Chapter 6
Wolf was an extraordinary dog.
He was the best guard dog in the world, ready to rip to shreds any enemy who might come near his master.
Yet when Hawk came outside the lodge, slamming the door in his wake only to sink down and sit on the wooden porch, Wolf was beside him instantly, whining softly, sticking his wet nose next to Hawk’s face.
“Hey, dog, good dog,” Hawk said softly, rubbing his pet’s fur strenuously. Wolf settled down beside Hawk, his nose on his master’s knee. Hawk patted him absently. He leaned his head back against the lodge wall. He had swigged down way too much whiskey.
He didn’t appreciate her informing him of the fact. Nor reminding him that yes, the Indians had been made fools of time and again over liquor.
He didn’t, in fact, appreciate her very existence.
A dull pain struck him again. What had his father been thinking when he’d married him to this woman?
He had known that David Douglas had been deeply concerned about US policy in the West because he was convinced that generals were running the government.
Grant was president and therefore commander-in-chief of the Army.
Sherman and Sheridan, who had done their share of devastating the South in order to win the war, had been turned loose on the American West for some time now.
Each year, the conflicts increased the determination of the whites to open the West. Indians were to live where they were told or be considered hostiles.
But there was nothing good about reservation living.
The whites wanted the best lands. The buffalo were being hunted to extinction.
When the Indians couldn’t hunt enough game, they starved.
Unless they could grow enough food. But the Plains Indians survived mostly off their hunting.
And if they had been natural farmers, it wouldn’t have mattered because any time the land was good, the whites eventually wanted it.
On the reservations, far too often, the men grew lazy and indolent. They drank…
Until their pride drove them from the reservations. And then they became hostiles. And hostiles were to be exterminated.
David had warned his son of this frequently. Just as he had often enough urged his son to marry again, to heal the breach in his heart. Marry a white woman. One who would not be a sister or a daughter of a hostile. One who would not bring him more heartache.
He wished he hadn’t left the whiskey inside.
He wished his head wasn’t pounding.
He wished…
It was his cabin. What was he doing slumped down with his dog on the porch while she resided comfortably inside? Especially after he’d ridden through half the night to reach Gold Town and had spent a good part of today riding back.
Why wouldn’t she go back home? Perhaps she knew the terms of his father’s will. Knew that she had far more to gain if she remained here as his…
Wife. The woman was his wife. He almost laughed aloud, remembering how Henry had asked if there was something wrong with her. No, there was nothing wrong with her. Her eyes were almost pure silver. Her hair was almost pure gold. To touch her was to feel a stroke of silk.
To lie against her was to feel the greatest sensual pleasure. To…
His thoughts broke off as he realized that the pounding that had been in his head seemed to have filled the length of him. His groin was hot and hard. He could remember the taste and feel of her lips, the full curve of her breast.
Too damned bad she was his wife.
Bought and paid for, so it seemed. There was no returning her.
Even if she was his father’s used goods.
Even if she’d brought about David’s death.
He swore out loud. Dusk was already falling again. He’d been gone from Mayfair far longer than he’d intended, and he needed to travel out again to the river country beyond the hills where he knew he’d find his grandfather’s band.
But not tonight. Tonight…
He’d always been sparing in most things. His eating habits, his use of alcohol.
Not tonight. Tonight, he wanted to get rip-roaring drunk. Toast the old man.
Toast the new woman.
Fall into a deep, drunken sleep and dream that time could move backward and the plains could be big enough for the red men, the white men, and the buffalo.
He gave Wolf a last pat on the head and pushed himself back up to his feet. He opened the door, stepping back into the cabin.
She stood pensively before the fire, then looked at him warily as he entered.
Her robe was drawn tight. She’d drawn her fingers through the long strands of her golden hair to somewhat righten it.
She appeared calm, dignified, her eyes touching his with that regal look she could manage.
He noted again that she had been endowed with an almost startling beauty.
The silver of her eyes was so intense, the gold of her hair so vivid, the sculpture of her oval face so defined, delicate, elegant, arresting.
As he watched her, he realized that a tempting aroma was filling the cabin.
She’d set a kettle atop the fire, and the hunger-rousing scent was wafting from it.
“It’s soup,” she murmured defensively. “You told me to make my myself at home. I found onions and potatoes to go with the ham. And some shell peas.”
“Ah. What a good wife,” he mocked. “She cooks.”
“What a good husband,” she retorted. “He drinks.”
“Cheers!” He found the whiskey bottle on the table and lifted it to her, smiling grimly as he spoke.
“He drinks—and he’s a Sioux. Tell me, even if you’re absolutely determined to remain here—and I’ll grant you that Mayfair is a fine enough place to live—doesn’t it disturb you in the least that my skin is red?
I am an Indian. A Sioux—considered by many whites to be among the most savage beasts on the plains.
You were hardly enamored with me when we met. ”
“You were attacking my stagecoach when we met.”
“It’s what Indians do.”
She ignored that, walking to the fire. “If you’d like to try this, I’ll get you a bowl.”
“Indeed, yes. I’m ravenous. Do so.”
She placed the soup before him. He pulled a chair from the table and tasted the soup, never taking his eyes from her.
“Well. Is it edible?”
“Not poisoned, right?”
“Not poisoned.”
“It’s quite adequate.”
“How kind,” she murmured coolly.
He caught her wrist, smiling up at her. “Perhaps it should have been poisoned. I’m a young man. It’s unlikely that you’ll induce me to expire from a heart attack.”
She wrenched her wrist free, rubbing it. “Enjoy your adequate soup. The next meal you get from me you’ll wear over your head before you ever get a chance to eat it.”
She poured herself a bowl, joining him at the opposite end of the table. He tore his eyes from her at last, finishing his bowl of soup quickly. He sat back, stared at the whiskey bottle, drank long and deeply once again.
“A vice you indulge in often?”
“Every time I acquire an unwanted bride.”
“Is that often?”
“Thankfully, no.”
“You’ve never married be—”
“Yes. I was married before.”
“Your wife—”
“Is dead.”
“I’m sorry.”
He shook his head. “Are you? Not nearly as damned sorry as I, Lady Douglas.”
She stood abruptly. “Perhaps you should go ahead, then, and dwell in your self-pity and bitterness.” She came around the table, lifting the whiskey bottle, slamming it back down right in front of him. “Why don’t you just go ahead and drink yourself into a stupor? I’ll enjoy the quiet.”
She turned away from him with a dismissive contempt that seemed to light the short fuse of his temper.
To his astonishment he found himself on his feet, wrenching her back by a corner of her robe.
The robe fell from her shoulder, exposing one of her full young breasts.
He’d seen it before, he reminded himself.
No need to feel such a heated lust growing…
Yes, he’d seen her before. Familiarity was breeding desire.
“Madam, I could drink all night—and not fall into a stupor. And remember, you have chosen to be here. I’ve offered you a way out. You refuse to take it.”
“You are hardly in a proper frame of mind in which to talk this matter through. You—”
“Talk!”
She tried to jerk free from him and spin away, gain distance from him. But his fingers remained taut on her robe, and when she left him, she left behind her covering as well.
When she turned to face him, silver eyes wide, she was naked, and at last, somewhat unnerved.
She blinked, moistening her lips, staring at him without moving. She lifted a hand toward him, indicating the robe that had fallen by his feet. “If you’d be so good as to hand that back…” she murmured.
He picked up the robe, still meeting her gaze. Then he opened his clenched fingers, allowing the robe to fall back to the floor.
“Maybe not. Maybe it’s time you get to know me better than you knew my father.”
He was taking two long, swift strides toward her before she seemed to realize her danger.
She turned to bolt just when he reached her, his hands around her waist, lifting her, throwing her down upon the furs on the bed.
She seemed stunned when she first fell, all that golden hair softly glittering in the subdued firelight, splaying out like tendrils of the sun.
Again, she seemed to regain her breath and attempted to rise for an escape, but he was quickly down upon her, his weight pushing her deeper down into the furs.
She came to life then, twisting beneath him as she strained to throw him from her. She fought like a wildcat, trying to strike, kick, punch him.
“Lady Douglas,” he mocked, avoiding the blows she was attempting to dole out. “I have no desire for a wife, remember? I need but your word that you’ll go home—”
She lay still for a second beneath him, her breasts heaving, her silver eyes on his.
“We need to talk!”
“There’s nothing to say. It will be one way or the other. We are man and wife, or we are not.”
“You’re in no frame of mind to straighten this out—”
“Shall we get an annulment then?”
“You’re drunk—”