Waltz with the Lady Read online

  The older woman spoke to India again. “We think you and your brave have much luck to find chin cha.”

  “I have no brave,” said India attempting to clear up the matter. “I am no man’s woman.”

  At this the woman looked up from her sewing and spoke to the other women. Her words provoked such discussion among them. Summing up the general opinion of the women, she spoke to India. “We still feel sadness for you.”

  Their sympathy was lost on India and she decided to take the opportunity to spread her message, whether they understood it or not. “Do not feel sadness for me. It is I who feel sadness for you. You must carry the burdens of your braves and follow them as a slave follows a master. You do all the work while your men hunt and smoke the pipe. This is unfair.”

  The woman gave India a wide smile and quickly proceeded to tell the others what she had said. They stopped their sewing and seemed to hang on every word of the translation. Suddenly, they all started to giggle and chatter to each other with great amusement.

  Indian looked at them a little bewildered. “Why are they laughing?”

  “They laugh because you have given them a great compliment,” said the Indian woman.

  “But I have called them slaves,” India replied.

  “We do not think of ourselves as slaves. It is only the white eyes who see this. The work of man and woman is different but the same. It is just as hard to hunt the buffalo as to skin it. Each task is done faithfully and well. You must see that the brave walks in front of his woman to protect her from unseen attack. Only a brave who does not value his woman would follow behind. This is the way of things with my people. The way of the white man is different. I slave to the white trapper. I do not like his ways. So I run away, back to my own people.”

  With inward wonder India regarded the woman beside her. She was a woman like herself, with the same spirit and feelings, yet so unlike her in life’s purpose. India thought of her domestic life in Boston. It had been hedged in by conventional opinion, social duties—with every prospect of independence, liberty and activity closed more rigidly by invisible barriers than tepees by their buffalo hides. These daughters of the prairie sat at their ease without constraint or effort, without stays or the anxiety to charm. Who was she to shift the breath of the prairie wind? Her voice had no listeners here.

  At sunset on the third night, a party of braves rode into the encampment and met in council in front of Red Cloud’s tepee. When Gat returned to the tepee, he told India that the visitors were Sioux from the Black Hills. Apparently they’d had a run-in with some prospectors who had trespassed on Indian land looking for gold.

  “Once the word spread that there’s gold in the hills, nobody will rest until a full-scale war is waged and the land taken from the Indians,” he said.

  “But the government has a treaty with them,” India protested.

  “The treaty was signed before anyone knew there was gold there. The speculators will move in and stir up the Sioux, forcing them to fight for the land. They love the Black Hills country like you love your New England,” Gat said. “Nobody will take it away from them without a fight. Greed changes people. It makes them forget about agreements signed and promises spoken. If white men want the Indians’ land, they’ll take it from them by hook or by crook, most likely by crook.”

  “There is little justice in the world.” India shook her head sadly. She looked over at Woman-Who-Killed-A-Bear’s two children wrestling on a buffalo skin. “To the Indians men say make peace and be content with what we give you, and to women they say hold your tongue and keep your place.”

  Gat looked over at India with genuine warmth in his black eyes, and in a soothing voice he said, “There’s more justice in the world than you think. But it takes a windsinger like yourself to bring it about.”

  Something deep within India melted towards Gat. Here was a man who had stood beside her, supported and protected her right to speak up, and now he was giving her gentle words of encouragement. How could she not love a man like this? Tears misted in her sapphire eyes and hurriedly she wiped them away. “I don’t know why…” The tears kept coming like unwelcome torrents of spring rain and India lowered her head into her hands, her breast heaving with a long-overdue release.

  Gat swallowed hard, half-embarrassed at his own sudden rush of feeling at seeing her tears. Like most men he didn’t know how to handle a crying woman, but instinctively he leaned over and put a comforting arm across her shoulders. “No need to worry, everything will be all right. You’ll see.” But what he didn’t see was the reason for her tears, and as he held her in his arms, the familiar scent of wild mint touched his nose and he brushed his lips to the silk of her hair. He’d never understand her, he thought, but then there was no understanding himself when he was around her.

  Just then, Woman-Who-Killed-A-Bear came into the tepee. Her usually impassive countenance was marked with strain. She hurried to the sleeping baby, petted it awake and began nursing it while speaking to Gat. India had gained some semblance of control, and she looked anxiously from one to the other, impatient to know what was distressing the woman.

  At last Gat turned to her, his own face marked with concern. “She says we better leave quickly. It is no longer safe for us to stay. She’s sent her daughter down to the river with our horses, and we must meet the daughter there.”

  “Shouldn’t we wait until dark?” asked India.

  “It might be too late.” Gat pushed her toward the tepee opening.

  Woman-Who-Killed-A-Bear gave baby Hope a lingering gaze and then almost reluctantly handed her to India, motioning to the tepee’s flap opening. India wanted to thank her but didn’t know how. “Tell her thank you,” she directed Gat as she stepped out the flap.

  Chanting and drum beating vibrated through the air. Gat said a thank-you over his shoulder to Woman-Who-Killed-A-Bear and followed India. Trying to appear inconspicuous, they walked to the outskirts of the encampment. It was difficult because Coyote followed them, and wherever Coyote traveled so did half the village dogs. Scuttling down into a gully for refuge, Gat pelted them with stones until they shied off.

  Gat and India lay, belly down, listening to the drum beating from the encampment. India suddenly jabbed Gat in the ribs. “I forgot the petition ledger. You’ve got to go back and get it from the tepee.”

  “I’m not going back,” said Gat flatly.

  India looked to Coyote, then back to Gat. “But the ledger. I won’t leave it!”

  “Listen, I’m no dime-novel hero. Those Indians are fired up and I’m not taking any chances.”

  “Well, you don’t have to take any. I’ll go back for it. Here, take the baby.” She had thrust it into his arms and disappeared over the rise before he could grab her.

  Under his breath he swore foully, regretting the day he got roped into escorting that high-nosed female farther than a lunatic asylum. Five minutes ago she was whey-faced from weeping tears, now she was ready to tomahawk a whole Indian village.

  He crouched back down. The minutes inched by. At least the baby was content to keep quiet, though her eyes were open. He touched her tiny fingers and marveled at her innocence, all the while cradling her protectively in his arms.

  He reached into his pocket, one-handedly pulled open his tobacco pouch and bit off a piece. As he worked it in his mouth, he thought of how he would be forced to rescue India when she didn’t come back. He saw himself spread-eagle and skinned on a torture mound, and all for that damned petition.

  The singing and drum beating stopped. Gat’s jaw halted in mid-chew.

  Miraculously, over the slope rolled India, breathing hard.

  “Anyone see you?”

  “If they weren’t after us before, I think they are now,” she gasped.

  “Sh—” Gat started to swear.

  “Don’t say it!” India cut him off.

  But he said it anyway and yanked her by the arm down into the gully. The river was about a half mile away. He was counting on the
dips in the landscape to conceal them. Over his shoulder in the twilight, he saw the flare of torches on the outskirts of the encampment and someone riding in their direction. He pulled India into a wash, but a snake’s rattle warned him it was already occupied.

  “What’s that?” whispered India.

  “Don’t move, something else was here first.” His eyes traveled slowly, searching. He spotted the rattler curled up on a stone within striking distance of India’s leg. The dry rattle of warning cut through the night air once more. Seeing the threat, India bit her lip in horror.

  “Don’t move,” Gat hissed, then he took aim and spit. A squirt of tobacco juice arced through the air, landing smack on target. The snake turned tail and slithered off.

  “Now, ma’am, what did you think of that?” whispered Gat.

  Though her heart was in her throat, India managed her usual scolding retort. “I still think it’s a disgusting habit!”

  “Well, if we get out of this with our skins, I promise I’ll quit chewin’.” With that pledge he gave her a shove and together they leaped out of the wash and ran across the last open stretch to the river.

  The horses were waiting, but Woman-Who-Killed-A-Bear’s daughter was gone. Gat tucked the baby in the saddlebag and India climbed up on Bluestocking. He swung up on his own horse, hoping the swiftly falling darkness would cloak their escape across the river back into Wyoming Territory.

  Chapter 19

  Gat shook the dust off his hat, his eyes searching the horizon in a slow sweep as India reined up her horse beside him in the stirrup-high grass. She squinted against the noonday sun and absently ran a finger under the collar of her dress. Thirsty and saddle sore, she was positive that if she were to lift her skirts in front of a looking glass her legs would now have a definite bow to them.

  She leaned forward and gave Bluestocking an affectionate pat on the neck. Gat had made a good choice, though in the beginning India had had qualms about climbing up on her back. The mare had proven to be a princess of ponies, gentle as a kitten despite her bronco blood.

  India turned her gaze to the baby still sleeping in the saddlebag pocket. The days in the Indian village had given the tiny thing a good start, but she still worried. The baby needed milk, a commodity they did not have.

  Waving away the insects from her face, India looked over at Gat. Though the July afternoon was warm, Gat’s shirt sleeves were still buttoned at the cuffs and a dark ring of perspiration shadowed his underarms. Beneath his sweat-stained hat, his face was tanned and weathered from sun and wind. His brows hunched over his eyes in the constant narrowness that she had grown to recognize in western wranglers. Now, traveling along, corsetless, wearing the lightweight calico dress, her bare legs browning in the sun, she was conscious not only of her own body, but also of Ransom’s. Removing herself from the thought of temptation, she nudged Bluestocking forward.

  “Hold up a minute,” Gat said, then took the rope from his saddle and slowly shook out a broad loop. He spurred his horse forward and India watched curiously as rider and horse seemed to target some unseen prey down along the river. Then she saw the flag tail movement of a herd of goats grazing on the bank.

  Standing with heads alert, the goats eyed Gat’s approach, then suddenly their gamey hindquarters leaped gazelle fashion up the embankment. Gat closed in, singling out a pendulous-uddered doe and her kid. For a moment she eluded him, then the horse closed in with an explosion of pounding hooves and flashing legs, and cornered the goat and her kid against the river. The horse feinted left, then rolled back on his hocks and broke to the right. Swiftly, smoothly, Gat cast the rope, his wrist turning downward at the moment of release with practiced skill. The loop fell softly on target. With a jerk Gat threw his weight on the rope, and it made a zipping sound as the loop tightened around the goat’s neck. By now the kid and mother were calling anxiously to one another as Gat towed the doe towards India.

  “Here’s the little bummer’s grub.” Gat was grinning. “I’ll tie up her back legs and you can milk her while I hold her. I don’t expect her to be too willing.” He cinched the rope around his saddle horn, slipped down off his horse and quickly lashed her dancing hind legs together. “Get the pot out of my saddle bag. By the show of her udder we’ll get a fair milking if we can hold her still.”

  India found the pot but approached the tied-up goat hesitantly. Gat strained, bracing the struggling goat against his body. “Well, what are you waiting for?” he finally asked, while she stood immobile beside the goat.

  “I don’t know how to go about it. I’ve never milked before.”

  “Damn!” Gat swore under his breath, a habit becoming more common with him as his days with India progressed. He yanked the rope to signal his horse to tighten up the slack.

  “You couldn’t ride, you couldn’t cook, now you can’t milk. Tell me, India Simms, what are you good for?”

  She drew herself up to match his rough temper and said smartly, “Voting, Mr. Ransom, for voting!”

  He gave a hopeless snort. “Get down off your soapbox for one minute, watch me and I’ll show you how to milk this contrary critter.”

  After a bit of maneuvering, he tied a back leg to a bush and depended on the horse to keep the rope line taut so the goat would be unbalanced enough to keep it from bucking. In no time he had the pot foaming with milk. “Come on then, get a little nearer and I’ll give you a lesson. You know it’s easier for a woman to milk a goat because of the size of her hands. Come a little nearer,” he encouraged, a twinkle in his eye. India knelt on one knee and peered down with sincere interest. In a sly movement Gat turned the angle of the teat and squirted her full in the face.

  “Why you…you devil!” She squealed and shoved him back on his heels. When he tumbled over, he pulled her with him. They rolled over and over like a pair of scrapping children until his thighs straddled her legs.

  “Honestly, I didn’t think you’d fall for it. I couldn’t help…” Gat apologized with a laugh.

  Gasping between fits of laughter she pushed her hands against his chest. “And I suppose you can’t help that you have me wrapped up in your arms like a papoose in a cradle board, either.”

  Her playful push triggered a sudden awareness of the intimacy of their position, and pent-up emotions within Gat broke loose. He looked into her beautiful blue eyes, soft with humor beneath nutmeg lashes. Seconds passed. Her soft breathing evened and there was a long silence while he struggled between what he wanted to do and what he was duty-bound to do.

  He remembered the kiss on the trail, the outright lust of it, and her own desire. He knew how easy it would be at this moment to put his lips to her cheek and feel her tremble from his kisses; to unloose the masses of tight-braided auburn hair and unravel it under his caressing hand. With his lips just inches from hers, he could bring his head down to taste the words leaving her tongue and lips, and with the mere thought a rigidity touched his groin. But again self-preservation held him back, for he knew if he made the first move she might blame him later for taking advantage of her. No, she’d have to come to him on her own terms, in her own time, and with her philosophies he knew it just might be never.

  Matching his gaze with genuine warmth, India could feel the tension in his muscles and she knew innately he wanted and desired her. Why did he hold back? Kiss me! Every part of her called out to him for he had touched off in her soul a powder keg of longings, which she feared might never be quenched. Kiss me…

  All the while his dark eyes searched hers, and then between one eyeblink and the next his intensity cooled. Reaching out a finger he brushed a cottonwood puff from her hair and pulled back. “Pardon, ma’am.” Reserve took over.

  Wildly embarrassed at the depth of her own wanton nature and his bland rejection, India retreated behind her schoolmistress facade. “Give me a hand up,” she said, tightness touched her throat. Gloved in leathery shield, he gave her his hand, and then he turned away to tend to the goats.

  Far to the west the sky was on
fire as daylight slowly faded away. Dusky silhouettes of ash and cottonwood marked the twisting flow of the river, and in their heights nightbirds sang out high, thin, single notes while India rocked a fussing baby Hope in her arms and listened to Gat echo the nightbirds’ refrains on his penny whistle.

  “She asleep yet?” whispered Gat, lowering his whistle.

  “No.”

  “Let me take her.” Gat bent down and took the baby into his arms. “I think she’s made a pig of herself on the goat’s milk. She’s got colic from overeating.”

  “How do you know so much about babies?” India handed him the baby and leaned back against her saddle.

  “A cowboy’s job is nursemaidin’. Most little critters are the same.” He was gently patting Hope on the back and walking around the campfire. “You’ve got to keep moving. That’s why she sleeps so good in the day when we’re riding.”

  “Since I never intend to marry, I haven’t paid much attention to such things.” India shook her head and gave a laugh of afterthought. “It’s odd how life plays tricks on us. Think of all the women yearning for motherhood and here I am with a baby. The one woman who has no wish for babe or beau.”

  “You ever had a beau?”

  India laughed outright. “Never! Though I did have the opportunity. When I was sixteen my parents forced me to attend the coming out ball. I was a willing wallflower the entire evening until Mr. Burnham Cooper asked me to dance. Then with unparalleled conceit he kindly informed me that I must not fall in love with him because he deigned to take pity and waltz with me. I remained polite but managed to stumble and step upon his polished patinas as much as possible.” India smiled reflectively. “And you? Is there one in the long line of women you’ve known you would call sweetheart?”

  Gat walked towards her and placed the now sleeping baby in the horse blanket cradle near India. “There hasn’t been all that many women in my life.” He sat down by her, stretched out his long legs comfortably and stared into the campfire. Bitterness touched his voice. “I’ve never had one I’d call sweetheart, but I did have one who broke my heart. I sometimes wonder what happened to Emmeline Carlisle and her banker husband,” he began, as if speaking to himself.