The Bride Wore Feathers (45 page)

"That's not possible," she answered with heavy innuendo in her tone. "We have to talk about it. You need to know that I was the woman of a warrior called Redfoot."

Color flooded Libbie's cheeks. She lowered her voice, insisting, "We don't have to discuss this, either, nor shall we. If these things still trouble you after we get back home, there are doctors who can help you get over it. Until then, you must try to put that degrading experience out of your mind."

"Putting it out of my mind isn't the problem, Aunt Libbie." Dominique took a deep breath and squeezed her eyes shut. "Putting it out of my body is."

Libbie screwed up her brow. "I don't follow you, dear."

Dominique expelled the breath and came right out with it. "Things haven't been normal with my body since I was kidnapped. I've been feeling ill and bloated. I thought it was because of, you know, all the changes and terrible things that happened, but—Oh, Aunt Libbie, I'm going to have Redfoot's baby."

Libbie's head wobbled, and her breathing became rapid and shallow. When her eyes rolled to the back of her head, then closed, Dominique snatched the hanky from her hand and began to fan her brow.

Barney barreled around the corner at that moment, offering the expected glass of water. "Here is it, Mrs. Custer. Sorry it took so long." His tongue froze to the roof of his mouth as he studied the women.

"Thanks, Barney," Dominique said as she accepted the offering.

"Ah, you're welcome," he said slowly, scratching his head. "I'll just go finish ..." He let his words trail off as he backed down the boardwalk, a look of utter confusion flickering in his expression, "The water you... she... I'll just go get the luggage."

A smile tugging at her heartstrings, Dominique lifted the glass to her aunt's mouth. "Take a drink of this," she encouraged.

Libbie gulped greedily, then sat up, waving Dominique and the glass off. "I'm all right. It's just so hot today, and I'm a little ..." She turned and looked into her niece's eyes, and her own filled with tears. "It's so awful!" she burst out. "So unfair. I'd give anything to be in that way, to have that much of my husband to keep with me always, but instead some stinking savage has—has—"

"Please stop it," Dominique said, knowing exactly how Libbie felt, wishing not for their roles to be reversed, but that they could both be filled with the same joy.

"I'm sorry, dear," Libbie finally said, regaining her fragile control. "Of course, I don't mean to suggest this is your fault in any way or that there was anything you could have done to prevent these circumstances. It's just all so unfortunate."

"As unfortunate as it may be, it's a fact," Dominique went on, eager to end the increasingly uncomfortable conversation. "But now, at least, you understand why I can't go home. Why I can probably never go home."

But Libbie didn't agree. She patted her hand and said, "Now, now, dear. It's not as bad as it seems. After all, your condition is not entirely irreversible."

"Aunt Libbie?" Dominique breathed as pinpricks of foreboding stabbed at her scalp. "What do you mean?"

"Just what I said. There are several chemicals, aloes and cathartic powders, we can obtain fairly easily. If that should fail, we can probably find a doctor willing to help you."

"No." Dominique jumped to her feet, horrified at the thought of losing Jacob's child. "You're talking about a miscarriage, about taking my baby away from me. I won't let you do it. I won't let anyone do it."

"Nikki," Libbie whispered between clenched teeth. "Sit down. You'll cause a commotion."

Dominique glanced around, then took a seat several feet away from her aunt. "I won't do it," she insisted. "You can't make me do it."

"All right." Libbie shushed her, waving her hands. "Just think about it, then. You'll come to your senses when you're not so overwrought."

"I am
not
overwrought. I'm pregnant."

"Nikki. Such language," she said, louder than intended. "I must insist you get hold of yourself. You still have the Custer name to uphold. Please don't dishonor it with such talk, and don't even think of staining it by bearing the child of a savage."

Dominique's mind suddenly became that serene spot in the ocean at the eye of a storm. She moved closer to her aunt and folded her hand in hers. "I appreciate and understand your concerns, really I do, but the child is mine, too. This baby carries Custer blood as well as its father's. I can't bring any harm to it."

"Oh, Nikki," Libbie cried, weeping for herself as much for as her niece. "You simply can't have this child. Whatever will you do? How can you possibly face your peers?"

"I lived with the Sioux, remember?" she said with a smile. "I can face anything. Here." Dominique returned her hanky. "Don't cry for me. I'll be all right."

"But how can you be?"

"All aboard," the conductor hollered. "Board."

"Oh, dear," Libbie sniffed. "We'll talk about this later. Come on, Nikki. We have to go now."

Dominique rose and walked down the boardwalk with her aunt, explaining as they neared the passenger cars, "I meant what I said. I can't go back home with you. Not now, anyway. Please give papa my love and tell him I'll write the first chance I get."

"But you have to return with me. Where will you go? How will you live?"

"I've been thinking about that." Her smile secret, manipulative, Dominique turned and watched Barney approach with their luggage. When he set the trunks down, she gave him a broad grin. "Thanks, Lieutenant."

"You're welcome, Miss DuBois. It's great to see you looking like yourself again before you leave."

"Oh, I'm not leaving. In fact, I'm hoping you and Mrs. Woodhouse won't mind some company just until I can get a place of my own, you understand."

"Huh?"

"Oh, I realize you two are on your honeymoon, so to speak, but I promise not to be in the way too much. I'll just be a little mouse in the cupboard until I can sweet-talk a few of the soldiers into building a little place for me."

"Well, I don't know. That may be against the rules, and jeez, Miss DuBois, I don't know what to say."

"You don't have to say anything, Barney. I think I can still get what I want from the soldiers, at least for a couple more months anyway," she added, laughing to herself. "Are the Indian scouts still living at the fort?"

"Well, sure."

"And don't they have families, children?"

Barney scratched his head. "Course."

Explaining to both her aunt and the confused soldier, she said, "During my stay with the Sioux, I discovered that despite the language barrier, I was able to work with the little ones, teaching them art and even some English. I'll wager the army wouldn't mind putting up a little house for the new schoolmarm. What do you think?"

Barney shrugged. Libbie dabbed at a final tear.

"Well," Dominique went on, undaunted. "Even if they're not convinced at first, I believe they will be. I think it's about time everyone knew what these treaties say. Maybe next time the Sioux come to the bargaining table, they'll have some idea of what they're gaining and what they're giving away."

"Last call," the conductor warned. "Board."

"Oh, dear, oh, dear me," Libbie fretted, filled with indecision.

"Come on, Aunt Libbie. You'd better get on that train before we both miss it."

"I don't know, Nikki, I just don't know if I should leave you here like this. What will your father say? He expects us to come back home together. And what about the danger you'll face? I just don't know."

"Barney and Hazel are going to take care of me." She whirled around, "Aren't you, Barney? Tell my aunt she doesn't have a thing to worry about."

Barney chewed on his lips, not sure where his allegiance should lie or what Hazel would say. He finally shrugged and said, "Well, sure, I don't see why the missus and I can't take care of her a bit if she just has to stay on. I wouldn't worry none about her, Mrs. Custer. We'll make sure she's all right."

"Oh, I just don't know." Libbie wrung her hanky, twisting the fancy lace into little knots.

With an affectionate smile, Dominique leaned over and kissed her cheek. "Good-bye, Aunt Libbie. Be sure to give my love to Papa and Grandpa Custer." Then she pushed her up the steps and into the railroad car.

Dominique and Barney stood looking for Libbie's face to appear in a window, and then waved as the stricken features of the general's widow appeared.

When the train finally began its journey east, Dominique started making plans. "Now, then," she said, taking Barney's arm. "Don't you think I could use Hazel's sewing room as my bedroom for a couple of weeks? It shouldn't take a couple of big strong soldiers more than a week or so to put a small house together for me, should it?"

As they strolled toward the buggy, she continued. "I thought just two rooms would suffice. I want my bedroom to be private, but I think the kitchen and living room can all be rolled into one. After all, what's a single girl going to do with more room than that? Barney? What do you think about a fireplace? Will a cook stove be enough for heat? Barney ...?"

* * *

Several weeks later, still deep in the Bighorn Mountains, Jacob heard the calls of wild geese overhead. His mind began to return in bits and pieces. His body, vague, still detached from his brain somehow, rested in a great warm nest of quiet pain.

Where was he? What had happened to him? He thought of Dominique, of clouds of hair the color of maize at sunset, and he was content. Slowly, languidly, he pieced together his memories of the short time she'd been his. With sudden clarity, he remembered their last afternoon together. She'd brazenly straddled his hips and stared down at him, her expression lusty and wanton. How different she was that day from the nervous young woman on the night they'd become one, how brave, how bold.

Or was she so different? he suddenly wondered. He thought back to long ago, to the night he'd brought life back to her frozen limbs. How brave she'd been then, how bold as she spit in his face and kicked at his crotch. Jacob laughed out loud, then groaned as twin arrows of pain shot into his ribs.

A woman's voice, tender and full of concern, hummed to him. Soft hands stroked his brow. Jacob reached up, encircling the small wrist, and said, "Dominique?"

"It is I, Spotted Feather. Have you awakened from your deep sleep, Redfoot?"

Jacob released her, then gradually inched his eyelids open. The sun was low, shuttered in shades of tangerine and persimmon through ribbons of wispy white clouds. He managed to keep his eyes open long enough to adjust to the light, then glanced up at the woman.

"What has happened? Where am I?"

"You recover from terrible wounds, Redfoot. You rest in the big mountains with a small band of our people. You will live."

She reached for his brow again, but he caught her wrist and said, "Where is Dominique?"

Spotted Feather jerked her hand away and sat back on her haunches. "She is where she belongs with the Long Knives. It is I who have cared for you, not the crazy one."

"I thank you for your trouble, woman. Now, tell me, is our father here, too?"

"Yes. He waits for your mind to return."

"Then go fetch him and say that I must talk to him."

The berry-skinned woman got to her feet, grumbling to herself, then stomped over a small hill and out of sight.

Jacob closed his eyes and waited. Dominique was safe and well, he thought with a sigh of relief. Unlike her foolish uncle, she was most likely on her way back to Fort Lincoln by now, and then onto where? Would she wait for him to seek her out? Or blame him for the slaughter of her family members?

At the sound of approaching footsteps, Jacob opened his eyes again, this time without pain, and saw his father sink cross-legged into the grass beside him.

"Spotted Feather tells me you have decided to join us at last," Gall said, his voice low and tight.

Jacob drew his brows together, noticing the new grooves at the corners of the chief's eyes, the deep anguish buried in their centers, and said, "How long have I slept?"

"Since the great war of the Greasy Grass, two moons have passed."

"Two moons?"
Jacob abruptly sat up, the jolt of pain following him and snapping inside his head like the crack of some giant whip.

"Lie down, son. You are not yet well."

But Jacob forced himself to remain sitting, rode each new wave of pain as if he were breaking a wild pony, until the pounding in his head became a dull ache he could manage. How could he have been unaware of his own existence for so many weeks? he wondered. Could he hope even in his wildest dreams that Dominique still waited for him?

Jacob groaned as that terrible Sunday returned to his memory. He saw the hundreds of bodies strewn across the slopes of the Little Bighorn Valley, remembered the face of the general as he lay staring up at the sky for all eternity, and called up a hazy recollection of the Cheyenne warrior who mistook him for the enemy.

His heart heavy, he said, "I remember many dead soldiers that day. What of our people?"

Gall shrugged. "We lost some warriors, but it was a day of victory for the Lakota. A day the Long Knives will not soon forget."