The Bride Wore Feathers (35 page)

Jacob cursed the general and the orders that kept him close by his side. It was increasingly difficult to break away, to report to Gall and inform him of the soldiers' plans. Custer liked to join the scouting expeditions himself, and he led his men with an arrogance suggesting there wasn't another who could do the job as well.

Again Jacob spit into the grass. He would have to get away soon. News had reached him of yet another column of soldiers coming in from the north. If what Jacob heard was correct, these troops would soon come across the main Lakota and Cheyenne camps hidden in the Tongue River valley.

Jacob took a deep breath and decided to follow his commander's orders. He lay back against the sweet spring grass and closed his eyes. Then he thought of Dominique and the way she'd looked the last time he saw her. Her beautiful brown eyes were flowing with tears as she cried and begged him to take her away with him. She was utterly helpless, vulnerable, and terrified. All that and more. His heart lurched, then left a terrible ache in his chest when he thought of the misery and terror she must be enduring.

All because of him. Someday, he vowed, if there was any way possible, he would make it all up to her.

For now, Jacob thought with a heavy sigh, he could only pray that she would somehow be able to endure her ordeal.

* * *

Several hours later, and many miles farther to the west, Jacob's woman hummed as the final rawhide thongs secured her lodge for the night.

"Put it over there," Dominique said, pointing to a spot near Jacob's tipi.

The young girl dropped a fresh supply of buffalo chips into the parfleche, then turned expectantly and waited for her next order.

"Thanks, Yellow Flower. Now would you please bring Spotted Feather to me?"

Bowing, practically kissing the white woman's feet, the youngster scrambled off on her new errand. Dominique stood back and surveyed the new camping spot. After the shots were fired in the morning, the village had been dismantled immediately. Before Dominique could even ask where they were going or who had been shooting at them, Spotted Feather appeared with Peaches and urged her to mount up. She was not asked to carry anything or even to pack up her meager belongings.

Now that they were settling in for the night, the first tipis erected had been the warriors' lodge followed by the one she shared with Jacob. Dominique had nothing to do now but wait for the remaining tipis to be raised and supper to be cooked. She took a deep breath and exhaled, thinking how different her life had become in just one day. Then she saw Spotted Feather sprinting toward her.

Out of breath, the Indian gasped, "Yes? What is it you wish now, crazy one—Oh. I am sorry."

"That's all right. Crazy one is a name I'm used to, thanks to Jacob. I didn't mean to interrupt your chores, but I wonder if you could help me out. I'm bored."

"Bored?" Spotted Feather cocked her head. "Sick?"

"Only in the head." She laughed. "I just want something to do that won't scare the hell out of me or turn me into an old woman. What can I do to help out?"

"Work?
But you should rest. The chief tells us you are recovering from the attack of a great bear. He has ordered that you rest and become well."

"I am well," Dominique insisted. "The wound doesn't bother me near as much as the boredom does. Now, please, there must be something I can do beside tan hides. I can't stand sitting around doing nothing."

Spotted Feather wrinkled her brow, but glanced around the village. Then she looked back at Jacob's tipi, to the very lodge she'd hoped to decorate herself one day, and sighed. "If you like to paint, you might as well work on your husband's lodge."

Dominique glanced at Jacob's tipi, then around at the others. Of those that were completely erected, most were covered with hunting and war scenes, painted either as stick figures or in crude, childlike terms. Jacob's tipi was unadorned. "What do the pictures mean?" she asked, suddenly intrigued.

"Some tell of a warrior's coups, others, of his great hunts or years of prosperity. All reflect the warrior's life."

Dominique pressed her fingertip to her mouth and swayed as she considered the possibilities. "Are these paintings a means of identification?"

"I do not know what is identification."

"The paintings—do they tell us the name of the warrior who lives in the tipi?"

Spotted Feather shrugged. "I suppose it is so."

Dominique's grin was huge as she studied the large buffalo-skin canvas before her. Although she was none too proud of her scholastic records during her years at boarding school, she'd always enjoyed and excelled in art classes. Maybe there was a way to use this talent to please her man after all.

She turned back to Spotted Feather, the natural light in her eyes bright with excitement. "Tell me about the paints and the brushes. Where do I get them?"

Grumbling to herself, Spotted Feather disappeared for a moment, then returned with the equipment. "This brush is made from a piece of buffalo shoulderblade," she explained as she passed the tool to Dominique. "For smaller things, you can make many little brushes from this porcupine tail."

Squatting down, the Indian opened the large parfleche she carried and took several small pots from it. "These are your paints. They are made from the juice of berries and baked earth of many colors. If you wish to have more colors than these, you can mix them together." She pointed to a pot, explaining, "If you mix this one with the one—"

"I think I understand," Dominique cut in, eager to begin. "Thanks for your help."

With a barely contained sneer, Spotted Feather returned to her chores.

Dominique stood back and surveyed her giant canvas. After visualizing, then discarding many subjects, she finally settled on the perfect one. Then she painted until dark.

* * *

Two days of travel and two temporary villages later, the Hunkpapa settled down in a ravine near the Powder River. They were now eighty miles closer to their rendezvous with the other hostiles waiting at the Rosebud, and more than thirty miles beyond the reach of Custer's army.

While the other women finished setting up camp, Dominique finished the first scene on the tipi. Using her lips and tongue, she shaped the end of her small brush into a fine point and added a dash of white to the large sapphire eyeball she'd painted earlier. Then, as she stood back to make certain she had the correct angle on the highlight, Spotted Feather approached.

"Oh," the Indian sighed, her jealousy overridden by astonishment. "This is truly magnificent."

"Do you really think so?" Dominique glanced at the squaw, then back up at the giant eagle she'd been working
on.
Perched above the flap of the tipi, the bird's image was one of strength, of boldness, from the tip of its open beak to its wide-stretched wingspan. Dominique had blended the paints, then shaded the canvas so precisely that each feather was clearly defined.

Below the bird's body, one foot, its talons sharp and threatening, gripped the limb of an oak, but the other hung free, swollen and useless. Beneath this blood-red foot, a column of ants led down to the small mound painted at the base of the tipi.

Laughing at the symbolism, Dominique turned to Spotted Feather, asking, "What do you think Jacob will say about this? I hope he won't think it's too silly."

"Not silly," she breathed, still shaking her head in awe. "Oh, no. Redfoot with think it is truly beautiful." Her mouth open, she continued to stare at the expert depiction of the eagle.

From the distance, several yips reached their ears, then echoed throughout the village.

Spotted Feather turned to Dominique, her eyes wide. "He has returned. I must prepare his food."

"Who?"

"Redfoot, crazy one. I must go prepare his food."

"He's my—" She paused, still unable to believe it, but managed to say, "My husband. I'll prepare his supper."

Spotted Feather glared, in spite of her promises, then turned and marched toward the fire. Dominique followed along behind the Indian, uninterested in the squaw's instant lack of respect. She suddenly had bigger things on her mind. Over the past three days, she'd done little but paint and think about what she would say to Jacob when she saw him again. She'd rehearsed angry speeches, indignant demands, and accusing phrases. Now she couldn't seem to remember even one of them. She stood beside Spotted Feather at the cooking pouch, more hindrance than help as she absentmindedly stirred the stew and tried to recall the slightest word that might trigger her memory.

Then, too soon, Dominique saw him at the fringes of the village. Jacob walked through the smoky ribbons of twilight, his carriage proud, his thick German body shadowing those of his smaller Lakota brothers. His head bent low, he listened to one of the warriors, then responded with quiet animation. As he talked, he transferred his broad-rimmed hat and rifle to one hand, and worked at unbuttoning his gray regulation shirt with the other. When he stopped to give the hat and gun to his friend, Jacob finally looked up toward the center fire ring. Then he saw his woman. He froze, locking her eyes with his.

From across the short distance, his intense gaze hit Dominique harder than his fist ever had. She took a backward step, stunned by the raw emotions running rampant inside her. And then he began to move again. Slowly, his eyes never leaving hers, he peeled off his shirt and added it to his friend's bundle. Then, his steps deliberate and calculated, Jacob advanced on her.

By the time he reached the fire, Dominique had given up the search for forgotten speeches. Instead, she struggled just to form the syllables and say one word: "Hello."

"Dominique," he breathed as he reached for her hand. "Are you well and happy? Have you—" Jacob's words evaporated as he noticed the healing wounds running the length of her arm. "What has happened to you?"

"It's nothing."

But Jacob pulled her closer and began a thorough inspection. He found not only the claw marks on her arms, but the bruises on her neck and the scratches on her legs. "You have been mauled, and more. How has this happened to you?" he demanded.

Spotted Feather shouldered her way against him, but the blend of envy and love vanished from her eyes as she listened to Jacob's questions and understood the response the answers might bring. The crazy one would tell him what had happened. Redfoot's anger would not be with the white dog but with her. And worse, if he really did feel some love for this she-devil, he might be
very
angry.

Spotted Feather hunched her shoulders, making it look as if she were shrinking inside her dress, and backed away from them.

The movement wasn't lost on Jacob. He glanced at the Indian, then turned his suspicious gaze on his wife. "Well? I do not wish to ask you again. What happened?"

Dominique peered out of the corner of her eye at the woman she'd befriended, then straightened her shoulders and found her voice. "Like you, I've been a little clumsy. I fell off my horse."

Jacob's eyes narrowed. Again he looked from Dominique to Spotted Feather and back to Dominique. "I don't believe you have told me all there is to tell. You did not receive these wounds falling off a horse. I want the truth."

At his words, Dominique found a lot more than her voice. Her memory returned. "That's as much truth as you deserve. It's certainly as much or more than you've ever told me."

After glancing around at his people, he looked back at Dominique, his gaze a distinct warning. "The only words I want to hear from your flapping tongue, woman, are the answers to my questions. Do you understand?"

"Perfectly," she said, setting her chin. "And the thing I understand best is that you are two-toned, two-faced liar."

Taken back, Jacob raised his brows and said, "What? Why do you dare talk to me this way?"

"Because I, too, seek the truth, Mr. Redfoot." She lifted her chin and stood on tiptoe, bringing her shoulders level with his chest. "Why don't you start telling me the truth, husband dear? Maybe then you'll get a few honest answers from me."

"Oh," he whispered quietly, "you found out about that." Jacob released her arm, then stepped aside. "Perhaps we should continue this discussion later in my—our tipi."

"Perhaps, dear husband, that is one of the more clever things you have thought of in a long time." She put her hands on her hips and leaned forward. "I think now would be an excellent time for our conversation, don't you?"

Jacob stared into her eyes, into what might have been the sable depths of insanity, and considered his options. He could stand his ground, as any Lakota warrior would, and order her to the tipi where she would have to wait until he was good and ready to talk. He took a quick survey of the other villagers. Yes, that was what he ought to do. Then he thought of the possible consequences and of Dominique's probable reaction.

The idea of the tears and sobs that would most likely accompany her expected response, the fact that her reaction would occur right out here in front of the other warriors, drove him to say, "Now may be the best time for us to talk. Yes, we will talk now. Into the tipi, woman. Go now."

Flashing a triumphant grin, Dominique whirled around and sashayed off toward the lodge.

So intent on choosing the correct words to explain their "mystery" wedding, Jacob directed his full attention to Dominique's retreating figure—and to her cute round bottom straining at the fabric of the white buckskin dress she still wore. After that taut behind disappeared into the tipi, Jacob started to follow her inside. Then he froze in mid-stride. Surely that was not the eye of some monstrous bald eagle staring him in the face. He stood back, staring up at the painting and said, "What is this?"