The Spirit Path (7 page)

Shadow Hawk continued to hold her, waiting for her to speak, and then, without words, he knew why she wept, why she had called to him. She was lonely and afraid— afraid of growing old alone, afraid of having no one to love, no one to love her. In dreams and visions he had seen the tears in her eyes, heard the silent yearning of her heart.

Gently he cupped her face in his hands and gazed down into her eyes. “Do not weep, Mag-gie. You are not alone anymore.”

She stared up at him, her blue eyes luminous through her tears.

“I don’t know what you mean,” she whispered.

“There must be no lies between us,” he said, using his fingertips to wipe away her tears. “I cannot stay here forever, but while I am here, you will not be alone.”

In the morning, she was embarrassed by the way she’d melted into his arms. She hardly knew the man, yet she had snuggled into his embrace, literally crying on his shoulder. She couldn’t believe she’d done such a thing, yet there was no point in dwelling on it. Resolutely, she managed to put the incident from her mind, determined to get back to her writing as soon as breakfast was over.

Shadow Hawk was already at the kitchen table when she entered the room. One look at his face brought the events of the night before surging to the front of her mind, the memory of his arms around her almost tangible. Gazing into his expressive black eyes, she knew that he was remembering, too, that he was keenly aware of her inner turmoil, of the aching loneliness that haunted her late at night. Her only escape was her writing, where she could forget the hurt of Frank’s rejection, the feeling that life was passing her by.

Being in a wheelchair set her apart from other people. The friends she’d had in Los Angeles hadn’t known what to expect or how to react when they came to visit after the accident. Some had stared not knowing what to say. Some had found it difficult to meet her eyes and looked at everything in the room except her. She could hardly blame them. Most of her acquaintances were people she did things with, ice skating, boating, skiing, tennis. When she could no longer participate in the sports that had bonded them together, she had realized they had nothing else in common and very little to say to each other. After Frank broke their engagement, she left LA leaving no forwarding address so that only her editor knew where to find her.

After saying good morning to Veronica, Maggie concentrated on her breakfast, refusing to meet Shadow Hawk’s gaze. She didn’t want to see pity in his eyes, didn’t want him feeling sorry for her. She didn’t want to feel anything ever again.

When breakfast was over, she went into the den and sat at her computer. She knew Shadow Hawk was waiting for her in the kitchen, that he expected her to continue helping him with his English, but she couldn’t face him, not after last night.

She didn’t hear him enter the room, but she felt his presence, knew he was standing in the doorway staring at her back, but she pretended she didn’t know he was there and after a few moments, he walked away, his footsteps as silent as a cat’s.

She wrote a few pages, decided they were junk, and erased them, only to sit staring at the blank blue screen. A noise from outside drew her attention and she went to the window. Peering through the curtains, she saw Shadow Hawk swing onto the black stallion that Bobby had been trying to break for the last three months. It was a beautiful animal, all black save for a narrow white blaze and one white stocking.

No sooner had Shadow Hawk settled himself on the horse’s bare back than the animal lowered its head and began to buck wildly.

Maggie gasped, wondering how Hawk managed to stay on the animal’s back. She had watched Bobby get thrown time and again, and Bobby rode with a saddle to hang on to. But Hawk stuck to the stallion’s back as if he were a part of the huge beast, and she thought she’d never seen anything more beautiful than Shadow Hawk as he rode the wildly pitching stallion, his waist-length black hair whipping about his face, his broad chest sheened with perspiration and dust, his powerful thighs gripping the animal’s sides.

Abruptly, the stallion raised its head and reared up on its hind legs, its front feet flailing the air, its ears laid flat.

With a wild cry, Shadow Hawk brought his fist down on the horse’s head, just behind its ears, and the horse’s front feet hit the ground and it began bucking again.

I’ve got to paint this,
Maggie thought, awed by the scene before her. Foamy white lather covered the stallion’s chest and flanks, its sides heaved with the strain of trying to dislodge the unwelcome burden from its back. And the man…she could not tear her gaze from the man. He rode with seeming ease, a smile on his face as he pitted his strength against that of the horse. It was magnificent. He was magnificent.

She felt a sense of disappointment when the battle was over. The stallion gave one final buck and came to an abrupt halt, its body quivering with exhaustion, its nostrils flared, its ears twitching back and forth.

Maggie watched as Shadow Hawk slid to the ground, then went to stand at the stallion’s head. Placing his hands on either side of the horse’s head, Hawk blew gently into the stallion’s nostrils, letting their breaths mingle, and then he scratched the horse behind its ears, speaking to the animal all the while.

She sat there as though mesmerized while Shadow Hawk walked the horse around the corral to cool it out, then spent twenty minutes brushing the horse until its coat gleamed like black silk.

Not wanting to be caught staring, she turned away from the window when Shadow Hawk vaulted over the corral fence and started walking toward the house.

She was sitting at her computer when she heard the water running in the shower. It was one of the white man’s inventions that he had readily taken to and she felt her cheeks flush as she imagined him standing there with the warm water rinsing away the dust and perspiration.

She knew the minute he entered the room.

“Will you teach me now?” he asked. “I still have much to learn.”

What was there about the sound of his voice that made her feel warm and safe, that made her long for things which could never be?

Slowly, she shook her head. She was becoming too fond of this man from the past, this man who was too young for her, who might disappear at any moment.

“Mag-gie?”

The sound of her name on his lips melted her resolve to avoid him. Moments later they were seated across from each other at the kitchen table with Maggie saying phrases in Lakota and Shadow Hawk repeating them in English.

“
Hau
,”
she said.

“Hello,” he replied.

“
Toniktuka he?
”
she asked.

“How are you?” he said, repeating the question in English.

“Matanyan yelo.
”

“I am fine.”

She was caught up in the sound of his voice, in the clear black depths of his eyes, in the decidedly male scent that filled her nostrils. Her gaze kept straying to his bare chest and she made a mental note to tell Veronica to find him something to wear. A shirt, an overcoat, anything, because it was impossible to concentrate on mundane things like nouns and verbs with that vast expanse of well-muscled copper-hued flesh staring her in the face morning, noon and night. It was a good thing he’d never gone into Sturgis with Bobby, she thought, because he would have caused accidents all over town as women drivers turned to watch him instead of the road.

She was unaware that Veronica had entered the room until the older woman tapped her on the shoulder. “Hey, you in there?” Veronica queried, one eyebrow arched in concern. “I asked you three times what you want for lunch.”

“Oh, I don’t care,” Maggie said. “Whatever you feel like fixing.”

“Sandwiches okay?”

“Fine.”

She went on with the lesson while Veronica prepared lunch. She tried not to stare at Hawk as he picked up the thick roast beef and Swiss cheese sandwich Veronica had made. He studied it for a moment, sniffed it before he took a bite. A slow smile curved the corners of his mouth. “
Wasté
,”
he said, nodding his approval.

Maggie nodded, charmed by the look of pleasure on his face. He quickly ate his sandwich and she gave him half of hers, pleased that he found contemporary food to his liking.

They went back to the lesson after lunch. She was trying to explain the difference between a noun and a pronoun when Shadow Hawk laid his hand over hers, his thumb lightly stroking the back of her hand.

Maggie’s breath caught in her throat and she felt the sting of tears in her eyes. His touch was so unexpected, so filled with warmth and tenderness, that it caught her completely by surprise.

Without thinking, she jerked her hand away, confused by her overwhelming response to such an ordinary gesture, and then she stared at him, mute, knowing she’d hurt him. He didn’t say anything, only sat there watching her.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured. “I…” Oh Lord, she thought, what was he doing to her? Why did he look at her like that, as if he were lost and she was the only one who could save him?

She felt a sudden urge to take him into her arms, to cradle his head against her breast and tell him everything would be all right. Instead, she placed her hand over his. “I’m sorry,” she said again.

He smiled at her and then, in a fluid movement, he stood up and walked toward her. Pulling her wheelchair away from the table, he lifted her in his arms.

“What are you doing?” Maggie exclaimed.

“I wish to go for a walk.”

“I can’t walk.”

“I can,” he said simply, and headed for the back door.

She started to protest that she didn’t want to go outside, that she was too heavy for him to carry. Instead, she twined her arms around his neck and rested her head on his shoulder.

It was a beautiful day, clear and warm with a gentle breeze. He carried her as if she weighed no more than a child, telling her of his youth and of the days he had spent in the Black Hills.

“I was born here, in the
Paha Sapa
in the year when we stole the arrows from the Pawnee,” Hawk began. “My father was a mighty warrior. He counted many coup against the Crow and the Pawnee. He was killed in my twelfth summer while defending my mother and two small children from a grizzly bear.”

Maggie nodded, understanding the things he did not say. That he had been his mother’s protector and provider since his father died.

“It was here, in the shadow of the
Paha Sapa
that I learned to be a warrior. Heart-of-the-Wolf taught me to hunt, to track the deer and the elk, to find food and water. He also taught me what he knew of plants and herbs.

“It was here that I fought in my first battle, and here that I killed my first Pawnee.”

Maggie listened, mesmerized by the sound of his voice. In her mind, it was so easy to picture him as the boy he had been, tall and lean and strong, eager to learn, excelling at all he did. She did not like to picture him killing anyone, yet it made her heart skip a beat as she imagined him riding to battle, his blood running hot, his face painted for war.

“Heart-of-the-Wolf prepared me to seek my vision, and to participate in the Sun Dance. We came here each summer to celebrate the Sun Dance with our brothers, the Cheyenne. Those were good times, filled with days of feasting and games, and nights of dancing and storytelling. And always, lurking in the back of your mind if you were going to take part in the dance, was the shadow of the Sun Dance Pole.”

“Were you afraid?” Maggie asked, staring at the scars on his chest. She had read numerous accounts of the Sun Dance ceremony and thought she understood, at least a little, the significance of it, yet she could not help feeling repulsed by the ordeal.

“Afraid?” Hawk frowned thoughtfully. “I was not afraid of the pain. I knew it would hurt and I think I was prepared for that. I was afraid of failing, of not having the courage to see it through to the end. Mostly, I was afraid of bringing shame to my mother and to Heart-of-the-Wolf.”

“Was it as bad as you expected?”

Hawk chuckled softly. “Worse. And better.” Maggie lifted her hand, wanting to touch the faint white scars on his chest, but lacking the nerve to do so.

And then he took her hand in his and laid it over each scar.

“It was you, Mag-gie,” he said, his voice suddenly husky. “It was your image I saw when I offered my blood and my pain at the Sun Dance Pole.”

Maggie gazed deep into his eyes and she saw it all clearly, the Lakota encampment in the heart of the Black Hills, the sacred Sun Dance Pole made from the trunk of a cottonwood tree, the warriors dancing while the rest of the people looked on. She could feel the warmth of the summer sun on her face, hear the heartbeat of the drum, the shrill notes of an eagle bone whistle. She felt Shadow Hawk’s pain as the skewers that had been embedded in the muscle of his chest tore free, and she felt a new love and respect for the people who had lived here so long ago, for the man who held her in his arms.

A short time later they came to a small stream. Still cradling Maggie in his arms, Hawk sat down on the grass, holding her in his lap.

“You can put me down now,” Maggie said, feeling suddenly self-conscious. “I must be getting heavy.”

“You are not heavy,” he replied candidly, “and I like holding you.”

Maggie blushed and looked away. And then she felt his hand move in her hair as he began to speak to her in Lakota.

“Do you see that high mountain?” he asked. “My people believe the great thunderbird,
Wakinyan Tanka
,
lives in his tipi on top of that mountain. There are four of them. The
Wakinyan
of the west is the most powerful. He is clothed in clouds. His body has no form, but he has giant wings. He has no feet, but enormous claws. He has no head, but a huge sharp beak with pointed teeth. His color is black.