Cheryl St.John - Badlands Bride

He truthfully hadn’t expected Tess Cordell—or Hallie Wainwright — to jump off that stage into his arms, eager to marry him. But after meeting the headstrong young woman who had arrived, the thought was appealing. What would he be doing tonight if the saucy beauty in the other room had been his intended bride? The thought unleashed the long-denied physical cravings of his body. Cooper couldn’t help wondering... wishing....

He turned over and adjusted his body in his nest of furs, banishing those dangerous thoughts. He’d see to her safety until the stage came to return her home. Until then, he’d be best off to keep his mind on business. If he didn’t, he’d be in for a whole pack of trouble.

But as he fell asleep, the last images in his mind were those of gold-flecked eyes arid hair as dark and shiny as a prime pelt.

Hallie awoke with a start. She sat up and blinked, orienting herself. Reassured at her surroundings, she relaxed against the warm, cozy mattress and pulled the soft blanket up to her chin. She’d slept the best she had in weeks. Her host had a comfortable bed and walls that blocked outside sounds. Anyone would be quite content here, no doubt.

Why had she thought that? Reluctantly she tossed back the covers and got out of bed. She washed her face and cleaned her teeth with the tepid water in the pan and dressed quickly, wondering if DeWitt was up.

Hesitantly she opened the door and peeked out. The man, along with his pile of furs, was gone. She wandered the scarcely furnished room and finally ventured out to use the necessary — the privy, he’d called it.

Finished, she opened the door and headed back. A whoop sounded beside her and she collided with a four-and-a-half-foot bundle of energy. Hallie caught her balance, but the boy sprawled in the grass. Immediately he jumped to his feet and stared at her.

Hallie stared back, heart pounding. An Indian boy!

She cast a wild glance about. Where had he come from? Were there more hiding nearby? Surely he wasn’t alone. Was he lost?

Seeing no one else, she inspected him from head to foot. He wore trousers, a fringed tunic shirt like DeWitt’s and moccasins. Jet black hair hung to his shoulders.

Perhaps it was a trick. Maybe the rest of his tribe was waiting to swoop down on them. Should she run for DeWitt? Or scream?

The boy, who appeared to be about ten, glared at her.

She raised her hand in what she hoped was a peaceful greeting. “Hello,” she said, and thought herself foolish. How was he supposed to understand?

“Who are you?” he asked in an annoyed tone, his black eyes scouring her face and hair.

“I’m Hallie Wainwright. Who are you?”

“Are you here to marry Cooper?” he asked without replying.

Startled at his speech, she overlooked his rudeness. “No. He’s letting me stay with him. Who are you?”

“I am Yellow Eagle of the Wajaje tiyospay, ” he said proudly.

“Where are you from?”

“What does it matter to you where I come from? It isn’t my home anymore because of your people.”

His hostility took her aback.

“Go back where you came from,” he said, and turned away.

Just then an Indian woman appeared in the doorway of one of the sod houses. She wore a slim, ankle-length dress made out of the same soft-looking leather as Mr. DeWitt’s clothing. Hallie stared in fascination. How many of them were there? They lived here? She’d thought the buildings and property all belonged to DeWitt.

The raven-haired woman walked toward them on silent moccasined feet. She said something to Yellow Eagle that Hallie couldn’t understand.

Annoyance laced Yellow Eagle’s tone and expression as he replied in their language.

The woman spoke sharply. He turned back reluctantly. “My mother says to tell you she is Chumani,” he translated. “She is honored to meet you and you must come eat.”

“Oh, no, I—I couldn’t possibly. Thank you, but—”

“Good, don’t eat.” He started to walk away.

The woman stopped him with a sharp command.

“She says Coop has already eaten and she has saved food for you.”

“This morning, you mean? Mr. DeWitt ate with you this morning?”

“He always eats with us.”

Confused, Hallie met the dark-skinned woman’s gaze. She had prominent cheekbones and wide-set, uncertain eyes. It seemed to Hallie as though she were waiting for either approval or rejection. She said something to Yellow Eagle.

“What did she say?” Hallie asked.

“She wants to know what you said.”

Hallie relaxed. If DeWitt ate with them regularly, it must be safe. “Tell her I’m grateful for her kind invitation.”

Yellow Eagle spoke to Chumani in a few hard syllables. She smiled and led the way into the sod house.

The small room was clean and orderly. Chairs on one side of the blackened fireplace were upholstered with hides. A solid table and benches sat on the other. Chumani gestured for Hallie to sit. She prepared a plate from the kettles over the fire and placed it before her. Hallie picked up a smooth bone utensil and tasted the gravylike mixture poured over biscuits.

“This is delicious.”

At a grunt from his mother, Yellow Eagle translated and Chumani gave her a cup of coffee. Hallie had never cared for coffee, but she took several sips so she wouldn’t offend her hostess. The woman sat across from her with a quill needle and sewed a sleeve into a leather shirt.

Hallie wondered for a moment why the woman and her son hadn’t made an appearance the night before and then realized they’d probably assumed Mr. DeWitt was bringing a wife home and they had given him privacy.

How curious that these Indians were living here among the motley bunch of inhabitants in Stone Creek. Now that she thought about it rationally, she realized that most news about the tribes in different areas relayed that they’d signed treaties and were living on land allotted by the government.

“How did you come to be here?” she asked, unable to quell her curiosity.

“We are Oglala,” the boy replied, as if that answered everything.

“Where is the rest of your family?”

“Most are at the reservation without enough to eat, treated like dogs.”

“Is that why you’re here?”

He looked at his mother before answering. “Here we have food and firewood.”

“You take care of yourselves?”

“My father was murdered.”

The bit of information shocked her. “How awful.”

“Cooper is my father now,” he said, raising his chin indignantly.

That took a few minutes to register. Hallie regarded the soft leather shirt in the Indian woman’s hands. It was identical to the one Mr. DeWitt had worn yesterday. She raised her eyes to her pleasant, dark-skinned face. Chumani made his shirts?

Chumani spoke softly with her son while Hallie stared into her coffee. “Te-wah-hay, ” she said.

“What did she say?” Hallie asked.

“We are Cooper’s family,” the boy said.

A spark of disappointment and anger flickered in her chest. The boy considered DeWitt his father, and the woman made him shirts. She’d heard of mountain men and trappers taking Indian wives. The idea wouldn’t be disturbing by itself. She stared into her tin cup.

What really sent a jolt of annoyance sparking through her blood was the fact that he’d advertised for a wife when he already had an Indian woman hidden away back here. What kind of man was Cooper DeWitt? And why had he wanted to bring a city woman out here?

She recalled the wording of his letter. He’d needed a woman to read and write. Someone to help him with his business. She remembered his words about not expecting the bride to fall at his feet. Hallie’s eyes wavered back to Chumani. Now she knew why nothing but education had been important. Cooper DeWitt already had a wife.