Sweet Savage Heart (3 page)

“I will invite Rides-Like-Thunder to visit our tepee. You will see that he is the best choice for the daughter of Soaring Hawk and sister of Lone Wolf. Do not rashly close your heart and mind to him. He is a good man and my friend. You are my sister and I love you. That is why I choose the best man for you. Accept him and my words,” he coaxed. He did love her, and this matter was difficult for him. He was distressed by her rebellion and selfishness. How could he reach her?

“Would Rides-Like-Thunder be the best choice if he were of our tribe? Or is he the best because he will take me away from your camp and tepee? Am I so repulsive that my own brother wishes to be rid of me?” she
challenged him, her emotions in turmoil. “Why are you blind to the truth, Lone Wolf? Grandfather must guide my steps.”

Lone Wolf reasoned, “Good changes will be made in Wild Wind in another camp. If you remain here, you will not try to become a good wife. Your defiance will vanish in the Cheyenne camp, for you will learn that such ways and words are wrong. You will learn to be Indian again. You will find love and desire. If you wish to choose another warrior, do so before the buffalo hunt ends. If you do not, I will accept my friend’s offer after our tribes hunt together. I will allow him to take you as his mate after the joint Sun Dance. If Rides-Like-Thunder were of this camp, my choice would be the same,” he added honestly. “If you desire Black Hawk or Prairie Dog and promise to become a good Oglala wife, I will accept your choice of either warrior. I do not wish to hurt you, my sister. Do not make it so.”

Unaccustomed tears glimmered in her eyes, for she could not alter or resist the Indian ways. She had lived with the Oglala Sioux long enough to know she must obey Lone Wolf’s words or be banned from her tribe. Where could she go? How would she survive? Did she want freedom that badly? Even if Rides-Like-Thunder was the best choice for a mate from any tribe, she did not love him or want to marry him. She wanted happiness and freedom; she wanted to comprehend this fierce and intangible hunger that chewed at her mind and body. She wanted and needed… what the Great Spirit had not yet revealed.

How could she yield to defeat when such a powerful urge to seek her real destiny pulled at her? As surely as the sun rose, it was wrong to marry Rides-Like-Thunder, or any man, just now. But how could she prevent it until she understood who and what she was? Why must she sacrifice her joy, her freedom, and her body to another
person? What about her desires and her honor? Was she of such little importance?

“Niksapa hantans ecanu kte,”
Lone Wolf encouraged her tenderly.

Wild Wind bravely fused her blue gaze to Lone Wolf’s ebony one and mentally questioned his last words: “If you are wise, you will do it.” Suddenly she lost the will to resist him. This battle between them was too vicious and demanding and destructive. If the Great Spirit had other plans for her, He would see them exposed and fulfilled before it was too late. For now, peace with her brother and people was the important thing. She replied, “As you command, I will choose a mate by the Sun Dance, or I will leave our camp forever. If you open your senses to the words and desires of the Great Spirit, you will know your order is wrong. I beg you, Lone Wolf, seek His will for our lives before you stubbornly go against it. Your words and anger have pierced my heart as fiery arrows. I was a child when I came to the tepee of Soaring Hawk and Lone Wolf; you have made me as I am. Now you punish me for the skills I have learned and the hungers I feel. I know I am a female, for I experience the sting of that sex each day. Why must being a woman destroy my chances for happiness? A captive could perform the same duties you ask of me. Why can there not be more to my life, Lone Wolf? Why is it wrong to ride with the sun and wind? Why is it wrong to learn and practice warrior skills? Is it not best for a woman to be able to protect her tepee and family when her warrior is gone? Have you forgotten how many camps have been raided and destroyed while warriors were hunting or fighting?”

Her voice became strained with heavy emotion as she continued, “Why are women not taught to defend their camps and lives? Why must they flee into the forests or be abused by their captors? Without homes and families, the warriors will have nothing and will cease to exist, as
the white man cunningly plans. You know their clever strategy: leave nothing and no one behind and the Dakota Nation will perish. Why is it wrong to know how to track and hunt when the warriors are away and food is needed? Must women, old ones, and children suffer and die because of male pride? Why can we not listen to the words of the council, which also affect our lives? Did not Grandfather also create females? Did He not also give us cunning and courage? Why must we hide these traits? Women have feelings and wishes; why can we not speak them? We are allowed to do no more for our families and people than animals do for their own kind or slaves are commanded to do for their owners; yet we are above animals and slaves in all ways. Women are Oglalas too, Lone Wolf, the children of the Great Spirit. Where and when has Grandfather said we are beneath males? The taste of cowardice is bitter, my brother. Explain these things that trouble me, and I will obey all orders,” she vowed.

Lone Wolf declared impatiently, “We have spoken of such matters many times, my sister. It is our way. Grandfather chose the paths for males and females long ago, and He has not changed them. Oglalas must be Oglala. I will waste no more words and strength on such useless talk,” he told her, for he could not think of words to refute her arguments, and this dismayed him. “You refuse to see right and to do it. I wish it were not so. Think on your honor and deeds, my sister, and we will speak when I return.” He secretly hoped his wits would not fail him at such a trying time. If only her words did not sound so logical, or go against all he had been taught…

“It is useless to speak further, my brother and chief. You see only your feelings and thoughts; you care nothing for mine. All people are not the same, Lone Wolf. One day you must face this truth and you must
learn the value of women. If you could become a female for only one sun and moon, you would learn much. I agree that many of my deeds are rash and my words are often too quick and sharp, but my honor exists only as long as I remain true to myself and all that I believe. We will not speak on this matter again. I will obey your wishes or I will leave before the buffalo hunt,” she announced, a new confidence filling her at that irrevocable decision. If her brother felt she would leave before complying with his commands, he might back down…

Lone Wolf watched his adopted sister mount and ride for camp. Wild Wind was smart and brave. She would think on his words and her behavior, then yield to his orders. After the passing of one full moon, she would become the mate of his Cheyenne friend or another of her own choosing, and all would be as it should be…

Wild Wind returned to camp and closed the flap to her tepee to signal privacy. She had much thinking to do but did not know where to begin. For as long as she could remember, or would permit herself to remember, she had lived as an Oglala. Yet she was not Indian, and the trader’s looking glass impressed this reality upon her more and more each day. She had tried to be like all of the other Indian maidens but had failed. She was making Lone Wolf and others angry and sad, yet she could not help herself. She wanted and needed something more than this confining life offered her. She was not Soaring Hawk’s daughter, but she could not recall her dark past. Who was she? Where did she belong? How could she become all she wanted to be? “Help me, Great Spirit, for I am lost in mist and cannot find my rightful path. I do not wish to dishonor or sadden my brother, Lone Wolf, but I cannot yield to his commands. Please show him I am not like the females of his kind. Please reveal my purpose in life to him. My time is short, Grandfather, and I need
your help and answer. Do not fail me because my skin is white, for my heart is Indian.”

Suddenly she began to weep, for the truth pounded inside her head: No, Wild Wind, you are not Indian and your place is not here…

A similar confusion was taking place far away in Texas, near Fort Worth. Rancher Nathan Crandall was wondering if he was experiencing a cruel joke or a miracle as he digested the news he had just received. He swallowed to remove the lump in his throat that temporarily prevented him from questioning the astounding mystery that had been presented to him. The hands that gripped two breathtaking canvases by renowned artist Thomas Mallory were wrinkled by advancing age and scarred by countless hours of hard manual labor often done in harsh weather. His grayish blue eyes glanced from the two small portraits of an Indian princess to a large portrait of his deceased daughter, Marissa Crandall Michaels, which was hanging over his fireplace. The deteriorating portrait, which Thomas Mallory was now studying intently, had been painted in 1847, when Marissa had been eighteen. Nathan found himself wondering in confusion how the two portraits he held could look like Marissa when they had been painted so recently and his daughter had been dead since ‘56?

This talented and adventurous artist had arrived in Fort Worth three days ago. Nathan’s foreman, Travis Kincade, had met Thomas in the Silver Shadow Saloon and had become intrigued by his work and tales. Travis had learned that Thomas had been traveling the West for the past three years, painting portraits of trappers, soldiers, Indians, and settlers. When he was not doing portraits, he was painting landscapes, portrayals of customs and adventures, and wildlife. Nearing the end of
his often perilous trek and before returning east, Thomas had traveled to Texas to capture rugged lawmen and infamous outlaws in evocative oils.

Returning home, Travis had informed Nathan of the master craftsman’s arrival. As Marissa’s portrait was in dire need of expert attention, Nathan had sent Travis back to town to bring Thomas to the ranch to examine his daughter’s portrait and to discuss its restoration.

At first glance, the eagle-eyed artist had gaped at the portrait that he was being asked to revitalize. To explain his curious reaction, Thomas had pulled two canvases from an over-sized leather satchel, unwrapped them, and handed them to Nathan. “I brought along some of my favorite paintings to let you judge my work for yourself. Now you can understand my astonishment, Mister Crandall. They could almost be the same person. Such resemblance… It’s incredible.”

The owner of the Rocking
C
Ranch tried to master his shock in order to think clearly and calmly. “Who is this girl? When did you paint these? Where?” Nathan demanded hoarsely, the questions suddenly tumbling over each other from his dry mouth.

Thomas Mallory pulled his probing gaze from Marissa’s portrait and focused it on the anguished expression of his eminent host. “Her name is
Watogla Tate.
She’s the daughter of Chief Soaring Hawk of the Sioux. I spent most of the winter and spring traveling through the Dakota Territory, painting chiefs and warriors. When I saw that girl, I had to paint her. So much beauty and vitality for a maiden of eighteen years. No artist or healthy male could ignore a face like hers. Nor that one,” he added hoarsely, motioning to Marissa’s fading portrait.

“Wato
… what?” Nathan asked anxiously.

“Wa-to-gla Ta-te,”
Thomas repeated. “It means Wild Wind. Clearly she isn’t Indian, not with that red hair and
those gray-blue eyes. I wonder how those Sioux got hold of her and why they made her a chief’s daughter.” He turned to continue his study of the painting, which was desperately in need of repairing and retouching.

Nathan placed the smaller paintings on either side of Marissa’s portrait and stared at the images side by side. The sixty-three-year-old man ran shaky fingers through mussed hair, the color of which shifted more from blond to silver with each passing year. As time seemingly halted, Nathan visually compared the Sioux Indian princess,
Watogla Tate,
to his deceased daughter, Marissa. His heart began to pound forcefully.

With an eye for detail, Thomas Mallory pointed out each matching or similar feature. Both women had large eyes, but Marissa’s were a cornflower blue, whereas Wild Wind’s were the color of a Texas winter sky just before dusk, an entrancing gray-blue. Each set of eyes exposed an air of mystery and sensuality. Thick red hair in masses of waves and curls tumbled over slender shoulders to small waists, hair that came alive with fiery color, that seemingly flowed wild and free like the rain-swollen river whose banks could not confine its abundance and energy. Marissa’s portrait had been painted inside while
Watogla Tate’s
had been painted outside, and therefore Wild Wind’s tresses revealed golden highlights that Marissa’s lacked. Both women seemed to exhibit a love for the outdoors, displaying sun-kissed golden flesh with a barely noticeable smattering of pale freckles. The shapes of their noses, faces, and chins matched perfectly. It was eerie. “This resemblance is fascinating. I would like to meet your daughter. Perhaps she could pose for a new portrait after I complete my repair work on this one. I would guess it’s around… twenty years old?” he hinted as he critically eyed the aging portrait.

Nathan nodded. Despite his reluctance, he had to think, to remember those painful times. “I’m afraid that
isn’t possible, Mister Mallory. Eleven years ago, Marissa was murdered by Kiowa Indians. The red bastards attacked her stagecoach and slaughtered everyone on it but my seven-year-old granddaughter. They kidnapped her. For years I searched for Rana and offered large rewards for her return. Nothing. I couldn’t bear the thought of her being enslaved and abused by those murdering savages, so it seemed easier to accept her as dead, like her mother. She was eighteen this March, if she’s still alive.” Nathan’s eyes were glued to the canvases. “After years of torment and doubt, have I found my little Rana? Look at her. She’s the spittin’ image of my Marissa. It has to be my granddaughter. But how did the Sioux get her away from those Kiowas? Their territories are far apart and they’re fierce enemies. How could a white captive become a Sioux chief’s daughter? How can she look so dadburn happy?”