Chapter 14 #3
Sloan didn’t sleep. He propped himself up on his elbow and watched his wife as she slept.
He felt disturbed, beaten. Each time he touched her, he felt a deeper passion.
And each time, she responded as an extraordinary lover.
He continually felt as if he were evermore haunted by memories when he was away from her—memories of her voice, her scent, the sound of her laughter, the silken feel of her hair. And yet…
Yet she had moved away from him, and her “nothing” was definitely something.
What was it she didn’t want?
Children, he thought. His children? Or just children on the frontier?
She hadn’t said the word, but it was probably what she had been about to say. He had pressed the point that he wanted a family, which was true. But it was also a way to be with her. Damn her, she was throwing everything away.
But as he lay there that night, he determined that he wasn’t going to force her anymore.
Next time, he determined, she would come to him.
And if she didn’t…?
He wouldn’t allow the thought. She would come to him. And if he was dying in an agony of desire…
She would still have to come to him.
She knew that she shouldn’t…
But temptation was too strong.
Sabrina explored his desk.
He had been gone all day; she had cleaned and straightened and mended, and by early evening, she’d been ready to scream with frustration.
And so she determined to learn more about the man who was driving her insane.
Most of what she discovered were correspondences regarding his various assignments.
They went back quite a way, and she realized that when she had first arrived, he had been riding out to whatever Sioux camps he could find on the unceded lands, bringing with him the government ultimatum about returning to their agencies and reservation lands.
He kept a sporadic journal, and one entry read, “I believe that even Red Cloud is eager to be done with all that is White and ride out and join the so-called ‘hostiles.’ Only the people dependent on him at his agency keep him from doing so. Since we must speak honestly to one another and report the written word, it becomes quite amazing what we are able to say to one another without speaking words at all. It is ending, and I am heartily sorry, for it will do so with terrible bloodshed.”
She gnawed lightly at her lower lip, heard a noise near her door, and carefully closed the journal.
She waited, but no one came to her door, and she opened the bottom drawer of the secretary.
She found a book and opened it, and discovered it was an album that contained faded photographs.
She perused it quickly, finding the first pages to be mainly from the Civil War.
She found photos where Sloan, Hawk, and David stood together, and more.
There were photos of houses, of beautiful landscapes. And then…
There were photographs taken at an Indian encampment.
She saw a bare-chested warrior in breechclout and leggings sitting atop a painted pony, and then realized that it was Sloan.
Despite herself, she shivered fiercely. But she kept looking, fascinated.
There was Hawk with a beautiful, slender young Indian maiden and infant child.
And Sloan again, taken as he stood waist-deep in the water, laughing at a voluptuous Indian woman who cast a spray of water in his direction.
The Cheyenne woman she had heard so much about?
She laid her head down on the secretary, alarmed by the nausea that churned her stomach. Then she sat up in a near panic, hearing the door open.
Sloan had returned.
Sabrina leaped up from the chair in front of the secretary, staring at him. He looked from her to the picture album that still lay open on his desk—to the page of photographs taken at the Indian encampment.
“What were you doing?” he demanded.
“I—just wanted to look at the photographs.”
“And you knew just where to find them?”
She wasn’t sure if he was angry or amused.
Her cheeks flooded with color. To her alarm, he strode toward her, taking her by the hand, drawing her back to the desk. “You wanted to see photographs…well, come, let me show you what they are.”
“Sloan—” she murmured uneasily, trying to draw her arm free.
He wasn’t going to allow her.
“Come. It’s flattering that you’re interested in my past life, my love.”
He picked up the book, settled into one of the upholstered chairs, and drew her down on his lap.
He opened the album. “Let’s see…this is the page you were up to…
yes, this must be one of your favorite images of me—I believe I’m even wearing war paint here.
We were heading out for a confrontation with the Crows.
Crows and Sioux are natural enemies—it has a great deal to do with hunting grounds—just as the Sioux and Cheyenne tend to be allies.
Ah, yes, here’s a face you should know. Seriously.
He’s an important man. Crazy Horse. See the scar?
A Sioux woman is free to divorce her husband, but Crazy Horse fell in love with a woman who had a very jealous husband—he shot Crazy Horse in the face.
Crazy Horse, however, survived. A great pity for the Whites.
He is one of the most intriguing men I have ever met—White or Indian.
His power lies in the strength of his convictions, and his dedication to his people.
Ah, here—your brother-in-law’s grandfather, two of his cousins, Ice Raven and Blade.
We were quite close until recently. There. Hawk and his first wife and child.”
“Poor Hawk. She was lovely.”
“Do you think so?”
“Of course.” She pointed to the picture. “The lines of her face are so beautiful. Her eyes are so exotic.”
He was studying her. “You mean that, don’t you?”
She frowned. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I?”
He shook his head; then it appeared that he decided to answer. “There are some Whites who can’t begin to see anything beautiful in an Indian.”
“Sloan, I don’t think that you’ve ever really understood. I do understand that there are different cultures. And I believe there are many honorable facets to the Sioux. I’m afraid of the bloodshed and violence.”
His dark eyes were upon her, curiously gentle.
“Everyone is afraid of the bloodshed and violence. And it’s necessary to be afraid because so many have died—and will die.
” He changed his tone, as if he hadn’t wanted to become too somber.
“Hawk’s wife was lovely. Very gentle. I’m glad Hawk has Skylar now. ”
He looked at Sabrina again, then pointed to another picture, a slight smile on his lips.
“Then there’s this one.” He paused. It was a full-face shot of the woman with whom he had played in the water.
She was incredibly arresting, with strong cheekbones, large, beautiful dark eyes, and a wickedly sensual smile.
“You don’t have to show me these.”
“Yes, I do. Because you want to know about my past. This is Earth Woman. I’m sure you’ve heard about her.”
“Sloan, please…”
He studied her for a long moment. “You said that I didn’t tell you about Marlene. I intend to be honest with you.”
“All right. Tell me about her.”
“Earth Woman and I had a relationship for years, one without commitment. She has lost a number of husbands and doesn’t want any more. She understands that I have married.”
“I’m glad,” Sabrina murmured, but felt incredibly uncomfortable under his scrutiny. “Sloan, please, let me up.”
“Indeed, my dear. Of course. Forgive my very bad manners.” He set her on her feet, closed the book, and strode to his desk. He opened a drawer from which he drew a pen and paper.
He went to work with his writing.
Sabrina sank back into the chair for several long moments. Then he turned to her suddenly.
“Do you cook anything?” he asked.
She could cook, and she had discovered that Sloan did his shopping through Sergeant Dawson, and that Dawson was an excellent manager of supplies and resources.
“Yes, actually, I can cook,” she told him.
He arched a brow, smiled, and returned to his work.
He became very involved with his correspondence and didn’t look up again, not even when she began banging pots and pans as she put together a small roast with potatoes and onions.
It suddenly seemed important to her that Sloan find comfort in his home.
She knew that the meal she’d made was a good one, even though they consumed it in silence, except for Sloan’s one comment: “Pass the salt, please.”
As she cleaned up after their meal, she looked over his shoulder at his work and saw that he was sketching a map of the area west of the Black Hills. It was filled with rivers. The Powder, the Tongue, the Rosebud…more.
“What are you doing?” she asked him at last.
As if surprised to hear her speak, he looked up. “These are the ‘prongs.’ Here’s Fort Fetterman, Fort Laramie, Fort Abraham Lincoln. Here’s where they imagine they will find the Sioux.”
“Will they?”
He hesitated. “They can only go so far.”
“The White men or the Sioux?”
He shrugged, an odd smile playing at his lips. “Both, I imagine. The Indians. They’re traveling in larger and larger numbers. They can’t camp too long in one place; they won’t be able to feed themselves or their ponies if they do.”
“Who are you drawing this for?” she asked softly.
“Myself.” He hesitated. “I haven’t received my orders yet, but on my next expedition, I believe I’ll be riding from prong to prong with intelligence reports.”
“Why don’t you ask for another leave?”
He glanced at her sharply, then looked back at the desk. “Because we’re entering the end of something. I have to be here.” He rose suddenly. “I’ve tears in a few shirts. Will you fix them?”
She frowned; the tone of his voice was so strange, so very distant.
“Of course.”
“Ah.”
“Why—wouldn’t I?”
“Why not—you are excellent at certain tasks, the perfect cavalry wife.”
“If you don’t want me to—”
“Oh, but I do want you. To mend my shirts.”
He strode into the bedroom and returned with two of the cotton shirts he wore beneath his cavalry jacket. She took them and went for her mending kit and then sat in the chair where he had taken her on his lap to look at the photograph album.
He continued with his mapmaking and estimate of troop movements.
She sewed.
Neither of them spoke.
It had grown late by the time she finished with her work. She rose and folded his shirts. He continued to give his attention to his work. She was certain he was aware that she stood near him, but he paid her no heed.
It was puzzling.
“I’m going to bed,” she told him after a moment.
He nodded, not looking at her. “Good night.”
She hesitated, wanting to talk. “Sloan…” she began and broke off.
He turned to her, his dark eyes sweeping over her. “Good night. Get to sleep.”
She turned around, wondering why it felt that she had been so thoroughly dismissed. He would come to bed when he was ready.
She went into the bedroom and changed into her nightgown. She couldn’t resist the temptation to walk back to the archway.
He still sat at his desk, his head bowed, busily sketching.
She went back into the bedroom, doused the bedside lamp, and lay down. She turned to her side and tried to sleep, but she lay awake.
It was very late when Sloan came in at long last. He moved about the room, quietly undressing.
Yet when he lay down beside her, he kept a very careful distance from her.
And that night, though they both lay awake for hours, he did not touch her, and she did not move toward him.