lips moving in her hair. He wished he could tell her how much he loved her, how very dear and precious she was to him, but the words seemed inadequate. Instead, he cupped her face in his hands, his thumbs gently massaging her cheeks, his dark eyes gazing tenderly into hers. And then he kissed her with all the love and need in his heart.

Mary closed her eyes as Cloud Walker’s lips finished hers. Her stomach began to flutter and her whole body grew warm and tingly as Cloud Walker’s hands moved slowly downward, caressing her arms mid shoulders, then sliding down her ribcage to stroke her buttocks and thighs. Mary swayed against him, the newspaper dropping from her hand, everything rise forgotten as she swayed against him, eager for his touch, for the fulfillment only he could offer.

With a low groan of desire, Cloud Walker carried her to their sleeping robes and there he made love to her, slowly, tenderly, his hands and lips trailing fire, his eyes dark with adoration as he kissed each silken inch of honeyed flesh.

“
Ne-mehotatse
, Mary,” he murmured.

“
Ne-mehotatse
,” she breathed softly, and then sighed as he cupped her breast in his hand, rubbing his thumb over the taut pink bud.

She felt his breath, warm upon her skin, as he began kissing her again, making it hard for her to breathe. She spread her hands across his chest, feeling the heat generated by his body. The present mingled with the spell of remembered passion, the one feeding on the other as his mouth slanted over hers. Her lips parted under the pressure of his kiss, her tongue meeting his, causing timeless sensations to swirl like liquid fire to the very center of her being, filling her with an age-old need that only he could satisfy. She closed her eyes as his life filled her with sweet warmth and contentment.

A gentle rap on the wall of the lodge roused Cloud Walker. Rising, he lifted the lodge flap to see Hawk standing outside.

“What is it?” Cloud Walker asked. But he knew. In the back of his mind, he knew.

“I was in town this evening. There is a man asking about you. He has the look of a lawman, though I did not see a badge.”

Cloud Walker nodded. He had been expecting something like this for days.

“What are you going to do?” Hawk asked.

Cloud Walker shook his head. He could not bear the thought of leaving Mary, could not give himself up if it meant prison or the hangman.

“What is it?” Mary asked, pulling a blanket around her and coming to stand beside Cloud Walker. Her face turned ashen as Hawk explained.

“We’ve got to get out of here,” Mary said urgently. “Now. Does
neyho
know about this?”

“Not yet,” Hawk answered. “I came here first.”

While they stood deciding what to do, the sound of hoofbeats reverberated through the night. Mary held her breath, her eyes and ears straining toward the front of her parents’ house as the horse came to a halt.

“We’ve got to go,” she said, and began to dress.

“I will stall as long as I can,” Hawk said. “Take my horse.”

Things were moving too fast, Cloud Walker thought, but at Mary’s urging, he quickly slipped on his buckskins and they left the lodge. Mounting Hawk’s horse, they rode away from the house.

It was madness to run, Cloud Walker mused bleakly. Winter was coming and Mary was pregnant. But in his mind he could hear the sound of hoofbeats coming from behind like the echo of doom.

“Hurry,” Mary whispered, and Cloud Walker urged the horse into a gallop, guiding the animal through the darkness with the familiarity of a man who knew the land as he knew his own name.

Cloud Walker reined the horse toward the river crossing, felt Mary shiver as the cool spray kicked up by the horse washed over them. When they cleared the opposite bank, he urged the horse into a lope.

Mary clung to Cloud Walker, her eyes closed, her face buried in his back. She shivered uncontrollably, chilled by the cold night air and by the fear that gripped her heart. Even in death, Frank would not let her go.

They rode for hours, now at a gallop, now at a walk to rest the horse. She knew, without asking, that Cloud Walker was heading for the Black Hills, onetime home of the Sioux and Cheyenne.

They traveled for days, hiding out when the sun rode the sky, traveling beneath the moon and the stars. It was eerie, crossing the endless prairie in the dark, never seeing another human being, listening to the coyotes serenade the night. She felt a new pride in her husband as they journeyed toward their destination, not only for his courage, but for his cunning. He had managed to steal a horse for her to ride, as well as a couple of blankets and a rifle. She had not asked where he managed to find such necessities.

At any other time she would have been appalled that her husband was stealing, but not now, not when it was a matter of life and death. She would have committed the thefts herself to save Cloud Walker.

She felt his eyes on her face, and she turned and smiled at him. He was worried about her, she knew, and she was careful never to complain about the cold or the long hours they spent in the saddle. She did not tell him how her back ached, or how utterly weary she was when they bedded down. Instead, she assured him that she was fine, just fine.

She marveled at his ability to find water and shelter, at his skill in finding game. They never wanted for food or water, and she never wanted for his love. Indeed, she had never felt so loved or so protected in her life. Whatever the future held, she was confident that Cloud Walker could handle it.

* * * * *

Cloud Walker drew his weary horse to a halt, his heart beating fast as he gazed at the steep gorge that was the entrance to Hell Canyon. Generations of his people had wintered here, finding shelter from the harsh winter of the plains.

Turning in the saddle, he smiled reassuringly at Mary. She had not complained once on their long journey, but he saw the weariness in her eyes, in the slight hollows of her cheeks, in the way she often pressed her hand to her back.

“We’ll be there in a few minutes,” he said, and Mary nodded, too tired to speak.

Cloud Walker sensed the spirits of his ancestors as he guided his horse through the gap between the high, narrow walls. It was a rugged but beautiful land. Ponderosa pines and mountain cedars swayed in the night wind that blew softly through the canyon. A tiny creek bed meandered through the rugged landscape and rocks that littered the canyon floor. The cry of a coyote sounded from the cliffs. There were elk here, bobcats and black bears, mountain lions and eagles, deer and rabbits. They would not want for food.

Cloud Walker drew rein in the lee of a high canyon wall. In the moonlight he could barely make out the symbols and pictures that had been etched by his ancestors many years ago. The pictures recorded a part of their history, as well as showing the way to convenient campsites and water holes and buried caches of food and supplies. Later, perhaps he would explore some of the ancient campsites, but for now he needed to look after Mary.

With gentle hands he lifted her from her horse and stood her on the ground. When she started to unload their supplies, he caught her hand.

“I will do it. You sit down. Rest.”

“I can do it,” Mary protested. She did not want him to think she was weak, did not want to be a burden.

“I know, but I will do it.”

She was too bone weary to argue. Eyes brimming with gratitude, she crawled under the covers he spread for her and was soon asleep.

Cloud Walker gazed at Mary, his dark eyes troubled. He had been wrong to bring her here. She had never lived in the wilderness, had never known hardship or deprivation. And she was pregnant. His eyes lingered on her swollen belly. His child rested there. How would Mary react when her time came and she had no woman to help her? He had delivered many mares, but never a woman. Would he know what to do? How would he live with himself if anything happened to Mary or the baby?

He shook such morbid thoughts from his mind. Unsaddling the horses, he turned them loose to forage in the canyon. He placed their supplies on a flat rock, then, using a large, flat stone, he dug a firepit. Dry wood was plentiful and he soon had a small, warm fire blazing brightly.

There was nothing else to be done until daylight. Sitting cross-legged on his blankets, he gazed at Mary, watching the firelight play in her hair, watching the shadow of the flames dance on the canyon wall. Almost, he could hear the voice of his ancestors. “Welcome home,” they seemed to say.

Chapter Thirty

It started with a fever and a sore throat, followed by weakness, an increased fever, and then the telltale sign—a tough, dirty gray membrane on the throat. It was a deadly disease and its name was diphtheria.

It spread through Bear Valley with astonishing speed, hitting nearly every family. Dr. Henderson turned the church into a hospital and worked there day and night, assisted by Chester Cole and Blackie and several women who had previous experience with nursing.

It was a terrible thing. Ruth Tippitt’s husband died. Mary Crowley’s baby died, and three days later two of her other children slipped away. Helen Sprague was one of the lucky ones; she developed a mild case and recovered, but that was rare.

I worried constantly that the disease would strike my grandchildren. I prayed day and night, beseeching the Lord to spare our little ones.

And day after day the number of crosses on our little hillside cemetery grew.

I was glad now that Mary and Cloud Walker were not here, that they would not be exposed to the dread disease. Not a day went by that I didn’t think of my daughter, wondering where she was, if she was well and happy.

We had heard no more from the lawman who had come to our house in the dark of night. He had asked if we had seen Frank Smythe, if we knew of Cloud Walker’s whereabouts. Shadow had replied that we hadn’t seen Frank Smythe in months and that Cloud Walker was not in the house. The lawman had stared at Shadow for a long time, and then asked if he could search the house, and then had gone outside and searched the lodge and the barn. Finally he had ridden away toward the river crossing. Hawk had materialized out of the shadows after the lawman took his leave.

“They have gone,” he had said quietly, and Shadow had nodded, his eyes gazing off into the distance across the river.

“Where would they go?” I had asked.

“Who can say?” Shadow had replied with a shrug. “There is a lot of country out there, hills and valleys where a man could hide and never be found.”

Never be found
. Those words haunted me. Mary and Cloud Walker could be killed and we would never know it.

But my immediate concern was for Blackie and the awful disease that was decimating Bear Valley’s population. He came home at night bone weary. Sometimes he was too tired to eat and fell into bed still dressed. I worried about him continually, but he insisted that Dr. Henderson and Dr. Cole needed his help, and I couldn’t keep him at home.

As the days went by, we heard of whole families succumbing to the disease. Daily Victoria swabbed the throats of the twins with iodine. She kept them inside the house, fed them well, made sure they got plenty of sleep. I don’t know if that’s what kept my grandsons healthy, or if it was the fact that we lived a good distance from town, but our family remained untouched.

The Reverend Brighton and Lydia worked long hours as well, comforting the sick, consoling the bereaved. Shadow refused to let me go into town to help, but I made large pots of soup and broth for the sick, and offered many prayers in their behalf.

And then Blackie got sick. He came home late one night complaining of a sore throat, and I knew that what I had been dreading all along had come to pass. My youngest son had diphtheria.

His fever rose moment by moment, or so it seemed, and I was in a constant state of fear. I bathed him with cool water, forced him to swallow as much liquid as he could hold, spooned the medicine into him that the doctor sent. Nothing seemed to help.

From the beginning, Blackie knew how sick he was. He had seen enough people die from the disease to know it was usually fatal.

“Do not be sad,
nahkoa
,” he said late one night. It was difficult for him to speak, but he went doggedly on. “I am not afraid to die.”

“I know you’re not,” I replied, blinking back my tears. “You’ve always been a brave young man.”

“Not so brave as Hawk,” Blackie remarked wistfully. “I do not think I would have courage enough to endure the Sun Dance, as he did.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“I think it matters to my father. Do you think he is disappointed in me?”

“I have never been disappointed in you,” Shadow said as he stepped into the room. “You have always made my heart proud.” Shadow smiled at his son. “In the old days you would have been a great shaman among the People. To be able to heal is better than being a warrior. Anyone can take a life. Only a few can restore it.”

Blackie smiled faintly, pleased by his father’s praise. And then his eyelids fluttered down and he was asleep.

Shadow took a seat beside Blackie’s bed, his handsome face drawn and haggard, his dark eyes stained with tears. Blackie was our youngest, our baby. We had always spoiled him a little because he was our last.

I sat across from my husband, remembering the day our son had been born. Blackie’s birth had been difficult and I had been alone in the house when my labor began. After several hours had passed, I knew something was wrong and began to be afraid. I pushed and strained, but the child would not come, and as I lay there, unable to expel the baby from my womb, I had imagined that death was all around me. I had seen him lurking in the dark corners of the room, watching me. I had been certain I was going to die, but then Shadow had come home. His voice had stilled my fears and he had delivered Blackie as competently as any doctor could have done. Our eyes had met as Shadow held the baby in his arms. Whose child was it? Shadow’s, or Joshua Berdeen’s? There was no way to be certain. “
It does not matter who fathered the child
,” Shadow had said as he placed my son in my arms. “
From this day forward, he will be my son, and I will be his father.
”