Whitefeather's Woman Page 7

  Before John could stop him, Bearspeaker began reciting a litany of Moon Raven’s ancestors back several generations. Was this how buffalo felt when they were being harried over the edge of a cliff? John wondered.

  When they ate, his aunt instructed Moon Raven to bring John his food and sit beside him. He might have warmed to this paragon of Cheyenne womanhood a little more if she’d shown just a flicker of embarrassment.

  “Say again how old you are, Night Horse—twenty-five?” This was the third time Walks on Ice had asked his age.

  “Your ears must be failing, Auntie, or else your memory. I’m an old man of thirty.”

  “That much? And still alone in the world. The wife of your friend Red Stone gave birth to twins not long ago.”

  “I’ll buy him a cigar,” John muttered in English.

  Walks on Ice could not have cast him a darker look if she’d understood what he was saying.

  She made one last try as he was saddling up for his ride back to the ranch. “One year working on that ranch has pulled you away from our people more than all your time at the white man’s school, Night Horse.”

  His irritation vanished and he tried to reassure her. “I have to work there to repay Caleb for helping us buy this land. You know my heart will always be Cheyenne, old one.”

  Taking a Cheyenne wife would prove it to her and to the rest of their band. John mulled the notion over as he rode away from Sweetgrass.

  Moon Raven was exactly the kind of wife he needed—calm, strong, bred for Big Sky life. As his aunt had pointed out so often that day, he wasn’t getting any younger.

  But there was a difference between knowing something with your head and feeling it in your heart. As John approached the Kincaid ranch, that chasm stretched before him, wider than a badlands canyon.

  With the setting sun at his back, he saw Jane Harris before she saw him.

  She stood on the verandah at the rear of the house, her sorrel-colored hair unbound and rippling behind her in the breeze. Beside the stout timbers of the ranch house, she looked so fragile. Vulnerable to every powerful, pitiless force of nature on the frontier.

  If there was a woman more wrong for him on so many counts, John had never met her. Yet almost from the first moment he’d encountered Jane Harris, she had stirred something inside him.

  Now, for instance. Spying her in an unguarded moment, with her hair flying wild in the wind, John caught himself picturing her splendidly bare. Like the Bible story he’d learned at residential school—Eve in the Garden of Eden.

  She had no business provoking such thoughts in him.

  “Getting prettied up for tonight?” he called to her. He almost asked if she was primping on account of Dr. Gray, but at the last minute the words soured in his mouth.

  Jane let out a squeak that might have been a pathetic excuse for a scream. If she’d been a prairie dog, she would have disappeared down her hole. A bird and she would have taken to the air.

  “Don’t you know it’s impolite to sneak up on folks?” She gathered her drying hair and pulled it over one shoulder.

  John edged his horse right up to the verandah. “For a gal who scares so easy, you aren’t much good at staying alert.”

  “I wish I could find a place where I didn’t have to be on guard all the time.” The wistful tone of her voice and the longing in her eyes whispered past John’s defenses. They raised a lump in his throat and made his arms ache to hold her.

  He understood her craving for sanctuary. But life’s harsh lessons had taught him that no such place existed. In truth, the illusion of security represented the greatest threat of all.

  “Maybe what you need isn’t a place, but a person.”

  He couldn’t be that person, for a hundred solid, practical reasons. Once again John struggled to reconcile the contrary bidding of his sensible, prudent head with that of his baffled, bewildered heart.

  Chapter Six

  “Jane, this is Winslow Gray.” Ruth gave her a gentle push toward the doctor. “He’s come all the way from Saint Louis to be our new doctor in Whitehorn.”

  Jane tried to summon up a smile.

  With Barton fast asleep and Zeke spending the night at his uncle Brock’s place, the adult members of the Kincaid household welcomed their guest in the parlor—Jane’s least favorite room in the house. Elegantly appointed by Montana standards, with furniture Marie Kincaid had ordered from Chicago, it made Jane feel like she was back at Mrs. Endicott’s Beacon Hill mansion.

  “Dr. Gray, this is Miss Jane Harris. She’s here for a while helping me with the children. She’s from Boston.”

  “Miss Harris, a pleasure to meet you.” Dr. Gray held out his hand.

  Jane reached up to grasp it tentatively. Did all the men in Montana have to be so tall—even the ones who came from elsewhere? Aside from his height, he wasn’t so very alarming in appearance. But then, Emery hadn’t been, either.

  “G-good evening, Dr. Gray.” She couldn’t bring herself to mouth a polite falsehood about being delighted to meet him.

  A pleasant-featured man, the doctor had a full head of dark hair and a lean muscular figure that looked very distinguished in a suit. Behind his spectacles, a pair of perceptive green eyes appraised the world. Including her.

  Jane wished he’d go jump on his horse and ride back to Whitehorn at top speed.

  A wave of panic engulfed her as she felt the cashmere shawl begin to slip off her shoulder. She wrenched her hand from the doctor’s firm grip to rescue it before her scars blazed out for all to see.

  Dr. Gray drew back when she pulled away from his handshake so abruptly. “Is something the matter, Miss Harris?”

  “Of course not.” Jane tugged her shawl securely over her right shoulder and tucked one end under her arm to anchor it in place. “What makes you think there’s anything the matter?”

  The Kincaids, God bless them, had politely ignored her intermittent signs of alarm. Clearly a physician was used to taking note of such things and probing until he discovered their cause.

  “I thought perhaps I’d gripped your hand too hard.” The doctor sounded apologetic.

  “Nonsense,” chimed in Ruth, leading their guest toward the horsehair sofa. “Jane may look as delicate as a flower, but she’s really very capable. I don’t know how I’d have managed the past little while without her.”

  “I heard you had an outbreak of scarlet fever among the Cheyenne children, Mrs. Kincaid. Is there anything I can do to help?”

  “That’s kind of you to ask. Isn’t Dr. Gray a kind man, Jane? There haven’t been any new cases in a while and the ones who were sick seem to be getting stronger.”

  As Ruth and the doctor talked, Jane began to relax. If the two of them would spend the rest of the evening discussing medical matters, this dinner might not be so bad, after all.

  She glanced across the room to where John stood behind a stiffly upholstered brocade armchair. He seemed every bit as stiff and formal in a starched collar, string tie and dress suit. His long hair, which looked so natural hanging down the back of a coarse cotton work shirt, suddenly appeared exotic and out of place to Jane. Though not unattractive for all that.

  His singular blue eyes surveyed her, too, but without the doctor’s searching scrutiny. Jane sensed a hint of warmth in his gaze, and for the first time in her life she felt pretty.

  From his place beside a low, glass-fronted cabinet, Caleb called out, “Can I offer you a little something to moisten your throat, Doc?”

  “I wouldn’t say no to bourbon and branch.” The doctor winked at his host as Jane tried not to cringe.

  “Anything for you, John?”

  “Sarsaparilla.”

  “Sarsaparilla it is. Jane, could I trouble you to take the doc his drink?” Caleb held out a glass containing a liberal measure of the whiskey-and-water mixture.

  Mooring her shawl securely, Jane crossed the carpeted parlor to fetch Dr. Gray his drink. She willed her hand not to tremble as she passed it to him, and for a wo
nder she succeeded.

  Ruth shifted from her place on the sofa beside the doctor. “I must go see how dinner’s coming. Jane, you sit right down here and keep Dr. Gray company. Tell him about what happened to your train in Chicago.”

  “I’m sure he wouldn’t be interested in that, Ruth.” Jane headed for the door. “I’ll be glad to check on the dinner for you.”

  In her haste, she tripped on a wrinkle in the rug and took a couple of staggering steps before she regained her balance. Ruth grabbed the trailing end of Jane’s shawl and pulled her back.

  “Of course you’re interested, aren’t you, Doctor? The train was derailed. Jane barely escaped with her life—lost all her clothes and personal things when the baggage car caught fire.”

  With a firm hand, Ruth hauled Jane down onto the sofa between herself and Dr. Gray. “Go ahead, dear. Tell him about it.”

  The doctor took a long drink from his glass. “A train wreck, you say? Funny, I don’t recall reading anything about it in the papers. How long ago did it happen?”

  When he spoke to her, Jane smelled the spirits on his breath. Her own breathing picked up tempo, yet she felt as if she could not draw in enough air. She wasn’t sure what unsettled her more—the whiskey fumes that reminded her so potently of Emery at his worst, or the doctor’s relentless inquisition about her invented train wreck.

  “Not the whole train, just a couple of cars. I don’t expect the papers made much of it.”

  As Ruth bustled off to the kitchen, Jane wiggled over onto the part of the sofa she’d vacated, putting as much space as possible between herself and the doctor.

  “Ruth makes it sound much worse than it was.” Jane tried to laugh, but she couldn’t catch her breath. Her lungs felt like a pair of bellows being pumped by an overeager youth.

  “Are you sure you’re feeling all right, Miss Harris?” The doctor made a sudden lunge toward her, his hand upraised.

  The last thing Jane remembered was the sound of her own scream.

  “What the devil…?” Winslow Gray put a practiced hand to Jane’s throat, a couple of inches below her ear. “Good lord, her pulse is galloping like a runaway horse. I think the lady’s swooned!”

  John dashed across the parlor. His own pulse had been pounding in his ears as he watched Jane being squeezed onto the sofa almost thigh-to-thigh with Dr. Gray.

  She had been acting very nervous this evening, even for her. Somehow her dismay had communicated itself to him. It upset him to see her upset, even though he didn’t understand the reason. He didn’t like seeing her gussied up in that lacy yellow dress, either. It looked so much more appropriate for Boston or Saint Louis than Montana. John resented the notion that another man might recognize her fragile beauty. He had a crazy desire to keep it a secret between himself and Zeke.

  “Jane?” He knelt by the sofa, clutching her impossibly delicate hand in his. It was as cold as a Montana winter.

  The doctor scrambled up from his seat. “My bag’s just in the kitchen. I’ll dig out my smelling salts.”

  “Marie used to faint at the drop of a hat.” Caleb sounded bored. “Give the lady a belt of neat whiskey when she comes around.”

  John shot his brother-in-law a venomous glare. “Get it through your thick head—Jane Harris is not like Marie!”

  “If you say so.” Caleb shrugged, clearly not convinced.

  “Jane, can you hear me?” For the first time, John felt the softness of her skin beneath his fingertips.

  It intoxicated him as surely as Caleb’s whiskey would have done, filling his mind with tantalizing urges, preposterous desires.

  “Come on, now. Wake up.” He smoothed a wisp of golden-brown hair back from her brow, barely holding back the urge to pull all the pins out and let her hair tumble down as he had seen it on the verandah. A river of honeyed silk that a man would gladly drown in.

  Her eyelids fluttered, as did her golden lashes, fine as cobwebs.

  Swift, purposeful footsteps sounded behind John, and he felt himself shunted aside by the doctor, who thrust a vial of smelling salts under Jane’s nose.

  John wanted to push back, hard. He resented being elbowed out of the way by this well-groomed Easterner, with his polished manners and superior education. The fact that Winslow Gray would make an ideal husband for Jane did nothing to improve John’s opinion of him.

  As Jane inhaled the pungent whiff of ammonia, she jerked awake. Clutching the shawl tight around her shoulders, she shrank from the handsome doctor.

  “Please don’t touch me. I’m fine now. I can’t think what made me faint.” Her eyes sought and found John’s. In them he read a desperate plea for rescue.

  It was all the invitation he needed.

  John pulled the doctor away, none too gently. “You heard the lady. Leave her be while she catches her breath.”

  “Perhaps her memories of the train accident overwhelmed Miss Harris.” Dr. Gray straightened his tie and replaced the smelling salts in his satchel. “I’ve seen it before. Patients keep their heads while they’re in peril only to suffer delayed shock afterward.”

  That certainly explained Jane’s queer behavior since she’d arrived in Whitehorn. Capable and composed one minute, jumpy as a scalded cat the next. John had put it down to a highstrung nature, not taking into account what she must have been through.

  “She needs rest and quiet.” His words came out like a harsh reproach of their guest.

  When Jane gazed up at him, her soft hazel eyes glowing with gratitude, his heart seemed to swell in his chest. John fought the urge to grin like a simpleton.

  He scooped her off the sofa, lurching slightly as he straightened up with Jane cradled in his arms. Not because she was heavy to carry, but because the smell of her hair wafted into his face, momentarily turning his knees to water.

  As John took a step toward the parlor door, his sister suddenly appeared in his path.

  “What’s going on here? Where do you think you’re taking Jane?”

  “She fainted.” John nodded toward the doctor. “He upset her, asking all kinds of questions about the train accident. I’m putting her to bed.”

  “I’m sure she’ll be fine. Just give her a minute to collect her wits.” Ruth shot John a look that reminded him of Walks on Ice.

  “Give her whiskey,” suggested Caleb again.

  “I’m putting her to bed.” John stepped around his sister and headed for the stairs.

  Behind him, John heard Dr. Gray apologizing to Caleb and Ruth. “I’m sorry if I upset the lady. I had no idea her memories of the incident were still so vivid and painful.”

  John’s conscience smarted. He had no business blaming the new doctor, when he hadn’t guessed Jane’s problem after having known her a good deal longer.

  She nestled in his arms, as weak and trusting as a newborn foal. John found his steps slowing as he approached her bedroom door, overpowered by a reluctance to let her go.

  Slowly he turned the knob and nudged the door open. Setting behind the Crazy Mountains, the evening sun cast just enough light into Jane’s bedroom for John to find her bed. As he eased her down onto the mattress, his arms ached with a chill emptiness.

  “Can I get you anything?” he murmured. “Glass of water? A drop of whiskey?”

  “Not just now.” Her voice sounded weak and weary.

  He picked up the extra quilt Ruth always kept folded at the foot of the bed and pulled it over Jane.

  “Thank you for rescuing me. Tell Ruth I’m sorry I made such a fool of myself. I’m not much used to entertaining.”

  “Don’t fret about Ruth. Or about Dr. Gray.” John’s hands itched to stroke her hair. He almost had to sit on them to keep them still. “Rest, now. That train crash must have been a lot worse than you let on.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  John understood. But that didn’t make it any easier for him to hear. “That day on the horses, when you told me about your folks and I told you about mine. I’m s
orry I turned away when I did.”

  Anxious as she was to keep a safe distance from folks, what had it cost her to reach out to him?

  The quilt lifted as she shrugged. “I guess there are somethings we can’t trust an outsider to understand, no matter how well they mean.”

  An outsider. The word clouted John like a sack of horseshoes. He knew about being an outsider, all right. To be a half-breed meant living permanently on the outside. A woman like Jane Harris was the ultimate outsider on the Montana range. Perhaps that was the mysterious force drawing him to her, in spite of his reason and his will.

  “It was right after Little Big Horn,” John heard himself say. “Bunch of buffalo hunters ambushed our camp. They got my parents and two little brothers.”

  In the quiet, shadowy little room, the sound of distant voices and footsteps drifted up from the bottom floor. Ruth, Caleb and the doctor must be going to eat before the food got cold.

  “How did you and Ruth escape?” He heard the hesitation in Jane’s voice. A fear that her question might hurt or anger him.

  “Ruth wasn’t much older than Barton is now. Some relatives were looking after her.”

  He expected Jane to ask again about him, but she didn’t. At least not with words. John felt her silent sympathy wrap around him, though, coaxing him to lighten the burden on his mind.

  “I was a little ways off from the rest. My mother screamed a warning to me and I…ran. I don’t think they’d have killed her if she’d kept quiet.”

  The blanket stirred in a barely noticeable rise and fall.

  “Jane, what is it?” His hand brushed her cheek and came away wet.

  “Oh, Jane.” He gathered her in his arms, nuzzling his cheek against her fragrant hair as she wept all the silent tears he had kept locked in his heart for twenty bone-dry years.

  During the past weeks, he’d watched her come close to crying many times, but never completely surrender. Now she wept for him, and John struggled to breathe as impossible feelings for her ransacked his heart.