Under A Prairie Moon (23 page)

He took a bite of jerky and chewed it thoughtfully. He had never lived on the reservation, but he had heard stories from those who had. There was never enough food or blankets. Forbidden to have weapons, there was no way for the men to hunt. Imprisoned, lacking the means to provide for their families, the warriors grew bitter, despondent. Many took to drinking heavily in an effort to forget.

“Well, it doesn’t really matter,” he remarked. “They won’t stay there for long.”

Kathy regarded him over the rim of her cup. “What do you mean?”

“Okute will take his people and leave as soon as they can.”

“But where will they go? There’s nothing left of the village.”

“They’ll find those who survived and go north, to Crazy Horse. He’ll take them in.”

Kathy put her cup down and slipped her hand into his. “And what are we going to do?”

“We’re going to Boston.”

Dalton remained awake long after Kathy had fallen asleep. He could hear his people whispering in the distance, heard the soft sound of a lullaby as one of the women tried to calm a fretful child.

Staring up at the stars, he wondered what the future held for his people, for Kathy, for himself. The day when he was to have died had come and gone, giving him a second chance. No more gunfighting, he thought, no more living on the edge. It was time to make his dreams of building a ranch come true. He had the land, he had a stake. He glanced at Kathy sleeping beside him. Soon, he would have a wife and, God willing, children. It was a scary thought. He hadn’t been responsible for anyone but himself in years.

Kathy stirred beside him, tossing restlessly. She moaned softly, then began to whimper, “No, no, I didn’t mean it.”

“Kathy? Kathy, wake up.”

“I’m sorry,” she sobbed, “so sorry.”

He shook her shoulder gently. “Kathy, darlin’, wake up.”

She woke with a start, her eyes wide and frightened, her face pale in the moonlight. She stared at him for a moment, then began to cry.

“Come here, darlin’,” Dalton said, gathering her in his arms.

She clung to him. He could feel her trembling as the last vestiges of her nightmare faded away.

“Shhh,” he murmured. “Shhh, it’s all right now. It’s over.”

“It was awful,” she said, sniffing. “I saw him everywhere I looked, that man I killed. His blood was on my hands, and I couldn’t wash it away. I scrubbed and I scrubbed, and it wouldn’t go away.”

He held her closer, one hand stroking her back.

She blinked at him, the horror of her nightmare fading. “Have you ever had any bad dreams?”

“Oh yeah, usually after I’ve had too much to drink.”

“I want to go home.” She looked up at him, her dark eyes luminous with unshed tears. “Do you think it’s possible for us to go back?”

“I don’t know. But I don’t belong in your world, darlin’, and you sure as hell don’t belong in mine.”

“Dalton…” She held him tight, as if she was afraid he might suddenly disappear. “I’m so afraid of losing you.”

“I know.” His lips brushed her cheek. He was scared too, scared of losing her, scared of finding himself back in Kathy’s time, trapped between worlds in a thick gray mist, not dead, not alive.

He glanced around, wishing they were alone. As weak as he was, as sore as he was, he had a desperate urge to make love to her, an incomprehensible feeling that he needed to possess her, to brand her as his before it was too late.

But this was not the place, and as sleep claimed him, he wondered if he would ever make love to her again.

Because of the prisoners, they were forced to travel slowly. Hours in the saddle left Dalton feeling sore and utterly exhausted and he sometimes wondered if he wouldn’t be better off walking.

His strength returned gradually. His wounds ached less. By the time they reached the fort a little over a week later, he was feeling pretty good, though his wounds were still tender to the touch.

They reached the fort late in the afternoon. Kathy stared at the clump of wooden buildings and corrals, at the flag hanging limp in the hot sun. This was a fort? Where were the high walls, the big gates, the sentries patrolling the catwalks?

The notes of a bugle rose in the air and a bunch of men in Army blue streamed out of the buildings and assembled in a group.

They were escorted to a squat wooden building that proved to be the hospital and taken into a back room.

A tall, thin man wearing a white coat over his uniform came in a few minutes later.

“I’m Doctor Blankenship, the post surgeon,” he said. He gestured at Dalton. “Climb up on that table, son, and let me have a look at your wounds.”

Dalton stripped off his shirt and sat on the table. Kathy stood beside him.

“Mrs. Nash is seeing about quarters for you,” the doctor remarked as he examined Dalton’s injuries. To Kathy’s untrained eye, they seemed to be healing nicely, though he would have more scars.

The doctor applied a fresh dressing to the wound in Dalton’s temple. “Try to keep this dry,” he said. “The colonel’s striker will be here soon to show you to your quarters. Oh,” he said as the hospital door opened and a tall, clean-shaved young man entered the room. “Here he is now.”

A short time later, Dalton stood in front of a small mirror, scraping away a three-week growth of beard.

Kathy luxuriated in a tub of hot water, her gaze lingering on Dalton. The bandages on his shoulder and swathed around his middle looked very white against the dark bronze of his skin.

They would be traveling light when they went to Boston, she mused. They had lost everything in the raid except the clothes they’d been wearing. She grinned as she imagined meeting Dalton’s mother. No doubt the woman would be shocked when her future daughter-in-law showed up in a doeskin tunic and beaded moccasins. Or maybe not, she mused, remembering that Dalton’s mother had spent many years living with the Sioux.

“What are you grinning at?” Dalton asked.

“I was just thinking about meeting your mother.”

“Yeah?”

Kathy glanced pointedly at his clout. “We aren’t exactly dressed for Boston society.”

Dalton grunted softly. “I’m sure we can get a change of clothes at the subtler’s.”

“I hope so.” Reaching for a towel, she rose from the tub, aware of Dalton’s hungry gaze. “Not here,” she said, shaking her head.

“Why not?” he asked with a roguish smile. “We’re alone.”

“No, Dalton. Anyone might walk in. And you’re not fully recovered yet.”

She was right, dammit. As much as he wanted her, he wasn’t sure he was up to it. Still, he was willing to give it a try.

Crossing the floor, he tugged on a corner of the towel.

“Dalton, you’re incorrigible!”

“If that means I’m hard as a rock, you’re right.” He drew her into his arms, eliciting a small shriek when the towel fell away. Lowering his head, he nuzzled the warm curve of her neck.

With a sigh, Kathy melted against him, all her arguments lost in the wonder of his kiss, in the feel of his skin against her bare breasts. She pressed against him, wanting to be closer.

She twisted out of his arms and dived for the towel as someone knocked on the door.

“Yeah?” Dalton called. “Who is it?”

“Private Stuart, sir. Colonel Nash has invited you to dine with him this evening.”

“Tell the colonel we appreciate the offer,” Dalton replied, “but we don’t have anything suitable to wear.”

“The colonel’s striker is taking care of that. He should be here in just a few minutes. Dinner is at seven. Sharp.”

“We’ll be there.”

“Yes sir. Very good, sir.”

Dalton blew out a breath. “Well, what do think of that?”

“I can’t have dinner with the colonel,” Kathy wailed. “Look at me! My hair’s a mess. I don’t have any makeup. I…”

“You look fine.”

Kathy grimaced. “Yeah right.”

Crossing the floor, he took her in his arms. “Hey, stop worrying.”

“I can’t help it. It’s what I’m good at.”

“I can think of something else you’re good at.”

“Honestly, Dalton, don’t you ever think of anything else?”

He lifted one brow in wry amusement. “How can I, when you smell so good, and all you’re wearing is a towel?”

She drew a deep breath and let it out in a long shuddering sigh as she ran her hands over his shoulders. His skin was warm and firm beneath her fingertips, and suddenly her thoughts were running parallel with his. “Later, okay?”

“Definitely okay,” he replied.

* * * * *

Kathy slipped into the dress that had been provided for her, wondering if she would ever get used to all the undergarments nineteenth-century women were compelled to wear. The dress itself was pretty enough. A dark-green plaid, it had a round neck, long fitted sleeves and a full skirt.

She glanced over at Dalton, who looked quite handsome in a white shirt, buff-colored trousers and brown boots.

“Ready?” he asked.

“I guess so.”

“Let’s go get this over with then,” he muttered.

The colonel’s wife met them at the door. She was a tiny woman, with merry blue eyes and skin lined by years of living on the plains.

“Come in, come in.” She beamed at Kathy. “You can’t imagine how glad I am to see you. We get so few visitors here.”

She ushered them into the parlor. “The colonel will be here in a moment. Please, sit down.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Nash,” Kathy said. She sat down on a high-backed sofa, and Dalton sat beside her.

The colonel’s quarters were larger than Kathy had expected. White lace curtains covered the windows. A carpet, obviously imported, covered the floor in the parlor. There were sepia-toned photographs of a stern-faced young man and a pretty young woman on the mantle. Kathy assumed they were the Nashes’ children.

“We don’t stand on ceremony here, my dear. You must call me Verna,” the colonel’s wife said. She sat down on the chair beside the sofa, her back ramrod stiff, her hands folded in her lap.

“Thank you. I’m Kathy, and this is my husband, Joe Dalton.” Earlier, they had decided to continue with the charade that they were married. They had also decided it would be easier all around not to mention Dalton’s Lakota name, or to mention his connection with the Lakota.

Verna smiled at Kathy, her expression sympathetic. “Nash tells me you were captured by the Sioux. That must have been dreadful.”

Kathy glanced at Dalton. “Well, not really. They treated us very well.”

Verna Nash sat back in her chair, clearly disbelieving. She looked at Dalton. “Doctor Blankenship tells me you were wounded in the battle.”

“Yes ma’am.”

Verna studied him closely for a moment. It was obvious to Kathy that the colonel’s wife was wondering if Dalton had Indian blood but was too polite to ask.

“Where are you from, Mr. Dalton?”

“Boston.”

“Really?”

“Yes, but I haven’t been back there for quite some time.”

They were saved from more questions by the appearance of the colonel. Verna made introductions, and then they went into dinner.

The colonel and Dalton discussed the “Indian” problem over dinner. According to the colonel, there would never be peace in the West until the tribes had been subdued.

“But surely there’s room enough for everyone,” Kathy remarked.

Verna and the colonel looked at her as if she had suggested sharing space with Satan and his angels. After a long, silent moment, Verna reached across the table and patted Kathy on the hand. “Of course, we all wish that was possible, my dear, but the Indians are savages, you know. Why, the tales I could tell you!” She pressed a hand to her heart. “They’re brutal creatures, you know, capable of terrible atrocities.”

Kathy looked at Dalton. His jaw was clenched tight. “Would you excuse us, please? I’m very tired.” She smiled apologetically at Verna Nash. “We’ve had a long journey, and Dalton is not fully recovered from his wounds.”

“Of course, dear,” Verna said. She glanced over at her husband. “We understand, don’t we, Nash?”

“Indeed.”

The colonel and his wife walked them to the door.

“The last bungalow on Sud’s Row has been prepared for you,” Nash said. “If you need anything, just tell my striker.”

“Thank you,” Kathy said. She laid her hand on Dalton’s arm. It was rock-hard beneath her fingertips.

“I hope you’ll be comfortable,” Verna said. “Do come visit us again before you leave.”

“Yes, we will, thank you,” Kathy said. “Good night.”

She followed Dalton down the stairs. Anger flowed off him in waves.

“Savages!” he muttered. “Atrocities!” He loosed a string of obscenities that burned her ears.

“Dalton, wait.”

He swung around to face her, his eyes dark with fury. “Old biddy. I could tell her stories that would curl her hair.”

“Dalton…”

He swore again. “I’ll wager that husband of hers has committed some atrocities of his own!”

“Dalton, calm down.”

“I am calm.”

“Yeah right.”

“I feel like a damned traitor.”

Kathy bit down on her lower lip. It was her fault he felt that way. He knew she was afraid of being left here alone, knew she was afraid she couldn’t get back to her own time if they were separated. “I’m sorry.”

The anger drained out of Dalton. With a sigh, he drew Kathy into his arms. He could have kicked himself. He knew what she was thinking, knew she was blaming herself.

She pressed herself against him. “I’m scared.”

“Don’t be.”

“I can’t help it. I feel like time is running out for us.”

Dalton’s arms tightened around her, the gesture more eloquent than words, and she knew he had felt it too, that sense that their days together were growing short.

She looked up at him. “If you could choose, would you stay here or go back to my time?”

“I don’t know.” He brushed his knuckles over her cheek. Neither decision appealed to him. He didn’t want to stay here without Kathy, but at least here he was alive. He didn’t think he could bear to go back to her time, to be caught between two worlds again, to see her and yet not be part of her world, to hold her but not be able to possess her. Talk about Hell. He would be damned either way.

He looked into her eyes and saw his own fears, his own desire, mirrored there. Sweeping her into his arms, he carried her swiftly down the row of ugly wooden bungalows to the one at the end of the row. He took the steps two at a time, eager to be alone with her, to possess her, to brand her as his for now and always.

He didn’t bother to light the lamp. Carrying her into the bedroom, he lowered her to the bed. There was an urgency between them that hadn’t been there before. Kathy clutched at him, her fingers digging into his back, assuring herself that he was there, that he was real. Her senses seemed more alive than ever before, and she was acutely aware of the coarse cotton sheet beneath her back, the distant sound of a soldier calling the hour, the alien scents of lamp oil and the land itself. But mostly she was aware of Dalton, of his hands exploring, caressing, arousing her until she was wild with need, until she cried his name, desperate for the fulfillment only he could give her.

Only later, lying in utter contentment in the circle of his arm, did she remember that he was still recovering from his wounds.

She traced meaningless patterns on his chest, her fingers brushing against the bandage wrapped around his middle. “Are you all right?”

He made a soft sound in his throat. “Never better.”

“I love you, Dalton.”

His arm tightened around her shoulders. The words didn’t come easy to him, but he said them, never meaning them more.

“And I love you, darlin’, more than you can imagine.”

She took his words and held them close, clinging to them like a talisman that could bind them together, shield them from unseen forces that might tear them apart.

Dalton held Kathy close until she fell asleep and then he slid out of bed. Dressing quickly, he buckled on his gunbelt and left the bungalow. Outside, he waited a moment, listening, and then he made his way through the shadows to the storehouse where the Lakota were being held.

Two soldiers stood guard, one on either side of the door. They were leaning against the building, apparently dozing on their feet.

Dalton stood in the shadows, watching, for several minutes and then, on cat-quiet feet, he went around the building and came up alongside the guard on the right. Clamping his hand over the man’s mouth, he struck him a quick blow over the head, then slowly lowered him to the ground. Going around the back of the building, he came up alongside the second guard. He rendered him unconscious in the same way, then searched the guard’s pockets until he found the key. He relieved both men of their weapons, then unlocked the door to the storehouse.