Authors: Madeline Baker
Shadow Hawk slept most of the next day and then, feeling he would go crazy if he didn’t get out of the house, he went outside and walked toward the Black Hills. They rose before him, rugged, beautiful, covered with tall pines, their branches lifting in silent supplication toward the clear blue sky. The Sacred Cave was nestled up there, waiting for his return. If he climbed the hill and entered the cave, would he find Heart-of-the-Wolf ‘s body lying where he had left it?
He pressed his hand to his side as his steps slowed. The Spirit Woman had been right. He was too weak to climb the hills. His wound, though not serious, had drained his strength.
With a sigh, Shadow Hawk turned and walked slowly toward the house. The young would-be warrior, Bob-by, was standing near a four-rail corral brushing a big black stallion.
“It’s good to see you on your feet,” Bobby said, speaking Lakota. “I am truly sorry for what happened. I was after a deer.”
Shadow Hawk nodded. “It is all right.”
Bobby couldn’t help staring at the man. Was he really a warrior from the past? It seemed too farfetched to be true, but there were many strange legends among his people, mysteries that could not be explained logically. “Will you be staying here very long?”
A wistful smile tugged at Shadow Hawk’s lips. “I do not know.”
Bobby grunted softly. “Maybe we could go into town when you’re feeling better.”
Shadow Hawk nodded, his gaze on the horse. It was a fine animal, big-boned and long-legged, with wide, intelligent eyes and a deep chest.
Bobby grinned. Whether from the past or the present, the stranger had a good eye for horseflesh. “He is a beautiful animal. I have been trying to break him to ride, but I have not yet been successful. He is very strong and very stubborn, and I have the bruises to prove it.”
Shadow Hawk smiled, thinking he’d like a chance to ride the black when he was feeling better. He nodded to Bobby, then went into the house.
He paused inside the front door, staring at the painting that hung over the huge stone fireplace. He recognized the location in the background of the painting. It was in the foothills past Bear Butte. And the horse was Ohitika. There could be no mistaking the markings on the big calico stallion. And he was the man. The knowledge sent a shiver down his spine.
He sensed her presence even before she came up beside him.
“Do you like it?” Maggie asked.
“It makes me uneasy. How did you come by a painting of me?”
“I drew it,” Maggie said. “I…” She paused. It sounded so bizarre, so intimate, to say she had dreamed of him, but he deserved to know the truth. “I saw you in a dream one night and I painted you as I remembered.” She took a deep breath. “Do you have a horse like that?”
“Ohitika.”
“It means brave, right?”
Shadow Hawk nodded. “You have not told me why you called me here.”
“I didn’t. It isn’t possible to call someone through time.”
“Perhaps not,” he said, flashing that heart-stopping grin again. “But I am here.”
“Yes,” Maggie murmured in English. “You are.” She stared up at his profile, admiring the strong square jaw, the line of his mouth, the curve of his cheek. “Maybe you can go back the way you came,” she suggested, and wondered why the thought of his leaving made her so unhappy.
“I will try,” he said, the need to know what had happened to his mother and his people strong within him, “but I must wait until the moon is full again.”
“Of course,” Maggie said, laughing softly. “Magic is always done best in the light of a full moon.”
He turned and looked down at her, and she felt the warmth of his smile wash over her like sunshine on a summer day.
“I should get back to work,” she said, feeling suddenly flustered. “Veronica has lunch waiting for you in the kitchen.”
“Spirit Woman.”
Maggie paused at the doorway. “What?”
“Have you a name?”
“Maggie,” she answered quietly. “Maggie St. Claire.”
“Mag-gie,” he murmured, and the sound of his voice, deep and resonant, sent a thrill of excitement down her spine.
“Bob-by has asked me to go into town with him.”
“Do you want to go?”
“I do not know.”
“Well, if you decide to go with him, you should get dressed.”
“I am dressed.”
“I mean you should wear the kind of clothes Bobby wears.”
Hawk glanced down at his clout and moccasins. “What is wrong with what I have on?”
“Nothing, but most people aren’t accustomed to seeing Indians dressed that way. I mean, well, it doesn’t cover very much, and…never mind, Shadow Hawk. I have to go to work. I’ll see you at dinner.”
He stared after her. She had explained to him about the books she wrote, but he saw no value in them. What was the point of writing something that was not true? He had stared at the covers that showed muscular Indian men holding scantily attired white women in their arms, and been confused. White women were afraid of Indians. The few he’d seen had looked at him in terror. He could not imagine any of them tearing off their clothes and willingly falling into his arms.
That evening, he sat across the table from the Spirit Woman, hardly tasting the food on his plate as his gaze was drawn toward her time and again, mesmerized by the way the candlelight caressed her skin and danced in the thick blackness of her hair. He listened to the sound of her voice, liking the way she spoke his language, though it was often laced with words of the white man which he didn’t fully understand. She told him of Veronica’s family, and of how much Bobby wanted to be a warrior, a real warrior, like in the old days.
“But, of course, that’s impossible,” Maggie said, her voice tinged with regret.
“Why?”
“Because the old days are gone. He wants to seek a vision and count coup on an enemy. He wants to ride to battle, like Crazy Horse.”
“You know of Crazy Horse?”
“Of course. Everyone does.”
“How?”
“It’s in the history books. Children learn of him in school.”
“White children?” he asked in disbelief.
“Yes.”
“What do they learn?”
“That he was a great warrior. They learn about Sitting Bull, too, and Red Cloud.” Maggie paused as an idea came to her. “Maybe I could teach you to speak English while you’re here.”
Shadow Hawk considered her suggestion. He could not go back to the cave until the next full moon. Perhaps it would be advisable for him to learn as much of the white man’s tongue as he could in the time he had left. A wise man studied the ways of his enemies.
“Teach me,” Shadow Hawk said.
Maggie put her writing on hold and spent the next week teaching Shadow Hawk to speak English. She had thought to spend an hour or so each morning at the task, but one hour stretched into two, and then three, and by the end of the week they had worked themselves up to almost eight hours each day.
She was glad that Veronica was there to help her, because the sentence structure of English was vastly different from that of the Lakota. There seemed to be no linking verbs in Lakota. Where a white man would say “The grass is tall”, the Lakota said
“
peji hanska
”,
meaning “grass tall”. “The sun is hot” translated as
Wi kata
,
“
sun hot”. “The dog ate the chicken” became
sunka he kokoyahanla tebye
, or “dog that chicken ate”.
By the end of the week, Maggie was amazed at how much Shadow Hawk had learned. She had only to tell him something once or twice and he knew it.
Now, sitting across the kitchen table from Shadow Hawk, she found herself staring at him surreptitiously as she did so often. He still refused to wear anything but his clout and moccasins and her gaze was constantly drawn to his broad shoulders, to the vast expanse of his copper-hued chest.
Even more compelling was the haunting magnetism of his deep black eyes and the sensual line of his mouth. She found herself longing to run her fingertips over his lower lip, to trace the faint white scars on his chest. Such a magnificent chest, she mused.
With a shake of her head, she put such thoughts from her mind. It wasn’t like her to fantasize about such things. Even as a teenager she hadn’t been overly interested in boys or making out. A nice girl saved herself for marriage, her mother had always said, and Maggie had been a nice girl. No doubt she was the only thirty-two-year-old virgin in the United States.
She looked up at the sound of Shadow Hawk’s voice. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t listening.”
“Are you tired?” Shadow Hawk repeated, wondering at her long silence.
“No, I’m fine,” Maggie said, and then smiled as she realized he’d spoken to her in English.
Shadow Hawk gazed at her thoughtfully for several moments. He’d been keenly aware of her covert stares during the past week. Did she find him desirable, or was she merely curious about a man who had traveled so far through the mists of time?
Desire surged through him as his eyes met hers, and he wished he dared touch her. When he had thought her a spirit only, he had not given any thought to the beauty of her face, the color of her skin, the shape of her mouth. But now he knew she was flesh and it was all he could do to keep from reaching out to stroke her cheek, to bury his face in the wealth of her hair and breathe in the sweet scent of woman.
Abruptly, he stood up. “We will start again tomorrow.”
“All right.”
Still, he did not move. His gaze lingered on her face and he wondered again why she had summoned him to this place.
Maggie felt her cheeks grow warm under his prolonged gaze. What was he thinking? Why was he looking at her like that?
“Good night, Mag-gie,” he said quietly, and his voice washed over her like dark honey, warm and soft and sweet.
“Good night,” she murmured, and wished she could think of some plausible reason to make him stay.
Shadow Hawk left the kitchen, reluctant to leave her, yet knowing he needed to get away from her before it was too late, before he did something that would shame her and prove he was not the warrior he claimed to be.
He walked down the narrow hall that led to the living room, pausing for a moment to look at the painting over the fireplace, and then he went outside.
Standing on the porch, he closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath, inhaling the fresh, clean scent of earth and grass, the fragrance of the tall pines, the faint odor of a skunk.
He heard the quiet swoosh of an owl’s wings, the soft snort of one of the horses, the distant melancholy cry of a wolf. The sounds of home.
Opening his eyes, he gazed at the Hills, feeling their nearness, their power.
He thought of Heart-of-the-Wolf. He thought of his mother and prayed that she still lived, but always his thoughts returned to Maggie. It pained him that she could not walk, that he could not take her hand and run with her through the prairie grass. She was a woman of beauty and sensitivity. She should not be bound to a cold chair with wheels. She should not be living in a square house with only an old woman and a young boy for company. He had seen the sadness in her eyes and knew she longed for the things every woman longed for, a man to love her, a mate to give her children, a companion to walk beside her until life was done.
Standing there, staring into the darkness, he wished that he could be that man.
Returning to the house, he walked quietly down the hallway toward his room. He paused outside Maggie’s room, imagining her asleep inside, her hair spread like a dark cloud on the pillow.
He was about to go on down the hall when he heard her crying softly. Impulsively, he opened the door and stepped into the room.
“Mag-gie? Are you all right?”
“Yes. Go away.”
“Why do you weep?”
Why, indeed, she thought bitterly. “Please, Hawk, just go away.”
He listened to her words telling him to leave, but in his heart he knew she did not want to be alone. Crossing the room, he sat on the edge of the bed and drew her into his arms.
“Let me go!” she shrieked, a sudden irrational fear rising up within her as his arms closed around her.
“Mag-gie, do not be afraid. I will not harm you.”
His voice, that beautiful deep voice, reached through the darkness, soothing her. She felt his hand stroke her hair and she laid her head against his chest and closed her eyes. It had been so long since anyone had held her. She could hear the steady beat of his heart beneath her cheek, feel the heat of his body against hers.
“Mag-gie, why do you weep?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“Why?”
“I just can’t. I hardly know you.”
His hand continued to stroke her hair, comforting her. “You can tell me,” he urged softly.
She shook her head, not wanting to put her fears into words. It wasn’t just that she couldn’t walk, it was all that it entailed. She missed horseback riding. She missed playing tennis, walking in the sunshine, swimming, shopping. And though she had vowed never to love again, she missed having a man to care for, a man who cared for her. But she couldn’t tell him that. To do so would be to bare her heart and soul.