Chapter 4 #2
Upon reflection, Angelia considered that perhaps their troubles did not really concern Elmer Riley, his daughter or the state of Mississippi. No, perhaps the actual problem was Julian himself.
He hadn’t been telling her the complete truth when a month ago he had confessed to arranging a duel in order to defend their father’s honor.
Indeed, that match had been devised as much to protect his own honor as that of their father’s, something Julian had kept neatly hidden from her until recently.
And now, here he was, off to scout for some wagon train that was leaving for Council Grove in a week or so, there to meet up with other merchants who would be making the spring trek into Santa Fe.
Scouting, of all things—an occupation he knew nothing about.
As a sense of unreality swept over her, Angelia wondered, as she had often done in her past, if there had been some accident at her birth. Had some other woman borne a child at the same time as her mother, allowing for a switch of infants?
If it were true, it would explain several moments in her life when she had felt completely foreign to her own family.
Although, if she were to be fair, she might admit that perhaps she took after her mother.
She couldn’t be sure, of course, since her mother had died shortly after giving birth to Julian.
Angelia drew in a deep breath. Well, what was done was done. She couldn’t change it; she couldn’t change Julian. Upon that note, she decided there was little more she could do—at least not at present—and she spun away from the sight of her brother’s retreating back.
Without noticing where she was going, she took a few steps forward…only to ram straight up against a firm—and naked—male chest. Well, it was practically naked.
“Excuse me,” she said, before realizing to whom she was speaking. It was an Indian—a very tall Indian, she was quick to note. And a handsome one—in an exotic sort of way, she decided, as she looked up into the man’s face.
As though beside herself, she became lost in the gaze of this man’s dark, almost black eyes. Worse, as a unique scent of mint, smoke and clean masculinity assailed her, her head spun oddly for a moment.
Goodness, what were these feelings? Was she frightened? Yes, yes, that must be it, for he did appear to be fierce.
But she didn’t really feel scared, did she? Although perhaps she should be so.
Nevertheless, in less time than it takes to tell it, she beheld everything about him.
Midnight-black hair fell almost to his waist, and the top section of those dark strands was bound back from his face, gathered together and tied with rawhide and eagle feathers, the latter of which fell down toward the back of his head.
A beaded ornament, in a long single strand, drooped forward on each side of his face, and earrings made of pink shells hung from each of his earlobes.
A necklace, sporting blue, red and yellow beads with a large pink shell placed in the middle of it, looped around his neck.
The effect was hardly what one might expect of a man who wore earrings. This man was masculine beyond belief. Masculine, hard, ungiving. And at present, he frowned at her.
She ignored his frown and went on with her study of him. His cheekbones were high, his eyebrows defined, tapering ever so slightly. His nose was straight, although a little aquiline, and his lips were full and pouting at her.
In his hand, if she dared look down that far, he carried something—a pipe.
And though his chest was bare, it was hardly less decorated.
An ornament, which seemed to be a beaded breastplate made of bone and long-sized shells, hung over the wide expanse of the man’s chest, covering but not quite hiding all that hardened flesh.
She wanted to, but knew she mustn’t, study the length of him, since she was afraid of what nudity she might discover there.
To her horror, the thought of exactly what she might find there brought on a dizzying flurry of irrational emotion. Hardly the sort of musings for a well-brought-up young lady, she decided.
Swallowing hard, Angelia gazed back up at the man, realizing for the first time that his countenance was unwelcoming. So it was with some degree of courage that she met the rancor in his eyes with what she pretended was an equal malice of her own.
She didn’t say a word, she simply stared at him, until at last she could stand it no more, and she turned away from the man—at least she almost did so.
And then she wondered, did the Indian speak English? And if he did, had he heard what she and Julian had been discussing?
As one thought followed upon another, it became clear to Angelia that if this man did speak English, and if he had eavesdropped on their discussion, would he carry tales to Colonel Davenport, the commander of this fort?
Drat!
Well, as her father had often said, there was no time like the present for action. Angelia cleared her throat. “Excuse me, sir, but how long have you been standing here?” She tried to smile at him girlishly.
If the man was affected by her, he didn’t show it. He simply raised his chin and didn’t utter a sound.
Angelia cleared her throat once more, twisting her shoulders in a self-conscious gesture. “I see,” she said, pretending he had spoken to her. She held on to her smile for a moment longer. “And do you speak English?”
Once again, the man didn’t answer, didn’t grant her the dignity of looking at her. Indeed, he gazed beyond her. Worse, he acted as though it were beneath his respectability to even be seen with her, let alone be caught conversing with her.
“Ah, well, that’s very good, isn’t it?” she remarked, losing any trace of her smile. “And might I wish you a pleasant day too. Such a sociable person, I dare say.”
With a short nod, Angelia picked up her skirts and prepared to leave. She had stepped a foot forward when the Indian spoke up at last. “That man—” He caught her glance as she looked back at him, and he lifted his chin in the general direction where Julian had disappeared. “He is hiding?”
Angelia coughed on something that seemed to be stuck in her throat. As quickly as she could, she regained her poise, smiled prettily, wiggled her hips—if only slightly—before replying, “Of course he’s not hiding. Not that it’s any of your business.”
“I do not know what this word ‘business’ is.”
“Good.” She set her lips into a line. “You do not need to know.”
“He is your brother?”
“He is.”
An emotion she could scarcely fathom flitted over the man’s features, and then it was gone. He said, “And you speak to him openly?”
“Of course I speak to him openly.” She frowned. “Why shouldn’t I? He is my brother, after all.”
The Indian shook his head disapprovingly. “It is a dishonor for you to do so. And you, who should know better. Why would you abuse him in such a way?”
“Abuse him?” Wide-eyed, Angelia could only stare at the man, hardly believing she was having this conversation.
“Dishonor him? Of all the audacity, of all the poor manners…” She shot her nose into the air, but her shoulders jiggled.
“And this, on top of Julian… Honestly, I don’t know how you men do it. ”
The Indian raised a sardonic eyebrow.
“How do you manage to twist a simple conversation—and a private one at that, I might add—into some sort of dishonorable discourse? But I can tell you right now, Mister…Mister…ah, Indian, that I do not like your words, what you’re saying…
or you, if you must know.” She settled back on her heels.
“However…” she raised her hand to straighten her glove, “…whether you meant to do so or not, you have at least answered one of my questions. Perhaps you would respond in a like manner and answer my other inquiry…ah…sir.” She placed a sarcastic edge to the last word.
When the Indian did no more than stare back at her, his glance seeming to dance off the shape of her eyes, her nose, her lips, she swallowed hard. “My other question being this, of course: Did you hear what we were saying?”
The man paused, looking for all the world as if he were having difficulty reflecting upon that past moment. Then he said, “I did.”
“Ah, I see.” Dropping her voice, she observed, “Well, this is a problem.” Without conscious thought, she brought a hand to her chest.
If the Indian were aware of her reaction, he did not comment on it.
“I learned much from your conversation, also. I know you both have some trouble. Trouble enough that you would seek to leave here. And I must disagree with you and remind you that it is a dishonor to speak to your brother as you have done. After a certain age, a brother and a sister should not be allowed to converse with one another. They should show respect, yes, but never, not ever, should they speak openly to one another. And especially, a sister should not scold her brother.”
“Oh? What are you, sir, some sort of walking conscience, that you feel compelled to take me to task?”
“I do not know what this ‘conscience’ is,” he said. “But I do know that you should not be having words with me either, nor I with you, for in doing so, I bring you dishonor.”
“You do? And do I bring you dishonor by speaking to you?”
“I am already dishonored,” he replied. “There could be nothing you could do that would bring me more than that which I already have.”
“You are dishonored?” How strange. How very, very strange.
He nodded.
“What did you do?”
“It is not what I did, but rather what others did, those I represent.”
She gave him a quizzical look. “You are an odd one, I must say. Even for an Indian.”
The ghost of a smile appeared on this hard man’s face. “And do you know many Indians?”
“No,” she said, “you are the first.”
“Then perhaps I am not so strange as you might believe.”
“Perhaps. But do tell me, do you intend to carry tales to the colonel?”
“Carry tales?”
“Yes, do you intend to tell the colonel what you overheard my brother and myself saying?”