Longshadow's Woman. Bronwyn Williams

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СКАЧАТЬ see, but she didn’t dare put down the rope or the rifle in order to light the lantern. The man glanced around, his gaze going immediately to the new stall Darther had had built for his gelding. There was a cot just outside the slat wall where Liam slept when they were here. According to Darther, Liam, who usually reeked of whiskey and lineament, was both jockey and trainer. So far as Carrie was concerned, he was just another mouth to feed. She liked him no better than she did her husband, but evidently, he was part of the bargain.

      So when the prisoner moved toward the cot, she jerked on his rope. “Not there,” she said, and then swore because talking to a heathen was like talking to that blasted mule. Neither of them understood a word she said.

      Grabbing a hoe, she scratched a line in the earthen floor, dragging him with her as she moved. Then she pointed to the line and shook her head, indicating that he was not to go beyond the mark.

      When he nodded his head she decided the poor wretch was not entirely without understanding. Next she would have to fix it so he could go outside to relieve himself without being able to run away. The privy would have to wait until she could think of a way to give him more slack. Rope was no solution. Even without a knife he could hack through it the minute her back was turned, using any of several rusted, broken implements lying around the barn.

      He could simply jerk the end from her grasp, come to that. The rifle was all that kept him from freeing himself and taking off into the woods. Which meant that she was going to have to keep it nearby at all times.

      Selecting a length of chain from among several hanging on the wall—hoping there were no weak links—she secured her prisoner by padlocking one end to his leg irons and the other to the hasp on the open barn door. Having to hold the heavy rifle and work with her good hand was an awkward, not to mention painful, process, but at least he had the freedom to step outside when he needed to.

      “There now, I reckon that ought to do it, long’s you don’t trip over the chain,” she said, and then shook her head because it was useless, trying to talk to him. Which reminded her that she still had Sorry to deal with.

      Throughout the entire process the man hadn’t uttered a sound, but his eyes had followed her every move. She almost wished he would complain, even if she couldn’t understand what he was saying. He was beginning to remind her a little too much of the starving pup that had turned up at her back door one day last winter. One look and she’d lost her heart. Shaggy tan fur, big golden eyes, just begging to be loved.

      Begging to be fed, more likely, but she’d taken him in and made a fool of herself, crooning, whipping up the eggs and buttermilk she’d been saving for a big pan of cornbread. The miserable mutt had lapped the bowl clean, spattering goo all over her floor. Then he’d peed, snapped at her hand, and run right between her legs and out the door, leaving fleas, dog hair, and a mess for her to clean up.

      That poor wretch in her barn looked as if he hadn’t eaten in weeks. If anything, he was even dirtier than the pup had been, and while his eyes were gray, not yellow, they sure as shooting weren’t begging for love. She couldn’t afford to get softhearted, not when she was dealing with a hardened criminal.

      Chained to the wall, Jonah watched her leave. Then he lifted his head, closed his eyes and swore fluently in three languages. He’d have done better to have gone back to the damned reservation instead of trying to make a new life for himself here in the East.

      Closing his mind to the weight of the heavy leg irons, he tested the extent of his freedom, moving around the cluttered barn, studying the selection of tools available. All were rusted. Most were broken, but useful enough for his purposes. The woman was a fool. Perhaps he’d been a bigger fool not to have tied her up with her own rope, dug the key from her pocket and escaped.

      Choosing a short length of baling wire, he set to work sharpening it to a fine point on the grindstone. The locks were ancient. Two twists of the sharpened wire and the first popped open, and then the second. He removed the hinged iron bands from his ankles and examined the raw and bleeding flesh. She had offered to let him ride on the back of the cart. Proudly, he had refused, but pride would be poor comfort if his feet rotted and fell off.

      When he heard the cabin door open and close, he moved swiftly. By the time the woman appeared, he was back in irons, sitting meekly on a pile of straw. At least it was clean straw. Dusty, but with the sweet smell of the meadow, not like the straw pallet in his jail cell that had reeked of things he’d rather not think about.

      “I brought you something to eat and a blanket.” Her voice sounded more hesitant now that she’d left her rifle behind. From the open doorway she eyed him warily before kneeling to place a thin woolen blanket and a plate of cornbread glistening with drippings just inside the door. “And here’s a bucket of water.” She reached behind her and swung the rusted pail inside. “You can drink your fill and wash with what’s left. Tomorrow I’ll take you down to the creek and you can scrub.”

      She’d forgotten to mime and speak in those insultingly loud, single-syllable words. Not that she didn’t still treat him as if he were of somewhat lesser intelligence than that miserable mule of hers. Which, he thought with bitter amusement, was probably true.

      Without moving, he continued to stare back at her through the fast fading light. She was small for a woman, lacking the soft layer of flesh most women kept even in the starving times. Under the shapeless garment that hung from her shoulders, she appeared more child than woman. Either way, it made little difference, as both were capable of inflicting cruelty on anyone they perceived as being different.

      The smell of fresh cornbread and bacon drippings knotted his gut painfully. His belly hadn’t been filled since he’d been taken from his own land, but he’d be damned before he would shame himself by crawling in the dirt and falling on her bread like a starving animal.

      “Well.” She hesitated, as if reluctant to leave. He wanted to shout, Go, woman! Leave me one small shred of dignity! “We’ll start pulling stumps come morning. I’ll bring you more food and show you where the creek is so you can bathe first. Um…the blanket. I know it’s hot now, but it gets cool just before morning.”

      He made a sound in his throat that was something between a curse and a growl. It served the purpose. The woman fled, and he felt like laughing. Only, he felt more like weeping.

      She had not brought him a cup. He scooped water from the bucket with his hands, then gave up and drank directly from the pail and poured the rest over his head. The bread was good, almost as good as that he remembered from his youth.

      His youth…

      Lying back on the bed of straw, his belly uncomfortably full, Jonah Longshadow stared up at the hayloft overhead and wondered at the curious pathways that had led him so far from his lodge on the banks of the Red River. He had come into this world a part of two distinct cultures, unwanted by his father, a white soldier who had raped his Kiowa mother. As a child he had often been taunted by other children for his white blood. As a youth he’d been watched by his elders. He had felt compelled to prove himself by counting coup on the enemies of his mother’s people. Increasingly bold, he had cheated death many times, for as a warrior, he was fearless, having little to lose.

      But as a horse gatherer, he excelled most of all. By the age of eighteen, he was spending most of his time raiding the wild herds that roamed the area. Four years later, in the spring of 1875, he had just returned to his lodge after a week spent stalking a notorious ridge runner, a magnificent stallion that kept watch over his mares from the high ground. That night soldiers from Fort Sill had swept through, rounding up every warrior in the territory. Jonah, whose name had not been Jonah then, had been taken along with more than seventy others.

      Pride СКАЧАТЬ