Tales of Western Romance (13 page)

Culhane stared up at her, one eyebrow raised.
“Given to the women? For what?”

Winter Star frowned as she sought for the
right words. “For their amusement, until you die.”

“
You mean they’re gonna torture
me?”

Winter Star nodded.

“
And that’s why you saved my life? So
they could take turns killing me an inch at a time?”

Winter Star’s cheeks flushed with guilt and
she looked away, unable to face the accusation in his eyes.

“
Thanks, anyway,” Culhane muttered
under his breath.

He cocked his head to one side, studying the
girl. Her skin was like smooth copper, her waist-length hair as
black as polished ebony, dark eyes luminous. Looking at her, he
knew why the Cheyenne were known as the Beautiful People.

“
Are you gonna help the women carve me
up?” he asked, unable to mask the bitterness in his
voice.

“
No.”

“
Just gonna watch?”

Winter Star bit down on her lip. His words
were as sharp as her mother’s skinning knife. “No.”

“
Why not?”

“
I... I cannot.”

“
Should be pretty entertaining,”
Culhane remarked. “Lots of blood. Me pukin’ my guts
out.”

“
I do not think you will die badly,”
Winter Star said quietly. “I think you will meet death bravely, as
a warrior should.”

Culhane swallowed hard. He didn’t want to
die, bravely or otherwise. “How long?” he asked, fighting down a
wave of despair. “How long does it usually take for a man to die
that way?”

Winter Star shrugged, wishing he would talk
of something else. “Some men die quickly. Sometimes it takes many
hours.”

“
Is it gonna be soon?”

“
No. They want you to be well and
strong.”

“
Figure I’ll last longer that way, I
expect.”

The merest hint of a smile touched Winter
Star’s lips. “Yes.”

“
Ne-toneseve-he?
” he asked,
stumbling over the Cheyenne pronunciation.
What’s your
name?

“
My people call me Winter
Star.”

“
That’s pretty. And so are
you.”

Winter Star blushed becomingly at his praise.
“I must go now.”

“
Wait. Winter Star. Could you bring me
my pants? I feel kinda silly, sitting here buck naked.”

“
I cannot.”

Before he could ask her again, she hurried
away.

* * * * *

The white man remained in her thoughts all
day. His handsome face danced before her eyes as she helped her
mother and the other women plant the corn, squash, and pumpkins
that would be harvested in the spring when they returned to this
place after the fall hunt.

When the planting was done, she went with Shy
Buffalo Girl and Willow to collect nuts and berries. The captive
white man was the main topic of conversation as they walked along.
Shy Buffalo Girl and Willow pestered Winter Star, wanting to know
if the white man was hairy all over, if his pale skin felt the same
as theirs.

Winter Star refused to answer their
questions, not wishing to talk about the man, or to think of the
awful fate awaiting him. She kept hearing his voice telling her she
was pretty. It pleased her beyond measure that he should think
so.

Later, in her lodge, she helped her mother
prepare the evening meal while Elk Hunter sat beside the fire
mending his favorite bow.

After dinner, Young Hawk stopped by,
ostensibly to speak to Elk Hunter, but he couldn’t keep his eyes
off Winter Star. She was one of the prettiest girls in the village
and he vowed to have her for his wife, although he knew it would
not be easy. Already, she had refused three of the tribe’s best
young men.

Young Hawk took his leave an hour later, and
Winter Star quickly put together some food to take to the white
man. Her heart pounded with eagerness as she walked toward him. She
felt her knees go strangely weak when he smiled at her, his dark
gray eyes sending her a warm welcome.

“
I have brought you some food,” Winter
Star said, kneeling beside him. “Roast buffalo meat and dried
plums.”

“
Hahoo,
” he said, his stomach
rumbling loudly at the promise of something to eat. “Thank
you.”

She took her time feeding him, glad for an
excuse to be near him. He was so handsome, she could not stop
looking at him. His shoulders were wide and well-muscled, his skin
very brown where the sun had touched him, lighter where his
clothing covered him. She gazed with wonder at the thick brown hair
matted on his chest, at the coarse brown stubble growing along his
jaw line and upper lip. Indian men did not have much hair on their
bodies; what little grew on their faces, they plucked out. To her
surprise, she discovered she rather liked the hair on his face.
Almost, she reached out to touch it.

She was sorry when he finished the meal.

“
Don’t go,” Culhane said when she
started to rise.

“
I must.”

“
Can’t you stay for a few
minutes?”

“
I should not...”

“
Please?”

“
Very well.”

“
Good. Tell me about yourself. Are you
married?”

“
No.”

“
How old are you?”

“
I have seen seventeen
summers.”

“
I thought most Indian girls married
young.”

“
Some do.”

“
But not you?”

“
I have not found a man who pleases
me,” she answered, and knew immediately it was a lie. She had found
a man who pleased her.
A white man
. She lifted her head
proudly. “Do not think I have not been asked.”

“
I didn’t think that,” Culhane assured
her. “Any man, red or white, would be lucky to have you for his
wife.”

“
Why do you say that? You do not even
know me.”

“
I know you’re lovely,” Culhane said
sincerely. “You have a kind heart, and gentle hands, and when I
look in your eyes, I see compassion for a stranger. Such women make
good wives.”

His words filled her heart with warmth and
happiness. She swallowed hard, not wanting him to know how deeply
his words touched her. “Do you wish anything before I go?”

“
I don’t suppose you could bring me a
blanket?”

“
No. I am sorry.”

“
It’s okay. It isn’t your
fault.”

Culhane felt a rush of loneliness when she
was gone. All around him, he saw families getting ready to turn in
for the night. Women took their toddlers outside to relieve
themselves before bed. The warriors strolled leisurely toward their
lodges, pausing now and then to speak to a friend. The maidens
folded their courting blankets and returned to the protection of
their homes; the young men walked proudly through the camp,
strutting like peacocks if they had been successful with the maiden
of their choice, making light of it if they had been rejected.

Soon, everyone disappeared inside, leaving
Culhane outside, alone. With a sigh, he curled up on the ground,
wishing his hands weren’t bound. It made getting comfortable
downright impossible. The ground was hard and cold, the wound in
his side ached dully.

Closing his eyes, he summoned Winter Star’s
image to mind in an effort to block out the pain and the knowledge
of what the future held. She was easily the most stunningly
beautiful girl he had ever seen and he held her image close as he
drifted to sleep.

Chapter 5

A week passed, and it was the longest seven
days of Culhane’s life. As his strength returned, he began to walk
around the post, stretching his legs, flexing his muscles, wanting
to be in good shape should he find a chance to escape. His nudity
had ceased to be an embarrassment to him. If the Indians wouldn’t
let him cover himself, then they’d just have to put up with his
bare butt sticking out. If the little girls learned a lesson in
male anatomy, so be it. Only when Winter Star was near did his
nakedness bother him.

But she was not here. Bored beyond belief, he
paced back and forth, fretting over his lack of freedom, cussing
the rope encircling his neck, the rawhide thong that bound his
hands. His wrists, chafed by the rough bindings, were red and
sore.

It was an eerie feeling, being ignored by one
and all. It made him feel as if he were less than human, a
non-person.

Nights, he lay curled upon the cold ground,
huddled into a tight ball, damning the Indians for refusing him the
dignity of clothing, the warmth of a blanket.

The only bright spot in his existence was the
twice-daily appearance of Winter Star. She brought him food and
water, her dark eyes always a little sad, her smile a little frayed
around the edges. Sometimes he persuaded her to stay and talk with
him, but most days she stayed only long enough to feed him.

“
I feel like a Christmas turkey,”
Culhane muttered one evening as she fed him a bowl of rabbit stew
flavored with sage and wild onions.

Winter Star looked at him askance, her head
tilted to one side.

“
Being fattened up for the kill,”
Culhane explained ruefully. “How much longer have I
got?”

“
Three days,” Winter Star said
quietly.

“
Damn.”

Wordlessly, Winter Star offered him another
spoonful of stew.

But his appetite was gone.

“
You must eat,” Winter Star
said.

“
I don’t have to do a damn thing,”
Culhane rasped angrily. “Get the hell away from me!”

She left without a word, leaving him to sit
in lonely isolation.

* * * * *

Winter Star could not get the white man out
of her thoughts that night. It seemed suddenly cruel, healing a man
just to kill him. It had been done before, on rare occasions, but
never had she felt such sorrow and compassion for the condemned
man. Never had she felt so guilty for what her people were going to
do.

It was long after midnight when she wrapped a
blanket around her shoulders and slipped out of the lodge. On
silent feet, she made her way through the sleeping village to the
white man’s side.

She had thought to find him asleep, but he
was sitting up, his back against the post, his legs drawn close to
his body.

“
What the hell are you doing here?” he
asked, his voice thick with anger and bitter
frustration.

“
You did not finish your dinner
tonight. I thought... I thought you might be hungry.”

“
I’m not.”

She nodded, her dark eyes filled with
sadness, and then she turned to go.

“
Winter Star, wait!”

“
Do you want something?”

“
Just your company. Sit with me
awhile.”

Gracefully, she dropped to the ground beside
him. Noting his shivers, she drew the blanket from her shoulders
and placed it over them both.

“
Thanks,” Culhane murmured. “I didn’t
mean to growl at you today.”

“
It does not matter. I understand what
you must be feeling. I cannot blame you for being
angry.”

Culhane nodded. He was angry, but not at
her.

“
Among my people, it is not proper to
ask someone for their name, but you have never told me yours, and I
would like to know it, if it would not offend you to tell
me.”

“
Culhane. Riley Culhane.”

“
Cul-hane.” She said it slowly, liking
the sound of it. “What does it mean?”

“
I’m not sure it means
anything.”

“
Do you have a family
somewhere?”

“
No.”

“
Will no one grieve for you when you
are gone?”

Culhane gave a short laugh. “Grieve? No one’s
even likely to miss me.”

“
I will grieve for you, Riley
Cul-hane.” Winter Star promised softly. “I will cut off my hair and
slash my flesh to show my sorrow.”

“
No!” he exclaimed, horrified by the
picture her words conjured in his mind.

“
It is the way of the People,” Winter
Star explained. “Sometimes a woman cuts off a finger when her
husband is killed. It is our way of showing grief at the loss of a
loved one.”

“
But I’m not a loved one,” Culhane
argued, bemused by the tears glistening in her eyes. “I’m a
stranger to you. The enemy.”

“
You are not my enemy,” she replied.
“And no one should die alone.”

“
Winter Star...” He whispered her name,
wanting to tell her how much he appreciated her concern, but he
could not form the words. He cursed his bound hands, wishing he
could take her in his arms and hold her tight, if only for a
moment. He longed to bury his lips in the soft blackness of her
hair, to kiss away her tears. What a rare creature she was, to feel
sorry for him, a stranger doomed to die.

As though sensing his need to touch her,
Winter Star placed her hand on his beard-roughened jaw. Her touch,
so light and gentle, was oddly sensual. Her nearness and the tender
caress of her hand kindled an aching sadness. If only he had met
her at another time, in another place. If only his people were not
at war with hers. If only he could take her in his arms and tell
her how much he had come to care for her. He had never known any
woman as sweet and desirable as the young Cheyenne woman sitting
quietly beside him, her fingertips lightly stroking his cheek, her
dark eyes filled with compassion.