Gray Hawk's Lady: Blackfoot Warriors, Book 1 Read online

  He smiled a cold, unmerciful grin. “I think not,” he said slowly. “Your intentions were made more than clear to me.”

  She swallowed. “No, it’s not true. I only bring you to my father, who is completing a work on the cultures and languages of the American Indians. We lack a study of your tribe. That is all we need. That is all I am doing. Nothing more. When the study is done, we will return you to your people. I promise you.”

  The Indian shrugged and gazed away.

  “Did you hear me?” she asked, his lack of response causing her to grow angry. She sighed. “I promise you, I am doing no more than taking you to my father…that is all.”

  Again, the Indian shrugged.

  She grimaced. “Sir, Mr… what is your name?”

  “Ha’! Do you now request that I give you a part of me?”

  “No, I…” Her mouth fell open. “I ask only your name, that I might address you properly.”

  “Haiya, how is it,” he asked, “that you want to learn about my people’s culture, and yet you do not know what you ask of me?”

  “I…have I somehow insulted you? If I have done something wrong, could you tell me?”

  He jerked his head to the left, and, looking away from her, he sighed. “How is it you do not know these things?” He seemed to address the wall as he spoke. “How can it be that you do not know that if I tell you my name, I give you a part of all that I am, a part of me that your people call the soul, ksissta’pssi? Is that what you want, white woman of no honor? Do you wish to own my soul?”

  “No, I…I… You are right. I did not know. It is not that way in my culture. In my society, a name designates your family; that is all the meaning we attach to it, and beyond that, a name has little significance to us, except perhaps for its beauty.”

  The man nodded. “I have learned this of the white man. Ha’, is it not strange that I should know more of your culture than you do of mine? Yet I do not wish to ‘know’ yours.”

  “I…” She paused, taking time to close her mouth. “Yes, that is quite strange, and I would like to learn sometime how it is that you have come to know what you do about my culture. Will you tell it to me?”

  Again he presented her with silence, and the man glanced away from her, ignoring her as though he were alone in the room.

  She sighed. “Very well. But I feel I must call you by some name. Would you perhaps be offended if I were to assign you a name?”

  No response.

  “I could give you a name like—”

  “Hawk,” he said, shifting to bring his glance back toward her. “You may call me Hawk. The Great Gray Hawk that squeezes the life from his prey, ikkitsinaattsi ayinnima.” He smiled, or at least it appeared to her that he did. “And do not doubt, white woman with no honor, I always, always, corner my prey, playing with them as a hawk might, unto their death.” He paused. “Aisskahs. Always.”

  She swallowed, her eyes opening a fraction of an inch wider. “Very well, Mr. Great Gray Hawk,” was all she managed to say. She tried to grin, but the action was lost to her. At last, after biting on her lower lip, she said, “I do not know where or from whom you received your information of what I intend to do to you, but I promise you that I have no intentions toward you other than delivering you to my father, where I am hoping that you will help him with his studies. Then, when those studies are complete, you will be free, and I will more than compensate you for your time. You will be handsomely paid. You see? You are no prisoner…”

  He held up his hands, which were, at that moment, bound.

  “That is necessary only in order to keep you here.”

  “I am a prisoner, then.”

  She sighed. “You are being difficult.”

  He actually smiled at her, really smiled, though she noted that the expression had little to do with humor. A long moment passed, during which he held her gaze, before he at last said, simply, “Iniiyi’taki. Thank you.”

  She felt her mouth drop open, and her throat worked as if she intended to say more, but at that moment Robert shoved at the door, the action throwing her slightly forward. And without so much as a hello or good-bye to the Indian or to Robert, Lady Genevieve picked up the long skirts of her gown and, turning, fled from the room.

  Chapter Four

  “Why, Mr. Chouteau, what a great pleasure it is to see you.”

  “Ah, Mademoiselle Genevieve. You are sight for these poor eyes this day. And please, please I am to take a walk. You are to walk with me?”

  “I’d be happy to,” Genevieve said to Pierre Chouteau, who, in addition to being part-proprietor of the boat, was acting as their zealous navigator. Turning toward him, she contemplated the man for a brief moment. Of medium height, with black hair and black eyes, he stood only a little taller than she.

  But he was a handsome, charming Frenchman, probably about forty years of age, who, dressed in his suit and waistcoat, somehow looked out of place in this wilderness. He was married, and his wife and two daughters had accompanied them on the voyage upriver as far as St. Charles.

  Grateful to Mr. Chouteau, Genevieve had long ago dubbed him a genius. In truth, she couldn’t imagine how the boat could have survived this, its maiden voyage into Blackfoot country, without the perseverance and doggedness of this man.

  Never before had men navigated the swirling, muddy Missouri by steam. And no one at the start of this journey had thought the venture would be successful. The terrible nature of the river had discouraged other, less ambitious men.

  But Pierre Chouteau was not a man who recognized defeat. In truth, it was due mainly to Mr. Chouteau and his belief in her cause that she was here right now.

  It was odd how quickly she had become accustomed to the daily routine of the steamer. It was still with some awe and a little bit of fear that she had watched these riverboat men pitted against the terrible forces of nature. Rains and floods had washed the debris of falling banks into the river, where the swift current and floating driftwood had made boating a lethal occupation. Nevertheless, these men struggled to map out routes to the outermost regions of this vast country where none had existed before.

  And despite her resolve, her fear, her prejudice, she discovered within herself a feeling of affinity for this wild, unconventional journey. There was a freedom to be had here in the openness of the West—a sense of space, of belonging, a feeling that one could reach out and capture…eternity.

  She took a deep breath and looked back at the scenic land bordering the river. Here, in the northernmost parts of the Missouri, the shores lay without timber; here the prairie stretched out from the river into forever, the land boasting its beautiful carpet of green and brown grasses and extending outward as far as the eye could see—straight to the horizon.

  Here she could feast her eyes upon the dales and bluffs, the ravines and caverns. Here she could watch the elk and buffalo, the wolves and antelope, the mountain goats, the bears off in the distance, all eking out an existence on this wild, picturesque stretch of land.

  At the start of their journey, she had been apprehensive, not entirely certain she would make it back to St. Louis. Now, on the return voyage, she wasn’t certain that once she returned to civilization, she might not crave just this sort of adventure again…and again.

  She shook back her mane of hair and looked away from the scene before her, sighing, the action bringing her back to the present. Courteously, she smiled at Mr. Chouteau and placed one hand upon his arm. Cocking her umbrella over her head, Lady Genevieve shielded herself from the rays of the noonday sun and began to stroll with the gentleman.

  There was so much she wanted to ask this man beside her, but she politely held back, looking away from Mr. Chouteau before she voiced the one question uppermost in her mind. Finally, clearing her throat, she asked, “How long do you think it will be before we will return to any sort of civilization, Mr. Chouteau?”

  The older man hesitated, then shrugged. “I am hard to say. In the first place, I am seeing the river ahead o
f us, and I am seeing so many sticks that I must steer boat around. Et, I am saying, could be a month before we come to St. Louie, maybe two.”

  Genevieve nodded her understanding, following the man’s broken English as well as if he were speaking to her from some formal English tea room.

  And it was no pretense on her part. She had learned some of the “river talk” on the journey up the river and knew that what was referred to by Mr. Chouteau as “sticks” were actually floating trees in the river. These “sticks” sometimes covered the entire surface of the river, making it almost impossible to navigate.

  “And do you believe we will have any trouble on this return journey? I mean, because we are now floating with the currents rather than against them, could we possibly return home in even less time?”

  “Oui, mademoiselle. Et, I am to say is possible that we will get there sooner. But troubles? This is the Missouri, and it is difficult to understand. In the first place, I am to navigate against the forces of nature. There is always the sticks that are trapping us. But do not fear, mademoiselle. I am to getting you back to St. Louie soon.”

  She smiled. “Thank you, I am happy to hear your reassurance.” She looked away from him. “But please tell me, Mr. Chouteau, I am curious—do you know what has happened to Mr. Catlin? I know he arrived with us when we reached Fort Union, and I remember him painting several portraits of the Indians there. But I notice that he is not on the steamer going home. Do you know why?”

  “Oui, mademoiselle,” the handsome Frenchman said. “He is, how you say, floating downstream with Ba’tiste, the trapper who has come in from the West. Mr. Catlin, he is visiting the other tribes, and he is painting pictures of the Indians.”

  “I see.” Her grip on the man’s arm tightened. “Do you know, perchance, how long Mr. Catlin might be gone?”

  “Oui, mademoiselle. That is, if he is survive, he will be for many months gone, one year perhaps.”

  Genevieve nodded her head and looked away. “I am most grateful to Mr. Catlin for introducing me to you. If not for you and your steamboat, I would not be able to accomplish what I must. I wish him well, though I would have liked to have told him so personally. I trust Mr. Catlin will arrive safely home. I believe that he will.”

  Pierre Chouteau nodded. Then, almost hesitantly, he asked, “Mademoiselle?”

  “Yes?”

  “The Indian.”

  “What Indian?”

  “The Indian, below. The one in your suite. He is…mademoiselle, how do I say? I have for many months traveled on the Missouri. I have seen very, very much. I am for living many months with the wild Indian, so I am to think I know them. And I am to tell you that this one, this one on the boat, he is trouble, you understand. I am hearing, as you say, him growl all the night, and I say to myself I am must to tell the mademoiselle. She, I am saying to myself, does not know the danger.”

  “Danger? But Mr. Chouteau, he is no danger to anyone. He is—”

  “Non, mademoiselle, the Indian, he is wild. He is not liking to be inside a cabin. He is vengeful. He is best to be put to the shore and let loose. We get you another Indian on the way down the Missouri.”

  Genevieve glanced upward and away before at last saying, “I cannot do that. I need a Blackfoot Indian for my father’s studies. It is the only reason I have made this journey. If I don’t return home with this Indian, I will have failed.” She held up her hand when the older man would have spoken. “Oh, I know,” she said, “that it would have been better had we taken away a woman or a child, but what can I do? It’s not as though this man were my own choice. As you may recall, I hired some trappers to bring me a Blackfoot Indian. I cannot very well… Mr. Chouteau, the man is all that I have.”

  Her companion shook his head. “Mademoiselle, I—”

  A wild scream split the air. A manly scream.

  Genevieve and Pierre Chouteau both turned to stare at one another, both voicing the same words at the same time: “The Indian.”

  Genevieve was the first to recover, picking up the front of her skirts and running to the nearest set of stairs. With nary a thought, she let the umbrella slip out of her hands as she hurried as quickly as possible.

  She hadn’t seen the Indian in a full week, ever since that first day when she had guarded him while her manservant went ashore. She didn’t want to see the Indian now, or even in the future, really. But something in that scream, something frightful, gripped her.

  What if the man were in trouble? What if some warring tribe member had found her Indian tied, unarmed, unable to defend himself? Weren’t there enemy tribes riding upon this boat, roaming freely even now? Wasn’t the boat carrying Indian as well as white passengers? What if her Indian were attacked? What if her Indian…died?

  The thought was too much to bear. And Genevieve didn’t stop to scrutinize the facts: that she feared the man’s death, that her fright might come not because of what she needed from this Indian, for herself, for her father, but rather from an innate horror of…her own feelings?

  Genevieve shook her head, grimacing as she hurried down the companionway. What had gotten into her of late? That she should be in a dither over the fate of some half-naked Indian just didn’t sit well with her. The man clearly didn’t deserve the least amount of thought or attention.

  Still, she hoped that if the man were in danger, she wouldn’t be too late to save him, and she hoped—no, she prayed—she would find the man alive.

  So busy was she with her thoughts, she didn’t notice that the pink chiffon of her umbrella shimmered in the water where it landed, sparkling now, again, then once more before the muddy water of the Missouri claimed it, carrying the foreign-looking object away forever.

  And perhaps it was for the best.

  She should have knocked.

  It was the first thought that struck her. Well, maybe not the first.

  Red-faced, Genevieve could only stare at the scene laid out before her. She knew her mouth gaped open, but there was nothing she could do about it. Suddenly feeling as though her body were made of marble instead of flesh and bone, she stood, not able to blink, not able to move.

  And the men stared back at her.

  She tried to utter something, but her mouth wouldn’t work. And she couldn’t think of a single thing she could have said in this sort of situation, her knowledge of social graces failing her yet again.

  “It is the white woman.” It was the Indian who spoke, the naked Indian man who spoke. He grinned at her. “This does not surprise me.”

  Now, Genevieve had always known that men’s bodies differed from women’s. She’d even had a notion of what a naked man’s body looked like. But never had her imaginings prepared her for this…this very real flesh-and-blood man who stood before her.

  And it did not escape her notice that even as the Indian spoke, the part of his body most obvious to her seemed to grow, to expand, to—

  She gasped. She blinked.

  “Lady Genevieve, I am only trying to dress the young man. There is no need for alarm.” It was Robert who spoke, though Genevieve barely noticed the other man. “Our Indian friend here is quite resistant to wearing this pair of breeches.” It was only then that Robert seemed to notice, really notice, the state of dress—or rather, undress—of the man. The older man glanced from one young person to the other. “Might I suggest, milady, that you leave me alone with the Indian?”

  Genevieve licked her lips, wondering if she’d ever find her voice. At last, she averted her gaze. It was the only thing she could do. She couldn’t yet speak.

  “Naapiaakii, the white woman, does not wish to leave.” The Indian leered at her, though he spoke to the man. “Naapiaakii has many plans for me; is this not true, my own enemy?”

  “No,” she spoke at last. “I…I burst in here only because I heard your scream.” She turned her head back toward the Indian—a mistake. Somehow that part of his body had grown even larger. She shut her eyes and groaned. “I was worried that you… I thought maybe so
me enemy tribe had… I had to—”

  “Naapiaakii, white woman, is my enemy, my own enemy.” His gaze at her was steady, direct. “Know that I always seek revenge, my own enemy. Always.”

  “Don’t call me that. I am not your enemy.”

  The Indian’s expression was disbelieving, insolent. “So the white woman has told me before.” The Indian lifted his arms, his wrists still clearly tied. “The Great Gray Hawk does not believe white woman. Gray Hawk is unwilling captive of white woman. Gray Hawk will obtain great pleasure from taking revenge on white woman.” He leered at her, his lips turning upward in a smirk. “And revenge will come soon.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous!” A chill ran down her spine as she backed toward the door. “There is no need to seek revenge upon me. As soon as my father is finished, I will return you to your people. I give you my word of honor on it.”

  The Indian sneered. “White woman of no honor expects me to believe her when lies roll easily off her tongue—”

  “Nonsense! When have I ever…?” She didn’t finish the sentence. Gray Hawk turned his back to her, presenting her with a clear view of his backside, of his tight buttocks. And Genevieve couldn’t help but look. “I…” She retreated toward the door. “I am sorry that I disturbed you. It’s only that I—”

  He looked back at her just then over his shoulder, a smiling jeer accompanying that glance. That he had caught her scrutinizing him did not bear critical thought on her part.

  With a gasp she spun away from him, presenting him with her own posterior view, though hers was thankfully clothed. She reached for the door, and, jerking it open, she fled out into the relative safety of the corridor.

  Someday, she thought to herself, I will have to stop ending our conversations by running away.

  Still, even as she thought it, she rushed back to her own quarters, not pausing to look at anyone, nor to talk with anyone along the way. And she quite convinced herself it was better this way.