Cheyenne Wife

“He’s better, don’t you think?” Lily asked, twisting her fingers together as she and Sykes stood beside her father’s bed. “He’s resting so comfortably now. He didn’t wake once during the night.”

“Maybe you ought to get some fresh air, Miss St. Claire,” Sykes suggested, not looking at her, “while I check over your pa.”

A knot of anxiety rose in Lily’s chest. “But—but he’s doing better, isn’t he?” she asked.

Sykes’s heavy jowls wobbled as he worried his lips together, his expression growing intense. “You just run on outside for a while.”

Lily searched his lined face for a hint of his thoughts, but found nothing.

“Very well,” she said, easing toward the door. “But I’ll be right outside in case…well, just in case.”

When he didn’t answer, she slipped from the room and closed the door behind her. She hesitated a few seconds, wanting to go back inside. After all these weeks at her father’s side, the separation seemed odd and uncomfortable.

But Mr. Sykes was a capable man—much more knowledgeable than herself. She should leave him to his task, let him handle it. Wasn’t that what she’d wanted since her father had injured himself?

Lily turned away and took in the fort. Upon her arrival yesterday, she’d hardly noticed the place in her hurry to get her father settled in a room. Now, she took a good look around.

The two-story fort was the only major permanent settlement on the Santa Fe Trail, according to what everyone on the wagon train had told her. Yesterday, Hiram Fredericks had proudly explained that the fort provided travelers, explorers and, occasionally, the U.S. Army, with a place to obtain supplies, livestock, food, fresh water, as well as rest and relaxation.

There was a bell tower and bastions at opposite corners of the fort that were used for lookout posts and for storage. Each bastion was armed with a cannon. Fredericks had explained that, so far, they’d never been used for defense, but for signals and to welcome important people, a fact that Lily was pleased to hear.

The fort housed much the same things as a small town: a kitchen, dining room, blacksmith and carpenter shop, warehouses and, of course, the trade room. Lily wasn’t sure what was upstairs on the second floor of the fort, other than more living quarters and the billiard room Fredericks had mentioned last night.

What Lily did know, for certain, was that the fort was populated mostly by men.

She kept her eyes forward as she walked, but felt the gazes of the men upon her. They paused in midstride. They stopped their chores, their conversations. Their faces appeared in windows and doorways.

Men. Big men. Frightening-looking men. Wild hair and unkempt beards. Buckskins stained with sweat. Faces lined with wind and sun. Trappers, mountain men, hunters, prospectors, explorers, adventurers.

A new awareness came with Lily’s every step, her every movement. The sway of her skirt, the rustle of her petticoats, the tug of the breeze in her hair, the fabric of her collar against her throat.

Lily glanced around. Where was Mrs. Nelson? Surely other women were here at the fort. Where were they?

A fear, a vulnerability settled in the pit of Lily’s stomach. Outnumbered. Overmatched. A lamb among the wolves.

She considered rushing back to her room, closing herself up inside, bolting the door, but Mr. Sykes had asked her to leave while he examined her father. She couldn’t burst in unannounced. What would he think of her if she walked in at an inappropriate moment?

Lily kept walking, dozens of gazes tracking her steps. She held her chin up, feigning a leisurely stroll, then darted through the passageway near the carpenter’s shop and into the alley behind.

No men.

She waited and held her breath as she watched the passageway. No one followed.

Relieved, Lily eased between the wooden crates and barrels stacked in the shade of the building, and found a spot to sit down. Hidden in the clutter, she felt somewhat safe and secure.

Across the alley, a horse was tethered to the corral fence at the corner of the stable. It stamped the ground, stirring up little dust clouds, and tossed its head fitfully, pulling at the rope.

The animal was no more comfortable at the fort than she was, Lily thought.

She sat back, trying to get comfortable, trying to relax, willing herself to shake the feeling of foreboding that still hung over her like a dark cloud, and turned her thoughts to her aunt in Richmond.

What would Aunt Maribel be doing at this exact moment? she wondered, turning her face skyward to catch the sun.

Or better still, what if Lily had talked her father out of making this trip altogether? Yes, that was a better fantasy, she decided. He’d be well and healthy, going about his business, as usual, in Saint Louis.

But the prospect of how different her life would be at this very moment if she’d gone to visit her wealthy aunt instead of making this trip, came unbidden into Lily’s mind once more.

She sighed quietly, indulging herself in the imaginary scene her mind conjured up.

She’d have spent her first week in her aunt’s lovely home getting acclimated to the new house, recovering from the journey, learning about the city. She’d luxuriate in a steaming tub, nap often, and be fawned over by a parade of maids and servants. Then preparations for the social outings to come would commence. Fabrics and patterns discussed, new gowns commissioned. The parties, teas and luncheons given in her honor to introduce her and welcome her to the city would take weeks, all amid ladies and gentlemen of good breeding and impeccable deportment.

Yet here she sat on a wooden crate, civilization but a distant memory, with the vague odor of animal manure in the air.

Lily settled her feet onto a lower crate and wrapped her arms around her knees. Another wave of loneliness washed over her. She’d never felt so isolated in her life. So vulnerable. So lost.

Tears pushed at the backs of her eyes, but she forced them down. If she allowed one single tear to fall, a torrent would follow—and she hadn’t thought to bring a handkerchief with her. Madame DuBois would be appalled.

The stallion tethered to the corral across the alley tossed its head and nickered, its eyes widening to circles of white. Fighting the lead rope, it pulled back, pawing at the earth. The animal was young and strong, a fine specimen of horseflesh. Lily knew he’d fetch a fine price—if he didn’t injure himself trying to escape.

A man appeared at the corner of the stable inside the corral. He wore trousers and a pale-blue shirt, with a black hat pulled low on his forehead that shaded his face.

Had she seen this man yesterday? Lily wondered. Something about him seemed familiar. Was he the man tending the brown mare she’d glimpsed as she’d spoken with Mr. Fredericks? The only man in the entire fort who hadn’t walked over to gawk at her?

A gasp slipped from Lily’s lips when she saw him headed toward the stallion. She almost called out a warning, but his slow, relaxed steps stopped her.

Low on the breeze, his voice came to her, a rumbling whisper. She couldn’t understand the words, but the tone was mesmerizing. The stallion thought so, too, apparently. As Lily watched, the man continued to speak softly as he inched closer, and by the time he reached the horse, it had settled down.

Still murmuring quietly, the man patted the horse’s neck and brought its big head against his chest. The stallion stood quietly.

Awe and mystery stirred in Lily. How had the man done that? Gentled the horse with nothing more than his words? She’d never seen anything like it.

Patting the stallion, the man turned his back to Lily. She gasped aloud. Straight, jet-black hair hung past his shoulders.

Indian.

A rush of emotion swept through Lily. Fear, apprehension, curiosity.

Everyone on the wagon train had warned her about these Indians, their savagery, their heinous acts, the atrocities they committed—things so vile men wouldn’t whisper them to a decent woman.

Yet this Indian seemed anything but menacing, despite his size. Tall, broad shouldered with thick arms and a lean waist. His pressed, well-mended clothing was the cleanest she’d seen at the fort.

And he had gentled the stallion. With words and measured actions, he’d not only brought the horse under control, but calmed it as well.

Sitting perfectly still on the crate, Lily watched as the breeze pulled at the man’s shirt and ruffled his black hair. One evening on the wagon train she’d spoken with a young woman who’d told her that Indian men had no hair on their chests. For the first time, Lily’s stomach tingled at the notion. Could it be true?

She’d seen a bare-chested man a few times in her life. On the journey west when the men of the wagon train had been forced to engage in some difficult work in the heat of the day, they’d occasionally taken off their shirts.

But what would a smooth chest look like?