The Bride Wore Feathers (28 page)

Jacob's eyes narrowed, and his mouth spread into a long grim line. "Dress yourself in this." He pointed to the bundle he'd dropped, adding in an icy tone, "You will find travel and work more comfortable. Put it on now. Soon you and I will take food with the others." Then he turned and stepped out of the tipi.

Dominique's heart constricted. She started after him, abruptly pulling up when she reached the opening. Looking out through the flap, she watched his retreating back, saw the other warriors greeting him and slapping his strong shoulders. He was out of her reach now, out of her world. Her sobs returned as she whispered, "I didn't mean it, Jacob. Really I didn't. I just want to go home."

But he couldn't hear her, couldn't hear anything but the dull beating of his heavy heart. He, not Dominique, was the crazy one, he muttered to himself. What ever had made him think she could be happy here, that she could adjust to life in the village?

Jacob announced himself as he approached the medicine lodge, then stepped inside for treatment of his wounds. When he emerged several minutes later, his injuries were soothed, but his heart still ached. What could he do? When would his mind ever rest again? Knowing the answer to that question had something to do with Dominique, unwilling to see just what that answer would lead him to do, Jacob pinched the angry cut slicing into his biceps and gave his mind something else to think about.

His arm still throbbing, he reached the flap of his tipi, and called out, "Are you dressed? We must take our meal with the others now."

"I'm not coming outside in this."

Jacob blew out a sigh and tore open the flap. She stood near the entrance. With a quick movement, he reached inside and grabbed her arm. "You stretch my patience as if it were the hide you tanned. Let us eat." Then he jerked her outside.

"Jacob." Horrified, Dominique tore free of his grip, then bent at the waist. She crossed her hands in front of her knees and looked around. "Are you insane? I can't be seen in this."

"I don't understand." He stood back, studying the dress, appreciating the intriguing body beneath it, then shrugged. "You look beautiful. You must also be more comfortable. Come. Let us eat."

"Jacob, I can't. This dress doesn't even cover my knees."

"It covers all it needs to. Look around—you show no more than the other women."

"But I'm not like the other women. They are, well, they're Indians. I, on the other hand"—she raised her chin a notch—"am a lady. I simply cannot show my arms and legs, especially in front of you."

Jacob stood back and crossed his arms over his chest. Spreading his legs, he began a slow, lazy grin, saying with his eyes what he didn't dare speak in words.

It took Dominique only a moment to read the message. He'd already seen her legs—and much, much more. She thought back to the night in his tipi, the frozen encounter that seemed so long ago, and remembered how the heat from his naked body had brought life back to hers. He knew her almost as intimately as a husband. She closed her eyes and shuddered at the vivid memory, then fought the blush rising up from her breasts.

"Come, now," he encouraged softly. "My friends will be so fascinated with your hair, they will not even notice your legs."

Unable to meet his gaze as images of their first meeting continued to appear in her mind, Dominique allowed him to lead her to the campfire. When he said to sit, she dropped to the ground, tucked her legs beneath her, and took the bowl of food he offered. She did all of this dutifully, without so much as a glance at him or at the other savages gathered around the fire ring.

"Dominique," he said under his breath as he sat cross- legged beside her. "Look up. Greet my people with a smile."

Lifting her lashes ever so slowly, Dominique glanced around at his companions and offered a short nod before she dropped her gaze back to her lap. A few women remained, apparently waiting for a good look at the curious white slave. All of them stared at her as if she were some kind of freak. Then one by one, they faded back to their own lodges, no longer interested in the stranger. Spotted Feather stayed, spearing Dominique with an angry glance every time she got the chance.

"Eat your stew," said Jacob, keeping one eye on the warriors. To a man, they stared openly at Dominique, displaying an interest that went far beyond curiosity. He was going to have to make some decisions soon, lay down some rules, and try to make his friends understand that this white woman could not be community property.

"Jacob," Dominique whispered under her breath as she stared down into the bowl, "what's in this?"

"It is harmless. A little buffalo meat, some wild peas, and a root called prairie turnips. Stew. It is good."

Cautiously, she lifted the container to her mouth and took a small sip. The flavor, while nothing fancy, was surprisingly good. She tilted the bowl and captured a piece of meat with her tongue, then noticed the heated gaze of one of the warriors sitting near her. She chewed her food, never taking her eyes off the aggressive Indian, then whispered to Jacob. "I don't like the way your friend is staring at me. Make him stop it."

"Do not look at him." Jacob glared at Chatanna, knowing he would try to do a lot more than stare at the golden vision the next time opportunity struck. Would Gall be able to prevent the inevitable? Did he even have the right to ask his brothers to forgo taking what they felt was their right? Beside him, Dominique squirmed, nudging him with her complaints.

"Forget Chatanna and eat. He means no harm," Jacob lied, hoping to ease her fears, even if he couldn't relieve his own. "You will soon feel at home."

Unable to play the obedient captive any longer, Dominique slammed her bowl on the ground and turned on him. "Never. I could never feel at home under these barbaric conditions, and I cannot survive eating this slop."

"Then don't eat," he snapped back, his anxiety beginning in earnest, his patience at an end. "Starve to death if you wish. It no longer matters to me."

Turning his back to her, Jacob began to stuff chunks of buffalo meat in his mouth, swallowing them along with the lump in his throat. When he finished his meal, he jerked her to her feet in spite of her unfinished supper, then marched her back to his tipi.

"Stay in here and go to sleep. Do not come outside again tonight." Dominique opened her mouth, but Jacob closed it with a well-placed finger. "We'll speak no more this night. Do as I say and you will be safe."

Then he closed the flap and headed for the warriors' lodge. He'd run out of time, used up nearly all of his options. And he couldn't go on like this. As long as Dominique was in camp, as long as his friends expected to have what was rightfully theirs, he could not complete his mission. His concentration—the considerable lack of it since he'd met the crazy one—would soon become a problem, if it hadn't already. His full attention was crucial to the Lakota survival. Jacob could think of only one way to regain the concentration he so badly needed.

The time had come to take some drastic measures.

Chapter 13

Jacob looked across the dying fire and into the eyes of his father, Gall. He continued trying to put into words that which he really couldn't explain. "But, Father, you saw her hands. You know what the other women have forced her to do. The crazy one is too young to tan hides. That is a job for old women. What else will they make her do if you and I cannot protect her in some way?"

The wise chief regarded his white son a long moment before he spoke. "I agree she has been treated badly, especially by the one who would hope to be yours, but I believe there is something more here. Something that has nothing to do with the other warriors or this white woman's wrinkled hands. Speak to me of it now, or this council is over and we shall not mention the crazy one again."

Jacob drew a long breath and stared into the flickering embers. How much should he confess? Would a complete explanation garner his father's understanding or earn his disdain? Too much discussion of Dominique, of her family, and of the reasons for her visit, would bring up the Custer name. Jacob didn't need his imagination to know what the council would do with that information. He suppressed a shudder and settled on a half-truth, taking the only option he knew would be respected and, he hoped, understood by all.

"I wish to have the crazy one as my woman alone. I ask for your permission to marry her."

"Ah." Chief Gall nodded, as if he'd been expecting the announcement. "I feared this change in you. I suspected once you were returned to the people of your birth, you might wish to become one of them again."

"No, Father. That's not it at all. I spit on the soldiers and what they stand for. My feelings for Dominique have nothing to do with her white skin." He flattened his palm and pressed it against his chest. "They have to do with what I feel in here."

Again the chief nodded. Gall took a long pull on his pipe and closed his eyes as he thought back to long ago. Then he asked, "Are these feelings like those you had for Lame Fawn?"

Jacob expelled his breath in a low groan. He should have been expecting the question. It was honest enough, especially coming from the chief of the Hunkpapa. It was only natural that Gall would want to know if Jacob felt the same love for Dominique that he'd once had for the woman he'd taken as his wife. What was his answer?

No.
Surprised—not by the thought, but by the rationale behind it—Jacob averted his gaze so Gall couldn't see the confusion and the surge of insight flickering in his eyes. Where was the pain he used to feel whenever he thought of his days with Lame Fawn? He'd used that pain, the sense of emptiness, over the last four winters as a kind of punishment for the part he'd played in her premature death. Now it was gone, save for the remnants of a guilt he would never shake.

But what of love? Why had his mind instinctively told him this new love was nothing like the love he'd had for Lame Fawn? His feelings for the Indian maiden had been deep, but never filled with the intensity of those he had for Dominique. This niece of Custer was constantly in his mind. She rendered him nearly helpless, with a loss of control so complete that at times it terrified him. Life and love with his wife had always been quiet and dignified, a simple thing. With the crazy one, he was in constant turmoil, either wildly happy or insanely angry. He couldn't even imagine what life would be like as her husband. Suddenly he couldn't wait to find out.

Choosing his words carefully, he looked across the dying fire again and said, "My feelings are very much the same, Father. I cannot explain it better than that."

Gall narrowed his eyes and nodded, then continued with his questions. "The crazy one has no people here. Who will bless her union with you and give permission for this marriage?"

"I was hoping you would give it along with my own permission."

Gall nodded, deep in thought. "Then what of her people, her own mother and father? How will they feel about their loss, about the fact that she is being held captive in a Lakota camp? Will they turn their backs on her? Will they increase their persecution of us?"

Jacob walked a very narrow ledge. Any more discussion of Dominique's relatives would put the Custer name foremost in his mind and on the tip of his tongue. His inherently honest nature would be sorely offended if he had to tell his father any more lies. Then inspiration struck, and he used the words he'd recently heard spilling from the general's mouth: "It is no problem. She is dead to her family already."

"Then it is done. I wish you happiness, son, and hope this marriage does not interfere with the success of your mission."

Feeling cleansed, as if he could finally speak with a refreshing splash of honesty, he said, "Once we are wed and I no longer have to worry about the crazy one, my total concentration will be on our mission. That is a promise."

"I hope it is one you can keep." Gall gestured for Jacob to rise. Then he followed suit and walked with him to the opening in the lodge. He turned to his son, his mouth twisted into a sideways grin. "Since this woman has no family and I am to represent them, I hope you do not expect me to deliver gifts at your door in the morning."

"No, Father," Jacob said, with a chuckle of relief. "I think we can forget that part of the ceremony. Taking the crazy one as my bride will be gift enough."

"From what I have seen, taking the crazy one for a wife may be more burden than gift, my son. My present to you is a wish for much luck."