Cheyenne Wife. Judith Stacy

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      Lily pressed her fingers to her lips, holding back a sob. What would become of her?

      Her gaze landed on the cot across the room, the cot on which only yesterday her father had lain, then died. She’d never felt so alone.

      Bile rose in the back of her throat, closing off her breathing in this airless room.

      She had to leave. She had to escape. She couldn’t abide this room—this fort—another moment.

      Lily opened the door and slipped out of the fort into the prairie.

      North paused outside the trade room as he glimpsed a swish of skirt disappear out the gate. Even without seeing her face he knew it was Lily St. Claire, the woman whose father they’d just buried. No other woman wore that sort of dress.

      And no other woman would be foolish enough to leave the safety of the fort.

      North shook his head. Why would she do this? Didn’t she know any better?

      Or did she simply not care that she was a danger not only to herself, but to others who might have to go after her?

      Since arriving at the fort she’d been waited on hand and foot, seemingly unable to accomplish the smallest task, or fend for herself. Was this customary behavior for white women?

      North recalled the stories his father had told about women in the East, his mother, sisters, aunts, left behind like all his other family members. Women so unlike North’s own Cheyenne mother, his sisters and the other women of the tribe.

      North waited and watched the gate. No one else, apparently, had seen Lily leave. The routine of the fort continued on, as usual. Minutes dragged by. The sun drifted toward the Western horizon.

      He watched. Still no sign of her.

      He hoped she’d realize that the prairie was no place for her and come back on her own. He waited longer. She didn’t return.

      North glanced around. No one, still, had noticed that she was gone. That meant he’d have no choice but to go after her himself.

      He hesitated. Something about that woman bothered him. He didn’t know what it was, exactly. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it. But it was there, lurking in the back of his mind, and in the pit of his stomach.

      “Damn…”

      North headed for the stable.

      A dark shadow fell across the ground startling Lily. She gasped and twisted around. A man stood behind her, his approach so silent she hadn’t heard a sound.

      Seated on the ground, Lily brushed the tears from her eyes, then shaded them against the setting sun, squinting to see his face.

      “Who are you?” she asked, unwilling and unable to sound pleasant.

      He didn’t reply, just looked down at her quizzically.

      Lily leaned her head back to see him clearly. He was the Indian she’d seen whispering to the stallion in the corral, she realized.

      She gazed past him and the horse he’d left grazing a few yards away, to Bent’s Fort, now small on the horizon. She hadn’t realized she’d gone so far. She’d walked—then run—through the short, green prairie grass to the river, then followed its banks, finally collapsing here beneath a cottonwood tree, mindless of the distance.

      She didn’t know why this man was here or what he wanted—and she didn’t care, either. All she wanted was to be left alone to cry, to scream, to indulge the ache in her heart and the emptiness in her soul. Was that too much to ask? Surely it couldn’t be, after what she’d been through today.

      “Go away,” she told him, turning away, tears filling her eyes once more. “I want to be by myself. I don’t want any company. Can’t you understand that’s why I came out here in the first place?”

      He walked closer, still staring down at her. Though he’d said nothing, his presence seemed to demand something of her.

      “This has been the worst day of my life. Everything—absolutely everything—has been just awful. Why, I didn’t even have anything decent to wear to my own father’s funeral.” Lily shook the skirt of her green dress, the simple act bringing on another rush of emotion and a fresh wave of tears. “Why, I—I—I don’t even have a handkerchief!”

      The magnitude of her woes descended upon her, crushing her. She sobbed into her hands, not bothering to hide her tears or wipe them away.

      “My horses were stolen!” she wailed, turning her face up to him. “My belongings, too! My wagon is ruined! And I don’t have any money!”

      She flung herself onto the ground and cradled her head against her arms, sobbing and gulping in ragged breaths of air.

      Lily glanced up. The man still stood over her, his head tilted slightly to the side, watching her as if she were an insect in a jar.

      “Is that all you can do?” she demanded. “Stand there and stare?”

      His brows drew together, but still he didn’t offer a response.

      She pushed herself up and huffed irritably. “Don’t you have any manners at all?”

      His frown deepened.

      “Do you speak English?” she wanted to know. When he didn’t answer, she asked again. “Eng…lish. Do…you…speak…English?”

      The man rocked back slightly, regarding her with caution.

      “Oh, lovely!” Lily dug the heels of her shoes into the ground and launched herself to her feet. “Here I am pouring out my heart to someone who doesn’t even speak a civilized language!”

      She whirled away and flung out both arms. “What sort of godforsaken place is this? Savages running loose! With no sense of decorum! No manners! Unable to even communicate!”

      “What’s wrong with it?”

      Lily gasped at the sound of his voice, and spun toward him. Embarrassment heated her cheeks. “You do speak English.”

      He watched her curiously. “Your dress. What’s wrong with it?”

      Lily planted a hand on her hip and pushed her chin up. “You should have made your language skills known earlier, sir, and not allowed me to carry on like that. And you should have introduced yourself.”

      “North Walker,” he said, seemingly unperturbed by her scathing accusations about his heritage. “Your father has just died. Yet your concern is with your dress?”

      “It’s the wrong color,” she told him and shook her skirt once more. “It should be black, not green. Black is always worn to a funeral—in civilized places, that is. And, of course, I’m upset about my father’s death.”

      Tears filled Lily’s eyes again. Emotion swelled in her, robbing her of her strength. She sank to the ground, her skirt pooling around her, not wanting to put forth the effort to stand.

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