The Bride Wore Feathers (49 page)

"Everything is going as it should, Jacob. Please don't worry about me."

"But I heard you cry out in pain."

"Well, damn it all, Jacob, this
hurts,
" she managed just as a new contraction loomed up from nowhere, first crushing her against the mattress, then lifting her as her back arched in agony.

Terrified, Jacob glanced at Hazel and shouted, "Do something, woman."

But before Hazel could say a word, Dominique turned on him, her voice hoarse and guttural. "Shut up and give me your hand, you nincompoop. I need you, Jacob. I need your strength."

Feeling utterly helpless, Jacob placed one hand on her brow and the other on her breast. Dominique laced her fingers around his wrist and began twisting and squeezing, pulling his flesh as she bore down in the final stages of labor.

"Push, honey," Hazel encouraged, no longer taking notice of the frantic soldier. "Come on. I can see the head. One more time, Dominique. Give it all you've got."

Jacob watched his woman, his wife according to both Sioux and white law, and squeezed back the tears that seemed to be a part of his life now.
Please don't die,
he said in a silent prayer just before he leaned in close to her ear and whispered, "I love you,
wi witko.
I'll always love you."

Then Jacob looked down in time to see his son slip out of his mother and into his rightful place in the world.

"Oh, Dominique," Hazel cried, "look at him. It's a beautiful little redheaded boy."

Still struggling to get her breathing under control, Dominique inclined her head, then collapsed against the pillow. "Jacob, did you see him? We have a son."

But Jacob was overcome with emotion, too shaken to form even the simplest of words. For the last four months he'd done nothing but worry about Dominique and love her. Never once in that time had he allowed himself even to think about the child, imagine it as a person, or wish for a son to carry on his name. Now that the child was here, now that physical proof of his union and the love he shared with Dominique rested inches from his big hands, he couldn't move, couldn't talk. He leaned his elbows against the mattress and stared, a stone man, as Hazel finished cleaning the infant, then placed him across his mother's abdomen.

"Look, Jacob," Dominique whispered, aware of her husband's turmoil. "He takes after his father."

Jacob's gaze followed the path of hers to their son's writhing body and the fully erect symbol of his sex. The baby howled his displeasure at the rude interruption in his life, then shot a stream of urine into the air.

Startled out of his trance, sprayed by the child as well, Jacob leaned back, his chest swelling with pride, and said, "Dominique, speak to this little nincompup. Tell him he must have respect for the man who will be his father."

"The little nincompup?" Hazel objected. "What kind of name is that to call a newborn baby?"

Dominique laughed and reclaimed her husband's hand.

Jacob grinned, his mouth lopsided, and said, "It is a good name. It means this child is a baby nincompoop."

Then he burst out laughing, joining his wife in hysterics as Hazel looked on, her eyebrows alternately rising and falling.

"Highly irregular, extremely indelicate," she muttered as she wrapped the baby in a quilt. "Nothing about this has been the least bit proper."

Lifting the infant from his mother's tummy, Hazel leaned over and placed him at her bosom. Tiny fingers groped for Dominique's breast, instinctively seeking the life-sustaining fluid within.

Hazel gasped, and tears sprang into the corners of her eyes as she observed mother and child. "Oh, my Lord, would you look at that."

Dominique studied her son, smoothing his damp hair, branding his scent into her memory, then looked back up at Hazel. "He's beautiful, isn't he?"

"Oh, my dear, he's much more than that. He's white. With that red hair and pale skin, no one will ever guess his father was a Sioux Indian. This is truly a day in which to give thanks."

Dominique exchanged a loving glance with her husband, both of them harboring a secret smile, then said to Hazel, "His skin may not be red, but always remember this: That white flesh is there only to protect the heart of a great Lakota warrior."

The End

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Excerpt from

The Half-breed Bride

The Proud Ones

Book Two

by

Sharon Ihle

Bestselling, Award-winning Author

"Hold still, Sunflower," Cole whispered. "I'm not going to hurt you."

Wary, but confused by his sudden gentleness, Sunny tested her rapidly tiring body for a quick burst of energy with which to fight him off. Then it occurred to her that she might not need her strength. The rancher had a new look in his eye, a gentler hold on her than before. Was he thinking of using her, of sating his lusts in her copper body, then discarding her?

If so, she would allow his disgusting advances.

She would
encourage
them. Then, when some sixth sense told her he was beyond control, she would point the gun at his head and demand her freedom.

Sunny stopped her struggles and willed her body to relax.

Enveloped by a cloud of silky black hair, consumed by its sweet, earthy fragrance, Cole kept a firm grip on her wrists, not realizing the girl had given up the fight. His head dropped lower, and his mouth brushed the velvet skin at the base of her throat. Her pulse hammered against his lips. She was so soft, so sweet and clean, yet wild as the country surrounding them.

Cole lifted his head and stared into her eyes. Then he noticed the compliant limbs, the inviting expression looking up at him in the moon-bathed night.

"Have you changed your mind?" he whispered. "Is this all you wanted from me?"

Not waiting for her answer, Cole teased her upper lip with a gentle sweep of his mustache, hoping to draw some kind of response from her. The gesture only served to inflame him further. Suddenly eager for her taste, he took her up on her invitation and claimed her mouth with his.

The Half-breed Bride

The Proud Ones

Book Two

by

Sharon Ihle

~

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