A Whisper In The Wind (9 page)

Chapter Sixteen

Michael woke slowly, aware of nothing but the pain in his head and side, and a powerful thirst. It was an effort to open his eyes, and when he did so, his vision was blurred.

For a long moment he stared up at the whitewashed ceiling, trying to remember what had happened, but his mind was a blank. And then, slowly, it all came back to him.

Winter Song was dead.

The pain of her death was worse than the pain in his body, and he wished suddenly that he had died too.

He closed his eyes and his mind filled with her image, beautiful black hair, expressive ebony eyes, a warm smile. Her laughter had filled him with joy, the promise in her eyes had made him invincible. He had wooed her and won her, and now she was lost to him forever.

“Maheo,
hear me,” he murmured. “If you really exist, send me home where I belong.”

Home. If only he could go back to L.A. and forget the sight of her broken body lying on the sand, her eyes staring sightlessly at the sky, the blood on her chin, so red against the deathly pallor of her skin.

He had been content to be here, with her, but now she was gone and all the joy of life had died with her. What difference did it make who he was if she wasn’t there?

He retreated into the darkness, withdrawing from the pain and the memory of her death.

He felt as though a long time had passed when he opened his eyes again. His first thought was of Winter Song and he vowed to avenge her death as soon as he recovered his strength. No Pawnee would be safe from his wrath until her blood had been avenged tenfold.

But first he had to return to the Cheyenne.

Slowly he turned his head to the left, wondering where he was and how he’d gotten there. A row of narrow cots took up most of the floor space along the wall. There were several large windows, closed against the night.

Turning his head to the right, he saw a woman sitting in a straight-backed chair beside his bed. She was asleep, her hands folded in her lap, her head resting against the back of the chair. She had a delicate nose, a generous mouth, and fine, unblemished skin. Her hair was a rich dark red, and the color tripped a memory somewhere in the recesses of his mind.

He had seen her before, he thought. But where?

He tried to sit up, but a stabbing pain in his right side changed his mind and he swore softly. The past was a damned dangerous place, he mused bitterly. He’d been a part of it only a short time, and he’d already been wounded more times than he cared to count.

He shifted his weight on the bed, seeking a more comfortable position, and made two startling discoveries: he was stark naked under the sheet, and his left ankle was securely shackled to the cot’s iron frame.

A crude oath escaped his lips as he rattled the chain on his ankle. Obviously he was a prisoner. But whose? And why?

He closed his eyes, trying to recall exactly what had happened after the Pawnee had attacked him, but his mind was a blank.

Voices whispered in the back of his mind.
What will be, will be… You are where you were meant to be… She is waiting for you.

A white woman.

With dark red hair.

He opened his eyes to find the woman awake and staring at him. He recognized her now. The woman whose image he had seen.

She is waiting,
a voice had said.
Waiting for you.
What did it mean?

The woman rose gracefully to her feet and came toward him, her movements cautious. Bending, she placed her hand on his brow.

“You’re going to be fine,” she said, speaking each word slowly and distinctly, and then she frowned. “Do you speak English?”

“Of course,” Michael replied, amused by her question.

“Well, good,” she said. She smiled uncertainly as she took a step back from the bed, out of his reach. “How are you feeling?”

“I’ve been better,” he muttered. “Where the hell am I? How’d I get here? Who are you?”

Elayna O’Brien frowned. She’d been out West for ten years now and had seen a number of Indians, both friendly and hostile. None of them had talked quite like this one. He sounded more like a white man than a savage.

“You’ve got a concussion,” she informed him. “And a bullet wound in your side. My father says you’re lucky to be alive. As for where you are, you’re at Camp Robinson. One of the scouting patrols brought you in.”

“How long have I been here?”

“Three days.”

“Three days!” he exclaimed. “Damn!”

The woman leaned forward and he saw that her eyes were a clear brown, as dark as a handful of freshly churned earth.

“You didn’t tell me who you are,” he reminded her.

“My name’s Elayna O’Brien. My father’s the doctor here. He saved your life.” She cocked her head to one side, studying him openly. “Who are you? Where did you learn to speak our language so well?”

“I’m Michael Wolf. I learned English in…” He broke off in mid-sentence. He had been about to tell her he had learned English in school, but this was 1875 or thereabouts and Indians didn’t go to school. “I learned English from my father. I don’t know who taught him.”

“Isn’t Michael an odd name for an Indian?”

Michael shrugged. “My mother liked it.”

Elayna was about to ask who his mother was when the door opened and her father entered the room.

“How is he?” Robert O’Brien asked as he crossed the room.

“He seems fine,” Elayna replied. “I was just about to take his temperature.”

O’Brien grunted softly as he placed a hand on his patient’s brow, then checked his pulse and listened to his heartbeat. “His fever’s gone, heart and pulse are normal.”

Elayna nodded, her feelings ambivalent.

“We’ll have to get Crowfoot in here tomorrow. I’d like to ask our patient a few questions.”

“He speaks English, Father.”

“He does?” O’Brien said, his surprise obvious as he looked at Michael. “You speak our language?”

Michael nodded.

“Well, good,” O’Brien said. “Do you remember how you got here?”

“No.”

“Do you know your name?”

“Ho-nehe,”
Michael replied. “Wolf.”

“Well, Wolf, you’ve had a rather bad bump on the head, but, barring any unforeseen complications, I think you’ll be all right. Try and get some sleep now, and I’ll look in on you tomorrow.”

Michael nodded, but sleep was the farthest thing from his mind. He watched the woman extinguish the lamp, listened to her footsteps fade away as she followed her father out of the room.

She is waiting,
the voice had said,
waiting for you.

He remained awake a long time, wondering what it meant, wondering if Winter Song had been killed so that he would chase the Pawnee and end up here, with the red-haired woman. Slowly he shook his head. Such a thing was unthinkable.

With a sigh, he closed his eyes, and when sleep finally came, he dreamed of blood. Pawnee blood.

Chapter Seventeen

Elayna tossed and turned all night long, unable to drive the Indian from her mind. Michael Wolf. What an odd name for an Indian. He was tall and dark and handsome. Every woman’s dream, she thought, and yet her dream had become a nightmare, and the nightmare had become reality.

She had dreamed of a tall, dark-skinned man who would change her life, and now he was here and his presence frightened her. And the fact that she was attracted to him frightened her still more.

She made up her mind to avoid the infirmary while Michael Wolf was there. She would plead a headache or a sore throat until he had been moved to the guardhouse where he belonged.

Wolf…he reminded her of a winter-starved lobo, long and lean, always on the scent of blood.

The comparison sent a chill down her spine and she pushed it away, then snuggled deeper into her blankets.

She was at the infirmary immediately after breakfast, a tray in one hand, a roll of bandages in the other. She had thought to find him asleep, but he was awake and sitting up, the pillow propped behind his back. The sheet was bunched across his hips, the linen very white against his sun-bronzed flesh. The sight of him caused her stomach to flutter and her heart to quicken.
From fear,
she told herself as she placed the tray across his lap and lifted the cover, revealing a plate filled with bacon and eggs and fried potatoes.

“I hope you’re hungry,” she said curtly.

Michael nodded, a wry smile twitching at the corner of his mouth. She was afraid of him. The scent of fear rose from her, unmistakable for what it was.

“Smells good,” Michael remarked, wondering what she had to fear from him.

“Thank you.” She took a step away from the bed, conscious of his eyes watching her every move.

“I’ve got to change your bandage,” she said, her words tumbling out in a rush. “I’ll come back when you’re done eating.”

He frowned as she rushed out of the room. Damn, what the hell was she afraid of?

She was a good cook, he thought as he swallowed the last of the bacon and eggs, but his mind was not on food. He was a prisoner, and he did not like it. For the first time in his life, he was unable to come and go as he pleased. Growing up on the reservation, he had answered to no one except Yellow Spotted Wolf. His mother had given him free rein to come and go as he pleased, sensing, perhaps, that he would rebel against any show of authority. His father hadn’t cared what Michael did so long as he stayed out of the way. In Los Angeles, he’d had all the freedom he needed. True, he had been bound to certain conventions. He’d had to learn to be punctual, to do what was expected, to submit to some degree of authority, but the knowledge that he could leave it all behind at any time and return to the reservation had made those few restrictions easier to bear.

He swore softly. He did not like being shackled, did not like knowing his fate rested in the hands of strangers.

The enemy.

He had never thought of the
vehoe,
the white man, as his enemy before. But he was somewhere in the past now, and the whites and the Indians were at war. Friendly Indians were being caged on reservations; hostiles were being shot, or imprisoned in faraway places where they sickened and died.

A tide of useless anger swept through him and he jerked against the chain that imprisoned him, muttering a foul oath as he did so.

It was then that Elayna returned. “What is it?” she asked. “Is something wrong?”

“You’re damn right there’s something wrong! I don’t like being chained up like a damn dog! How long do they plan to keep me here?”

Elayna bit down on her lower lip, the first stirrings of sympathy rising in her breast. “I don’t know. Another day or two, I think. And then…”

“And then?”

“They’re going to move you to the guardhouse.”

Michael’s eyes narrowed ominously. “The guardhouse? Why? I haven’t done anything.”

“Major Cathcart thinks you were part of a scouting party sent here by Sitting Bull to spy on us. He wants to question you.”

Michael’s jaw went rigid. Locked up. He had never realized until now that he harbored a fear of being confined. He thought of Yellow Spotted Wolf. His great-grandfather had hated small places, dark rooms, high walls. He had never closed his bedroom door because he did not like the feeling of being shut in. The old man had often said that the Cheyenne were meant to live wild and free. Not like the
vehoe
who fenced his land and hid himself inside his house, but like the eagle who soared high in the heavens, unfettered by walls or clocks or the chains of civilization.

“What happens after this major questions me?”

“I don’t know,” Elayna replied, not meeting his eyes. “Perhaps they’ll let you go.”

“And perhaps they won’t.”

There seemed nothing more to say. Wordlessly Elayna took the tray and placed it on the bedside table, then gently removed the bandages from Michael’s head and side. The gash in his scalp was healing beautifully, as was the nasty wound in his side. Her father was a wonderful doctor, she thought proudly. His knowledge and skill and dedication had saved the Indian’s life.

She wrapped a fresh bandage around the wound in his side, but did not replace the one on his head. The wound was not as severe as the one in his side and no longer needed protection. Her father was a great believer in leaving certain wounds open to the air, to breathe, he said.

She rolled the bloody bandages into a neat ball and placed them on the tray. “I’ll be back later with your lunch,” she said. “Do you need to…to relieve yourself before I go?”

Michael nodded curtly, a fit of helpless rage rising within him as she offered him a bedpan.

He was not going to be a very good patient now that he was feeling better, Elayna mused as she left the infirmary. Most of the men made jokes when she offered them a bedpan. Some of the jests were crude, some reflected the patient’s embarrassment. But Wolf was the first man who had ever been angry. But then, perhaps he had a good deal to be angry about.

The Indian filled her mind as she did her chores at home. Who was he, and why was he here? Why had she been warned of his coming? Did he mean her harm?

No matter how many times she put him out of her thoughts, his image returned to haunt her. It irritated her that she found him attractive, that his hair was thick and black and straight, that his eyes were as dark as pitch, that his skin was like smooth copper, that his shoulders were broad and his arms corded with muscle. She had seen other Indians. She had thought them ugly, disgusting in their buckskins and feathers, barbaric in their paint. But this man…he looked at her and her stomach quivered and her heart pounded. And it wasn’t fear, she admitted now. It was something much worse.

He was lying flat on his back, one arm thrown across his eyes, when she entered the infirmary with his lunch. She walked quietly toward him, not wanting to wake him if he was asleep. Her father was fond of saying that rest was the best healer of all.

She studied his profile, wondering what there was about Michael Wolf that intrigued her so. She could feel herself reaching out to him, wanting to help him, to comfort him.

She was turning to leave when his voice called out to her. “Don’t go. I’m awake.”

“I’ve brought your lunch.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“I’ll see you at dinner then.”

Michael sat up, dreading the long hours ahead, the boredom, the anxiety of not knowing what the future held for him. “Can’t you stay a little while?” he asked.

His tone was brusque, but Elayna caught the underlying note of despair and her heart went out to him. Right or wrong, he deserved some company.

“I’ll stay,” she said, “if you’ll eat.”

“That’s bribery.”

“I know,” she admitted with a smile, “but sometimes it works.”

Michael grinned as he reached for the tray. She’d made fried chicken for lunch, and his mouth watered as he uncovered the plate, surprised to find that he was hungry after all.

Elayna pulled a newspaper from her apron pocket and sat down on the cot beside his. She read while he ate, and he marveled at how much better he felt just having her there.

He glanced at the front page and the date seemed to leap out at him.
August 29, 1875.

Michael grunted softly. “1875,” he muttered. “I’ll be damned.”

Elayna put the newspaper aside. “Is something wrong?”

“Nothing you can fix,” Michael remarked.
“Heammawihio
must be having a good laugh at my expense.”

“Heamma…who?”

“Heammawihio.
The Great Spirit of the Cheyenne.”

“I didn’t think Indians believed in God.”

“They believe in many gods. My people believe everything has its own spirit, its own soul, that everything is alive.”

“Everything? You mean like rocks and trees?”

Michael nodded. “And water, and grass. Everything.” A wry smile touched his lips. “The Indians won’t drink water that sits overnight because they believe it’s dead.”

“That’s silly.”

Michael shrugged. “Maybe.”

“I’ve never thought of Indians as being religious. Are you? Religious, I mean.”

“More than I used to be.” He shifted his weight on the cot and the chain around his ankle rattled, reminding him that he was a prisoner here. Impulsively he reached out and took Elayna’s hand in his.

Elayna tried to jerk her hand free, a hundred nameless fears aroused by his touch.

“I’ve got to get out of here,” Michael said urgently. “Now. Before it’s too late.” His eyes searched hers. “Will you help me?”

“How?” Her hand was lost in his. His skin was warm and firm and brown. Very brown. So different from her own.

“How? I don’t know. Cut off my foot, steal the keys to these irons. Dammit, I don’t know how!”

The intensity in his voice and the sudden wildness in his eyes frightened her, and she jerked her hand from his and stood up.

“I can’t,” she said, backing away from him. “I’m sorry, I just can’t.”

Despite her nightly vows to stay away from the infirmary as long as the Indian was there, she found numerous excuses to visit the hospital in the next three days. When the orderly came down with a cold, she took over his chores, changing the linen on Wolf’s bed, sweeping the floor, opening the windows in the morning and closing them at night. She decided the linen closet needed a good cleaning out, and the next day she shook out all the blankets on the empty beds.

She handled each task with cool efficiency, pretending to be totally oblivious to Michael Wolf’s presence, even though she could feel his eyes watching her every move. They rarely spoke other than to exchange empty pleasantries.

There was a wariness about him now that he was feeling better. His eyes were sharp and alert, his senses keen. She could feel the tension in him whenever her father or one of the soldiers entered the room. In truth, he often reminded her of the animal for which he was named. Even when he was asleep, she had the feeling he was aware of everything happening around him.

She began preparing him more elaborate meals, thinking that eating was probably the only pleasure he had. She didn’t know why she was suddenly so concerned with his welfare, only that she was. Perhaps it was because her sense of fair play was outraged that a man, even an Indian, should be held prisoner at the whim of another. Perhaps it was because she was drawn to Michael Wolf in spite of herself. Whatever the reason, she began heaping his plate with food, bringing him snacks between lunch and dinner: chocolate cake and cold apple cider, sugar cookies and lemonade, spice cake and coffee.

Elayna was lingering in the infirmary, aware of Wolf’s steady gaze on her back, when her father entered the room, followed by four burly soldiers armed with Winchester rifles.

“What’s going on?” Elayna asked, staring at the four armed men.

“Nothing,” her father replied. “The Indian’s well enough to be moved, that’s all. They’re here to take him to the guardhouse until Major Cathcart gets around to questioning him.”

Elayna nodded, her gaze moving toward Michael. He was sitting very still, hardly breathing, and she could sense the tension building in him, see it in his tightly clenched hands.

Robert O’Brien was also aware of the prisoner’s apprehension. He could feel the barely suppressed anger radiating from the Indian. “Go home, Elayna,” he said curtly. “Now.”

She sent a quick, sympathetic glance in Michael Wolf’s direction, then hurried from the room. He would not like being locked up, and she wondered if he would go peacefully or if he’d put up a fight in spite of the odds against him. Somehow she thought he was too smart to argue with four rifle-toting troopers.

Michael eyed the soldiers warily as they surrounded the bed, their rifles aimed at his chest. One of the men handed the doctor a key, and O’Brien unlocked the iron cuff that shackled Michael’s leg to the frame of the cot.

“Get up,” the soldier at Michael’s right ordered brusquely. “And don’t try anything funny. We got orders to shoot to kill if you try to make a run for it.”