The Bride Wore Feathers (39 page)

"Come,
wi witko,"
he said. "Follow me."

Dominique's sturdy little mount trailed after the larger stallion, carefully picking her way among the rocks and shrubs scarring the ragged bluff. They plodded along to a wide grassy hill rising up over two hundred feet from the valley below. There Jacob slid down off the stallion, then lifted Dominique from Peaches.

Still holding her in his arms, he walked to the summit of the hill. "I brought you here so you could understand," he explained as he gently set her on her feet. "Look. See what your uncle and his army face."

A sense of foreboding sent a sudden shiver up her spine, but Dominique wheeled around and stared out at the magnificent view. Along the skyline in the distance, the Big Horn Mountains, still wearing a crown of winter snow, provided a scenic backdrop for the terrain to the west. Below the ragged bluffs, the Greasy Grass River, swollen with spring runoff from these mountains, snaked through thickets of Cottonwood trees. A huge valley carpeted in thick grass played host to an immense band of grazing Indian ponies. But most impressive, even frightening somehow, were the seemingly endless circles of tipis. Stretching on for miles along the river's path, they seemed to fill every available parcel of land comprised by the quiet pastoral scenery.

Dominique gasped. "This is huge. How many Indians are out there?"

From behind her, Jacob pressed his hips against her bottom and wound his arms around her waist. Resting his chin on her shoulder, he quietly said, "I wanted you to see this so you might understand. I want you to know that these are all my people."

Extending his arm across her shoulder, he pointed out the separate camps. "Most of the circles are Sioux." Then he named each tribe. "Oglala, Miniconjou, Sans Arc, Blackfoot, Two Kettles, and Brules. Soon our own Hunkpapa camp will join them. At the other end of the valley, to the north, over a hundred Cheyenne lodges unite with us."

"But, Jacob," Dominique said, her voice barely a whisper, "what happens if Uncle Armstrong finds them? What will your people do if the cavalry comes across this group?"

"Come," he said softly. "We must talk."

Taking her hand, Jacob led Dominique to a grassy furrow running along the top of the knoll. Sitting down with his back against a small hill, he stretched his legs out and motioned for his wife to sit across his lap.

"This is as far as my people will go,
wi witko"
he explained. "The Lakota will run from soldiers like your uncle no more. We are not animals to be hunted for sport."

Dominique stared into his eyes, hoping to find just a spark of humor, the hint of a joke, but she saw only a great sadness mingled with a heartbreaking sense of helplessness. She lowered her head and spoke in a flat, cold tone. "Surely you must know there will be a war if your people stay."

"Yes," he agreed, his voice resigned, dispassionate. "That seems to be the only solution."

"But why? Why does it have to be that way?" Dominique hooked her arms around his shoulders and pulled, hoping to shake some sense into him. "Why can't your people do whatever it is the army asks of them and be done with it? Why do they have to fight?"

"That is a question you wouldn't ask if you understood what the whites demand of us."

"Then help me, Jacob. Help me to understand what could possibly be worth the terrible price the Lakota will pay if your people don't surrender."

Expelling a heavy sigh, Jacob slid down away from the hill until he and Dominique were sprawled side by side in the deep grass. He tried to explain. "Many winters past, eight, I think, Red Cloud, chief of the Oglala, signed a treaty with your government. He agreed to take his tribe and other Lakota, and some Hunkpapa, too, to a reservation on our own land in the Black Hills."

"I've heard of the Black Hills."

"I'm sure you have," he muttered, his jaw tight. Unable to talk just then, Jacob kissed the top of her head, then stared down at her golden-red locks. Hair very nearly the same color covered the scalp of a man he'd vowed to kill. How could he hate one of the Custers so much, yet love another with every fiber of his being?

Dominique lifted her head and gazed up at her husband. "Jacob? Is something wrong?"

"Only everything, crazy one. Only the fact that I love you, and that love has become a very difficult thing in my life."

"Maybe it has nothing to do with your love for me at all, Jacob." Dominique looked him square in the eye. "Isn't it possible that I've only been some kind of beacon, a light showing you who you really are?"

"I no longer know who I am."

"Oh, I think you do. You're two people, Jacob. One, the warrior Redfoot, who wants to protect his people and their way of life. The other, Stoltz, who would probably like to honor the memory of his murdered family and, I hope, keep the love of his wife." Dominique's heart ached as she watched a painful self-examination flickering in his eyes. "What I think, Jacob, is that you are having a very difficult time choosing sides."

"It is more than difficult," he whispered, his throat tight. Jacob slid his big hand behind her neck and crushed her to his chest. Again kissing the top of her head, he said against her hair, "It is impossible."

Jacob's heartbeat accelerated, thundered against her ear. A sudden rush of tears swamped Dominique's eyes, but she squeezed them back, choked on them, and swallowed. After a deep breath, she managed to say, "Tell me about the Black Hills, Jacob. Are they as beautiful as I've heard, and are they really blue?"

Jacob waited a long moment, grateful for the change of subject, then said, "Often, on hazy mornings in particular, they appear to be one with the sky." The ache in Jacob's chest gradually eased as he thought of the land in which he'd spent so many summers. "And they are truly the most beautiful mountains I have ever seen. Running all through the thick forest are creeks so thick with fish a man need only reach into the water to catch them. There is so much game that even the poorest hunter need never go hungry."

Again Dominique lifted her head and stared up at Jacob. The pain was gone from his eyes, and a lazy contentment seemed to glaze them, a look quite close to what she'd often seen after they made love. Dominique smiled up at her husband. "It sounds as if you love those mountains as much as you love me."

The statement pulled a short laugh from him. Jacob rumpled her hair, murmuring, "I could never love anyone or anything as much as I love you, but yes,
wi witko,
I do love the Black Hills. All Lakota do. That love for the land is one of the things that has brought us here to this place."

"Are you talking about the treaty?"

"That, and the lies. Red Cloud and those who joined him were guaranteed control of their land and promised that no one, not even the government, would pass through the boundaries of what they called the Great Sioux Reservation without permission of the Lakota."

"And someone did?"

"Oh,
wi witko,"
he sighed, cupping her face. "Come up here to me."

Still lying next to her husband's body, Dominique rolled onto his chest, then lowered her lips to his for a brief tender kiss. "What is it, Jacob? Don't you know you can tell me anything?"

"I don't want to see you hurt any more than you have to be."

"I need to understand what is going on here. I think I've earned the right to hear it all."

After a slow resigned nod, Jacob fit his mouth to hers again, then said, "Against all that is fair, all that is right, your uncle violated the promise of the United States government and brought his troops into the Black Hills two winters ago."

"Uncle Armstrong?" she said. "Oh, Jacob, he wouldn't do that. He couldn't have." But Dominique cut off her own words as she thought back to evenings around the fireplace in the Custer home. She really didn't know what the general was capable of, didn't have much more than a passing acquaintance with the uncle who'd rarely been part of her life. Fourteen years her senior, he was off to West Point, then engaged in the service of the United States Army by the time she was old enough to recognize him. What she knew of George Armstrong Custer she had learned from adoring family members and hero-worshiping neighbors. Hardly an unbiased panel.

Jacob gave her time to digest his words, to consider them, then said, "The fact is that he did violate the treaty,
wi witko.
He and his army boldly marched into our land, slaughtered our game, and even shot at those of us who dared protest his presence. When he left, after he'd had his fill of wild cherries and strawberries, he returned to his government carrying tales of gold. It didn't take long for the whites, soldier and civilian alike, to come to the Black Hills and begin taking from the Lakota what was rightfully theirs."

"Oh, Jacob," she murmured. "I'm so sorry."

"You have nothing to apologize for. Even an apology from your uncle would serve no purpose now. We have lost the Black Hills to seekers of gold and greedy government agents. We will not lose our dignity as well."

She didn't have to ask Jacob what he meant by that. Dominique already knew that, to a man, the Lakota would hold their ground, fight to the death if necessary to prevent their families from being dragged off to some new land the whites would designate as their reservation. But she had to make an attempt to change his mind. "Why don't your people give surrender a try? Maybe the new reservation wouldn't be so bad."

"You forget," he said, grumbling. "Red Cloud and his people did give it a try before the Black Hills were taken from us. The government expects our warriors to become farmers. What do we know about farming? What do we care about farming? The Lakota are hunters and wanderers. We do not stay in one place too long."

Dominique nestled her head against his shoulder and neck, and sighed. "There has to be a solution to suit everyone somewhere."

"I have spent many days and nights looking for this solution, but it doesn't seem to be there. You have lived with my people long enough to know them, to understand many of their ways. How well do you think they would do on a reservation?"

Again she sighed, then shrugged.

"On a reservation our warriors would turn into old men, grow weak and fat. They are not farmers, will never be farmers."

"I don't know what to say."

But Jacob did. "What about the children?" he went on.

"My father tells me you have spent much time with the children. How will they ever learn our ways if they are trapped on government land?"

"I guess they probably won't," she said as the full impact hit her. "I suppose after a generation or two, their heritage and way of life will be lost forever."

"Then you finally understand."

Angry tears stung her eyes, and again Dominique had to fight to keep them in. She understood only too well. But did he? Did Jacob understand that more than the Lakota way of life was at stake? Did he realize that both her husband and a large chunk of her family might very well be taken from her before this senseless hostility between the Indians and the soldiers ended?

Unaware of her turmoil, Jacob stroked her hair as he thought back to some of the things Chief Gall had told him. "My father says you spend many hours drawing in the dirt with the children. What do you show them?"

Pushing her dark thoughts to the back of her mind, she said, "How to draw more precise pictures, like the eagle I painted on your tipi. They are very bright and eager to learn." Lifting her head and looking into Jacob's eyes, she added, "I've also begun teaching them the alphabet. I could do the same for you, if you're interested."

Lost in her expressive brown eyes, touched by her offer, he raised his brows and whispered, "So you know."

"I figured it out after I found my note in your pocket. Why didn't you just tell me you couldn't read?"

Jacob shrugged. "I thought about it, but then I would have been forced to explain, to think of more lies. I have no stomach for lies."

"Hah," she exclaimed. "Then you must have an ulcer the size of Lake Erie."

He grinned and amended his statement. "I have no stomach for unnecessary lies. Tell me about this lake you speak of. Where is it?"

"Lake Erie? My home in Michigan is very near its shores."

Jacob's features softened, and his eyes grew narrow as he listened to her. "This home on the lake—do you miss it terribly?"

"Not as much as I used to," she admitted. Lowering her lashes, trying to hide a sudden surge of guilt, she added, "Since becoming your woman, not near as much as I should."

Jacob slid her chin into the V between his thumb and forefinger and forced her to look into his eyes. "Have you grown unhappy as my woman? Do you wish for me to set you free?"

"Oh, no, Jacob." Her large eyes grew even bigger as she tried to explain. "If I have any wish at all, it is for your safety and the safety of my family. I do understand how you feel about your people, really I do, but I'm afraid you've forgotten about mine. What about my family and their way of life? Would you have your people shoot them without a thought for me?"

"I have not forgotten about you or your family." Jacob stroked her cheek as he slowly shook his head. "I do not wish to see you or even your fierce uncle the general hurt in any way, but it is not my people who chase him. He chases us."

"Oh, damn it all," she complained with a heavy sigh. "I know that. I just wish we could all be safe and happy, that we could all find a way to live together in peace."