“Martay.” He spoke her name softly with tenderness and yearning. She never knew.
Night Sun drew the small hand around to his lips, turned it over, and kissed the soft, cool palm. Then he drew it down to his chest, turned fully onto his back, and totally exhausted, fell asleep.
Not half an hour later Martay roused. Slowly emerging from the mists of fevered unconsciousness, half awake, half asleep, she looked curiously around. The first thing her eyes fell on was a long, many-feathered war bonnet suspended from the far wall of the tipi, but its presence didn’t frighten her. Neither did the large, round shield beside it, nor the lance, nor the banked fire in the center of the strange circular room.
In a calm, dreamlike state, Martay turned her head and saw him. Night Sun lay on his back holding her hand atop his chest. Smiling, she studied his handsome profile. And for a sweet, wishful interlude, she allowed herself to imagine that things were very different.
The darkly handsome man beside her was not a heartless savage who’d captured her. He was deeply in love with her, and they were not in a Lakota tipi in the hills, they were in a huge, soft bed in their fine city mansion where he would sleep beside her for a lifetime.
“Jim,” she said quietly, trying out the name. But it did not sound right. “Night Sun,” she murmured softly, her weak, thin voice filled with emotion. But he never knew.
Sighing, she slipped back into slumber. When Martay next awakened, she turned her head and found herself looking into the gleaming midnight eyes of Night Sun. Instantly she was outraged.
“What do you think you’re doing? You get out of my bed,” she demanded, a hint of fire in her dulled green eyes, and lifting a weak arm, gave his chest a push. “Get away from me!”
Night Sun was delighted. Her combative nature had returned; it could only mean she was a little better. He caught her flailing hand, wrapped his fingers around her fragile wrist, and said, smiling, “Ah, the sweetest words you’ve ever spoken.”
“Let go of my hand!”
Nodding, he released her wrist, and agilely rising to his feet, inquired kindly, “How are you feeling, Martay?”
She frowned up at him. “Horrible. My legs and arms ache, and my head does too. My stomach hurts and my chest feels like someone kicked me. My throat is dry and my lips are … are …” He was smiling. She glared at him. “You think it’s funny that I hurt all over?”
“Yes,” he coolly replied, seeing a welcome touch of color rising to her pale cheeks, knowing instinctively she was past danger.
He turned and walked away, running his lean brown fingers through his disheveled black hair, ignoring the string of complaints she loudly voiced. “Where are you going?” she interrupted herself.
Pausing at the tipi’s opening, he pivoted and said, “You want me to leave. I’m leaving.” He grinned.
Struggling up onto an elbow, she demanded, “You come back here!”
“Lie down, Martay,” said Night Sun. “I’m going for my grandmother. She’ll give you something to make you feel better.”
* * *
That morning, long before Night Sun and Martay had awakened, Gentle Deer had summoned Night Sun’s boyhood friend, Lone Tree. When the strong, polite brave entered her tipi on the far edge of the camp, she served him some of the coffee Night Sun had brought her, and teased him about his upcoming marriage to the small, pretty Peaceful Dove.
His smiling eyes grew wistful and the quiet warrior said, “It is so long to wait. I never get to be alone with Peaceful Dove. I ask her father why the marriage cannot be now, in the Moon When the Wild Cherries Are Ripe, but he would not agree.”
The old woman smiled at the impatience and eagerness of youthful lovers. She said, “Lone Tree, her father is wise. You will have many summers with Peaceful Dove. She will not be seventeen until the Moon of Drying Grass. Is best to wait.”
He nodded, unconvinced.
The old woman smiled and said, “But I fix so you two can be alone.” He looked at her with interest. “I need herbs gathered from the woods for the sick child-woman in my grandson’s tipi. I have told Peaceful Dove’s father she must go with you into the forest and show you which ones to choose.” She saw the excitement leap into the warrior’s eyes and laughed. “Go now. Peaceful Dove is waiting. But be back before the sun climbs too high. I must be prepared when Night Sun calls on me.”
Grateful to the wise old woman, Lone Tree sprang to his feet, thanking her and promising to return in two hours, no later. He sprinted all the way to Peaceful Dove’s tipi, and in moments the happy sweethearts were alone in the cool green woods.
They returned, flushed and happy, two hours later, carrying a basket of varied herbs. By the time Night Sun came rushing into his grandmother’s tipi, she was seated there, waiting calmly for him, the basket of herbs gripped firmly in her hand.
“Grandmother,” said Night Sun, ducking in, “you must come at once. The …”
“The child-woman is awake,” she interrupted, smiling, and it was a statement, not a question.
Martay cringed when the short, wrinkle-faced Gentle Deer leaned over her. Pulling the soft fur robes protectively closer, Martay edged away from the touching, probing old gray-haired Indian woman, her aristocratic nose wrinkling with distaste.
Night Sun, standing above, felt his anger rising. In a voice that was calm yet commanding, he said, “Do as Grandmother tells you, Martay.”
Martay reluctantly accepted the
wina wizi cikola
that Gentle Deer held out to her. And looking grumpily from Gentle Deer to Night Sun, she chewed the bitter licorice, making terrible faces and paying no attention to Gentle Deer’s insistence that the herb would fight her miserable flu-like feelings.
Warned by his deadly black eyes not to make a scene in front of Gentle Deer, Martay also dutifully took the offered gourd filled with hot verbena tea and sipped it as the old woman smiled and said, “Is very good for your stomach. Drink it often.”
But Martay balked when Gentle Deer ground up the bitter roots of
sinkpe tawote,
mixed them with gunpowder, and handed the concoction to her. “She is trying to kill me!” Martay said heatedly.
An expression of hurt passed behind the old woman’s sightless eyes and she said, “Child, I would not harm you. I mean only to ease the painful aching in your arms and legs.”
“I don’t believe it,” said Martay. Lifting snapping green eyes to Night Sun, she said more loudly, “I don’t believe her. Get her out of here this minute!”
Holding his tongue, Night Sun took the mixture from his grandmother’s outstretched hand and set it aside. Then he gently helped the aged woman to her feet, saying, “Grandmother, Martay is tired and irritable, not herself.”
He escorted his grandmother back to her tipi, taking his time, engaging her in casual conversation, assuring her that he would call on her when she was again needed. He thanked her for coming, for helping.
No sooner had he ushered Gentle Deer into her lodge than he turned on his heel and headed straight back to his own tipi, his black eyes ablaze.
When Night Sun ducked through the opening, Martay knew he was angry. But she didn’t know how angry. Lowering the tipi flap to ensure total privacy, he advanced on her, his handsome face a dark mask of fury.
For a moment he stood just above her, his eyes black slits of rage. He waited, coiled like a tightly wound spring, fighting to gain control of himself. At last he crouched down on his heels before her.
“In the white world, among the wealthy,” he said, his voice deep, soft, “it may be accepted practice for pampered misses to be rude and disrespectful to their elders.” His lean face was taut, the slanting cheekbones highly prominent. “You are in a Lakota Sioux camp. Here the old are honored and revered and treated with respect.”
“I don’t care, I’m not …”
“Never,” he said, and a vein throbbed on his forehead, “never again speak to my grandmother in the manner you just did.”
Martay swallowed. “I refuse to drink down some primitive god-awful concoction with gunpowder in it!” She turned away.
His bronzed hand shot out, captured her chin, and forcefully he turned her back toward him. Then, leaning close, he placed his hands on either side of her face and would not let her look away.
His killer-black eyes impaling her, he said, “There’s one person left on this earth that I love. Gentle Deer. Be kind to her or answer to me.” He released her face, his eyes still holding hers. “You will not be required to take Gentle Deer’s medicine.” He slowly rose to his full, imposing height, towering there above her. “If you wish to suffer, who am I to stop you?” He turned and walked away.
Her bottom lip trembling, Martay hissed under her breath, “You bullying bastard!”
Night Sun left her, and as much as she wanted him out of her sight, Martay felt uneasy the minute his tall, lean frame disappeared through the tipi’s opening. Suppose the horrid old woman came back and forced the strange compounds on her? Or the camp’s curious came to peer at her? Or, worse, came to harm her?
Martay felt a great measure of relief when she heard Night Sun’s deep, distinctive voice just outside. He was engaged in conversation with another male, one he addressed as Lone Tree. But they were speaking in the Lakota tongue and she understood nothing. Curious, she listened, wondering what they were saying, supposing they were talking about her, discussing what they would do with her.
The voices rose and fell and Martay began to relax. Cruel and coldhearted though he might be, Night Sun was now her only link to the outside world. If he were not close by, there was no telling what the savages might do to her. Like it or not, she needed him, depended on him. And instinctively she knew that as long as she was considered his property, no other Lakota would harm her.
So she was glad that he remained close to the tipi. She felt protected as long as she could hear the deep timbre of his voice; knew that he was lounging lazily there in the sunshine, was so close she could call to him and he could be beside her instantly.
Martay rested through the afternoon and tried to be pleasant when Night Sun served to her hot, steaming broth at sunset and more verbena tea. She obligingly drank as much of both liquids as she could get down, hoping to mollify him.
She said, purposely making her voice soft, sweet, “I heard you outside the tipi this afternoon. It sounded as though you were visiting with a friend?”
“Yes, I was.”
Martay sighed. What an exasperating man! He never volunteered information of any kind. “Who is the friend?”
“He’s Lone Tree.”
She smiled, determined to draw him out. “Have you known Lone Tree long?”
“Twenty-four years.”
“For heaven’s sake, you’re at it again! Can’t you say more than three words at a time?”
“Yes, I can.”
“Oh, I give up.”
“That’s four words.” He grinned. Angrily, she turned away, showing him her back. He laid a gentle hand on her arm and said, “Lone Tree and I were born within a week of each other on the banks of the Powder River. We learned to walk and ride and hunt and fight together. We’ve spent many a happy day riding over these vast plains atop fast horses.”
Martay slowly turned to look at him. His hand remained on her arm, but his black eyes were not on her. They were looking into the past.
“From the beginning we’ve had a friendly rivalry that made every feat we attempted twice as enjoyable. I couldn’t stand to have Lone Tree beat me at anything. He felt the same.” Night Sun smiled suddenly. “Lone Tree told me this afternoon he’s finally beating me at something. In a couple of months he is marrying the prettiest girl in camp.” His eyes dropped to Martay’s face.
“Could you have beaten Lone Tree? Could you have had the girl?”
“The girl was twelve years old when I went away. A skinny little child.”
“And now?”
“She’s very beautiful. Large dark eyes and long raven hair and she is no longer skinny. Lone Tree is a lucky man.”
Martay felt a sudden twinge of jealousy. “Are you envious?” she asked.
“Certainly not. He’s in love with her, I’m not.”
“Have you ever been in love?”
“I never have,” he answered, and it was right back to the three-word replies from the dark, taciturn man.
22
T
he next hour passed in silence.
Night Sun, moving across the tipi from her, sat cross-legged and smoked a cigar, calmly watching Martay, wondering just how long it would take before she asked that he bring back his grandmother and her healing potions.
Martay, thrashing restlessly about on her soft fur bed, gritted her teeth and scrunched up her face against the discomfort of her intensely aching arms and legs. The pain had steadily worsened throughout the day. What had been only twinges at midafternoon was now, as dusk approached, nearly unbearable. Wondering how she could possibly make it through the long night, Martay, for a fleeting moment, lamented the fact that she had sent the old Indian woman away.
Mentally, Martay shook her head. No. She wasn’t. She was not going to swallow some aboriginal mixture that might well kill her. She closed her eyes and wished for some of the blessed white powders Lettie favored for her migraine headaches.
Martay’s eyes opened and she bit her bottom lip. She looked across the dim tipi. Night Sun, his dark face awash in the last pink traces of a dying August sun streaming in the tipi’s opening, was turned toward her. Quietly he was watching her, his forearms resting atop his bent knees, a cigar clamped between his teeth.
Smugly waiting for her to ask for help. Well, she’d be damned if she’d do it!
Sighing, she flexed her toes back and forth and stretched her tense legs out straight, wishing Lettie were here to massage the aching limbs. She rubbed her arms briskly and hunched her stiff shoulders and prided herself on not crying, even as the tears sprang to her eyes.
She was in agony.
Why couldn’t Night Sun see it? He seemed to see everything else. She almost wished … she did … she wished he would bring back his grandmother. Maybe the old Indian woman could do something for her. Why hadn’t Gentle Deer returned? Was it because Night Sun wouldn’t allow it?