Agnes and the Renegade (Men of Defiance) (13 page)

Agkhee shivered beside him. He set his coffee down, then spread his arms wide, opening his blanket to her. “Agkhee, will you stand with me in my blanket?” His voice was oddly raspy. He hoped he didn’t frighten her away.

She looked up at him as she considered his invitation. “If you wouldn’t mind. I’d like that. Or I can get my own blanket…”

“Mine is already warm.”

“All right, then.” She took a hesitant step toward him. He wrapped his arms around her, turning her toward the door, her back against his front. The blanket covered all but their feet. She was like ice, but he was fire. Soon she was warm in his embrace. She handed him her coffee and asked him to set it by his on the table. Then she leaned back, resting her slight weight against him. He closed his eyes, focusing less on the storm outside and more on the one raging within himself.

How long had it been since he’d shared his body’s heat with a woman? Many, many summers. A lifetime. His arms tightened around her. He wondered if she understood the significance of standing with him inside his blanket. Even with no others to witness her acceptance of him, it mattered that she’d come to him.
 

The fabric of her white dress was thin. There was little barrier separating her body from his. Her bottom rested below his breechcloth. She wasn’t even as tall as Laughs-Like-Water. She was thinner, narrower. Different. She smelled of a sweet scent. A white woman’s flower. It wasn’t a scent he recognized. He breathed again of the sweetness in her hair.

He longed to let his hands wander over her body, exploring her beneath the shield of his blanket. It was an indulgence allowed him now that she’d accepted him. But white women reacted differently to such things than the women of his people. He remembered how rigid Logan’s wife had been about any affection from her husband where people could see them. But they were alone now. And Agkhee was relaxed, leaning softly against him.
 

He ran his hand up her arm, over her shoulder, to the base of her neck. Everywhere he touched the cotton of her gown. He wanted to feel the velvet of her skin. He drew his palm up her neck to cup her jaw and leaned his face against the side of her head as he bent to whisper, “This is nice, standing with you this way.”

He could feel the slight nod of her head. “I don’t understand what it is that I feel for you, Chayton. I crave the sight of you. I want to paint you in all the different ways that I see you. I want to keep you in a canvas so that I never forget you. You make me feel wild, like this storm. Like this land.”

Chayton’s arms tightened around her slight body. It was a very bad idea that had taken root within him. He was not a good marriage prospect for her. A man without a people could never provide his wife true security. Her people would never accept him. He had no rights in her world. If they ever had children, they would be taken away from them, as all native children were. He didn’t know enough about the white world to raise them as white. And he wouldn’t even if he did. He could teach them what they needed to survive, to understand their world. It was better than the way white children were raised, by strangers in school buildings, learning nothing of the world around them.

Light speared across the sky, illuminating the gray clouds on either side of its zigzag path. Agkhee tensed, then jumped when the thunder followed the light.

“Are you warm enough?” he asked. “We could go stand by the fire.” Agkhee’s little cabin was much more snug in the storm than the tipis his people had. The wind was only getting in through the open door where they stood, though it whined and howled all around the outside walls.
 

She shook her head. “The storm’s right over us. I want to watch it a little longer. Are you too cold?”

“No.” His feet were like ice, exposed to the wet, stormy air as they were, but the rest of him was hot. He wondered if Agkhee knew he was aroused, standing as close as they were now, her back against his front. Soon she would be his. Soon he would discover the mysteries of her body. Soon he would sleep an entire night in the warm arms of a wife.

Tomorrow, he would hunt. When he brought her a deer, she would know what a good provider he was. When she accepted his gift of food, he would know she was ready to be his wife.

Aggie felt safe in the cocoon of Chayton’s blanket, with his strength all around her. She wasn’t unaware of the bulge pressing against the small of her back—she knew it wasn’t entirely attributable to the breechcloth he wore. As she watched the storm fight the darkness of the night, she had to admit she was pleased with Chayton’s reaction to her. His stoicism and utter lack of conversational skills made it difficult to read him, but no translation was needed for what his body said.
 

Perhaps his reaction was just that he was near a woman after being alone so long. Perhaps any woman would trigger the same response in him. She’d no sooner thought that than she rejected it. No man who could live alone in this rugged land for as long as he had would be someone ruled by the needs of his body. Which meant he wanted her for her. She leaned her head against his shoulder, reveling in that realization. The lightning grew softer, more distant. The wind continued, but the rain was easing up as well. Perhaps the worst of the storm had passed.

For now, for this moment, she was safe. Protected. Wanted. She sighed, enjoying the euphoria of the moment. “Thank you.”

“Why do you thank me?” he whispered inches from her ear.

“I’m enjoying being here with you.”

“As am I.”

“I think the storm’s passed. For now.”

He loosened his hold on her. “Then I will leave.”

She turned inside the cover of the blanket, facing him. Perhaps it was very forward of her, but she took hold of his lean, bare waist. His skin was warm and soft, but the muscles beneath were hard. “I hope I will see you again. Soon. I’d like to do some paintings of you on your horse.”

He took the blanket from his back and spread it around her shoulders. His eyes were solemn as he gazed down at her. He touched two fingers to her cheek, drawing them downward from her cheekbone to her chin. “Tomorrow, I hunt. When I return, we will have much to discuss.”

Aggie smiled. He was an unusually silent man. She wondered what having “much to discuss” meant to him. “I’ll be here.”

He crossed the room to his drying leathers. He watched her as he stepped into his leggings. Aggie didn’t move. His gaze held her immobile, filling her with a liquid heat that spilled through her veins. He pulled his moccasins on, drew his tunic over his head, draped his necklaces over his neck, then took up his horse blanket and saddle pad.

He walked to the door. Oh, how very badly she wished he would stay, wanted it as she’d never wanted anything else. He was a madness within her, a need as imperative as that for water or air. He paused at the door and looked back at her. Her heart was hammering in her throat. She couldn’t speak. He grasped the saddle and blanket in one hand and came toward her, closing the distance between them in one fast stride. He lifted his free hand and cupped the curve of her chin and neck. His nostrils flared. His black eyes raged. The lines on either side of his mouth deepened as he bent down to kiss her.

Aggie shut her eyes, losing herself in the swirl of sensations. The scent of him in his leathers, the damp smell of rain outside, the feel of his callused hand below her ear. He lifted her face with his thumb beneath her chin. Then his lips were there, against hers. She reached over and grabbed fistfuls of suede at his sides, holding on as his mouth twisted against hers.
 

His mouth opened, forcing hers to do the same. He thrust his tongue into her mouth. She groaned in response, consumed by her desire for him. He dropped his saddle and blanket and used his freed hand to pull her in tightly against him. He smashed his nose against hers as he turned to kiss her from a different angle. She ran her hands up his heavy tunic to his shoulders, tightening her hold around his neck as she dug her hands into his hair.
 

The room started moving. She was dimly aware that he was pushing her back against the wall. When he had her pinned there, he ground his hips against hers. With her nightgown on, she couldn’t open to him more than just a little. She made a little mewl of frustration. At the sound, he yielded. He pulled his hands free and braced himself against the wall as he glared down at her.
 

“Agkhee. Agkhee,” he hissed as he fisted her hair, his mouth open against her cheek. She still clutched his back. She wanted to weep, so badly did she need him to hold her, love her.

“Stay with me, Chayton.”

He pulled back enough that he could look at her. His hand slipped from her hair as he said something she didn’t understand; he’d fallen back into Lakota. Aggie was glad she was leaning against the cabin wall when he fully released her and dipped down to pick up his saddle and blanket.
 

He paused at the door. He said something first in Lakota, then in English. “I will be back. And I will make you mine.”
 

His words jumped around in a jumbled mess in her head. It wasn’t until he was gone that she made sense of them. When his meaning clicked, she sucked in a sharp breath. Chayton’s pronouncement, however, caused her to think her life might take an unexpected turn—one not entirely unwelcome, though fraught with its own dangers and troubles.
 

Taking a Lakota warrior as a lover may not be the smartest thing she’d ever done, but it would certainly be a chapter in her life that she’d never forget. And after everything they’d each been through, weren’t they due a little joy?

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Chayton waited in the shadows beneath the big cottonwood in front of Logan’s house a couple of days later. He’d taken two bucks. One for Agkhee, one for his daughter. He’d deposited his daughter’s where he left his food offering every month or two. A woman in Logan’s household would discover the meat he provided. Shortly afterward, his friend would come outside, searching the surroundings for him. Every time, when he couldn’t find Chayton, he would make the gesture that indicated gratitude, then turn away.

This month, Chayton stood in the open, watching as his friend strode toward him. Logan reached forward, gripped his forearm, then clapped him on the shoulder as he stared into his eyes. “It’s good to see you, my friend.”

“You as well.” Chayton held himself in an erect posture. It was good to see his friend. He owed his life, and that of his daughter, to Logan. But the discussion he’d come to have was potentially a bloody one that could end life as they knew it.

Chayton knew the instant that Logan became aware of his reticence. His friend put some space between them. “I’m grateful for your successful hunts.”

“I’m grateful for the care you’ve given my daughter.”

“We have a fresh pot of coffee on the stove. Will you come in and join us?”

“Yes.”

Some of Logan’s men had come for the deer he’d left on the front porch. They set the deer down and eyed Chayton suspiciously. Logan set a hand on Chayton’s shoulder and walked with him past the men.
 

“Sarah! Come see our visitor!” he called as they stepped inside the house. Chayton tensed as they walked through the entrance hall. Walls always made him nervous. It was hard to breathe inside
wašíču
dwellings.
 

Logan’s wife greeted them in the entranceway. She smiled when she saw him and came forward with her hands extended. She held his hands as if he were a cherished member of her family and leaned up to kiss his cheek. She was even more beautiful now than when he’d first met her, years ago, when Laughs-Like-Water was still alive. It hurt to look at her, because he couldn’t do so without remembering how much his wife had enjoyed her visit to their camp that summer.
 

When he still had a family—and his people, his freedom, his world.

He fought back the wave of emotion that flooded him, listening to the humming in his ears instead of the words Logan’s wife said. But his flagging attention cost him, because another young woman stepped forward. Sarah put an arm around her. White Bird. His very own, very precious daughter.
 

Emotion danced about her face. Joy. Anger. Fear. Worry. Joy again. Then anger. She didn’t come forward until Sarah gave her a gentle push toward him. She looked hauntingly like her mother, with her narrow, oval face. Black brows that arched gracefully over almond-shaped eyes. So much strength and courage in her face. From that alone, he knew he’d chosen the right foster family for her. She’d been spared the nightmare at the Agency and the further tragedy of forced separation when the children were taken away to boarding school.
 

He reached forward to touch her. How he ached to hold her. And then she opened her mouth and let out a whirlwind of scolding for his prolonged absence. All of it said in
Lakȟóta
. It was the most beautiful thing he’d ever heard.

He smiled and took hold of her face in both of his hands. He looked over at Logan. “You let her keep her language.” Rarely did he state something so obvious, but he was awed by the discovery.

“Of course we did,” Logan answered in their language. “Not only had she lost her family and her way of life, but we couldn’t take her language and her culture, too. We can’t teach her as much as you could, but we share what we are able. She’s also learning Shoshone from my brother and his sons.”

Chayton blinked away the moisture that gathered in his eyes as he pulled his daughter into a tight embrace. “You are right. I have stayed away too long. It is good that you scold me.” He looked down at his daughter. “You look just like your mother. Have they told you that?”

“Yes,” White Bird answered. “Sarah-
m'amá
”—she switched to English as she looked at her foster mother—“must I go upstairs to read? I’d like to stay and visit.”

“No,” Chayton answered. “What I have to discuss with Logan is not a matter for women. You must do as Sarah asks.”

White Bird lifted angry eyes to him. It cut at his heart to see his beloved wife’s angry face in her features. “Will you be here when I’m finished?” she asked.