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Synopsis
A Union Brave A Rebel soldier killed his brother. Now the fires of revenge burn in the soul of Creek warrior Yellow Jacket as he prepares to join his tribe in battle against his sworn enemies. To keep their plans secret, Yellow Jacket is forced to take a nurse prisoner. He has nothing to fear from Twilight Dumont, a gentle Southern belle--except for the unexpected passion that could break down the walls between them. . .or keep them apart forever. . . A Rebel Warrior A lieutenant in the famed Cherokee Mounted Rifles, Jim Eagle has cast his lot with the Confederacy. After capturing a Union supply boat, he is shocked to find that one of the young soldiers is actually a stunning Cherokee woman--and a spy. Eastern-educated April Grant has come to Indian territory to root out a traitor. . .but on which side? Now, Jim Eagle is torn between a deadly desire for the courageous beauty--and his duty to the Rebel cause. . . A War Of Hearts As the country is torn by Civil War, two men have chosen sides--but they cannot choose their destinies. Their paths will cross, their loyalties will be tested--and love for two exceptional women will make their hearts beat faster than the drums of war. . .
Release date: March 1, 2004
Publisher: Zebra Books
Print pages: 356
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To Tame A Rebel
Georgina Gentry
Virginia, early October 1861
Twilight Dumont was both desperate and scared, but at least now she wouldn’t have to make a decision. It was being made for her.
She held Harvey’s letter and stared out the shack’s window at the smoldering ruins of her Virginia plantation. Damned Yankee renegades had burned the place to the ground two days ago while she hid in terror. The slaves had run away weeks ago, headed north.
Twilight ran her hand through her tangled brown hair and sighed, feeling guilty because she didn’t really like her stepbrother, Harvey, even though they’d been raised together. She reread the letter she’d gotten two days ago:
Dear husband. It had been a disastrous marriage, but Pierre had been a friend of her stepbrother, and Harvey had encouraged the match. Certainly Harvey had thought Pierre’s money would give her an easy life, and she hadn’t argued over it. Genteel Southern ladies usually did what they were told.
Indian Territory. Twilight’s petite form shuddered at the thought of savages. Everyone knew that faraway place was wild and uncivilized. Well, at least there was no war there. Twilight sighed and looked out at the smoldering ruins again. Yes, the decision had been made for her. She would throw her few things in a valise and journey to Indian Territory.
Indian Territory, mid-October 1861
Yellow Jacket frowned as he watched his niece comb her hair. “Heruse, where do you think you are going?”
She stopped humming and turned to face him. Her name meant Pretty in the Muskogee language, and it suited her. “Uncle, must you question my every move?”
He rubbed his chin and frowned. His dead brother’s child was so lovely and so naive. “You’re only sixteen, and I feel responsibility to your father.”
Her beautiful face saddened; then she shrugged. “I can look out for myself.”
“Stay away from the soldiers,” he ordered. “They will tell an Indian girl anything to get them into their blankets. Remember, they killed your father.”
She played with the blue beaded bracelet her uncle had given her, and didn’t look at him. “I swear I’m not seeing any soldier. I’m merely going over to visit a friend.”
Yellow Jacket shook his head. “I think you’d better stay here. It’ll be dark soon, and with rebel soldiers camped all around, I don’t like you being out alone.”
Her dark eyes flashed fire. “I’m not a child. You can’t tell me what to do.”
“Yes, I can,” he answered patiently. “I owe that to my dead brother.”
She whirled on him. “That was an accident. At the fort, they say they mistook him for a hostile in the dark.”
“He was hunting for food for us all,” Yellow Jacket reminded her. “Now, stay here and get ready for bed. I’ve got a meeting with the council.”
“All the council does is talk, talk, talk,” she complained, pouting.
“That’s because there’s so much riding on their decision.” Yellow Jacket sighed. “The leaders are meeting with our leader, Opothleyahola, tonight to decide what to do. There’s talk our people might go to Kansas to join the Union forces there.”
She blinked, askance. “Kansas? That’s crazy. I’d just as soon stay right here.”
“It’s not your decision to make. Now, do as I say. I’ll be back late.”
“I hate you!” she yelled after him.
Yellow Jacket didn’t bother to answer as he went out into the dusk and shut the door behind him. His brother’s death weighed heavily on his soul, and he hated the rebel soldiers for it. If he learned which one was responsible, he would kill that man very slowly. Yet, he had no time for personal revenge. Events were in upheaval for all the Five Civilized Tribes of the eastern Indian Territory because of the white man’s Civil War raging to the east of them, far, far away.
As he slipped through the night to the meeting place, he fingered the big knife in his belt. It was dangerous to be out after dark, but Yellow Jacket, named for the aggressive stinging wasp, was a seasoned warrior who was afraid of nothing . . .except that he might let his dead brother down in rearing the wild, pretty Heruse.
The weather had a chill to it. The coming winter might be a bad one with snow and cold winds. That would not be good for the tribes in their temporary shacks and tents who had gathered around their old leader, Opothleyahola.
Yellow Jacket crept through the grove of blackjack oak, his moccasins as soundless as a bobcat moving through the forest. Now he saw the silhouette of a sentry and paused in the shadows, scarcely breathing.
“Halt! Who goes there?” The rebel soldier sounded young and scared.
Yellow Jacket did not move or answer. He could easily slip up on the green youth and cut his throat, but it would only bring trouble to his people when they found the body tomorrow.
After a time the soldier resumed his march, and Yellow Jacket continued his trek through the trees until he came to an old tent deep in the woods. Outside, Smoke, the mixed-blood black-Muskogee former slave stood guard. “Yellow Jacket?”
“Yes, Ekkuce.” He came up to the big man and smiled. The black people had been slaves and then comrades. There were many with black blood mixed into their tribe. “Is everyone here?”
The other nodded. “Waiting for you.”
Yellow Jacket’s big frame stooped and entered nodding to the many tribal leaders gathered around the small fire. “I was dealing with my niece. Sometimes dealing with women is worse than fighting ten warriors.”
The others laughed, and he sat down cross-legged.
“She is not satisfied to be a Muskogee girl?” Alligator, the Seminole chief asked.
Yellow Jacket shook his head regretfully. “Now that we have all been uprooted, she sees the easy life of the white girls and envies it.”
Ancient Opothleyahola sighed. “Once we were a proud people; now that they have marched us to this land at gunpoint, we are not much better than beggars.”
The leader was very old and frail. Everyone knew he had fought on the side of the British many, many years ago in the War of 1812. Yellow Jacket said with great politeness, “O great one, we will tame this new land yet and be prosperous, once the bluecoats and the graycoats stop fighting each other and go away.”
Alligator said, “we all must now drink the black drink, vsse-passv, and purge the impurities from our bodies before we meet in council.”
They all went outside into the darkness and passed the ceremonial drink among them. The powerful herbal drink soon made them all vomit, and now they were cleansed and ready to make momentous decisions.
They returned to the ragged tent, and someone lit a pipe and passed it around. The Seminole chief, Billy Bowlegs, took a puff. “I think they will never go away. The whites will not be satisfied until they have every inch of every bit of land.”
It was true; Yellow Jacket was certain of it. “Tell us, oh, ancient leader, if you have reached a decision.” He accepted the pipe and took a puff of the fragrant tobacco.
Opothleyahola’s rheumy eyes surveyed the gathered men. “Yellow Jacket, you are one of the leaders of my people, the warrior the others will follow.”
Yellow Jacket ducked his head modestly. “Our people follow you, great leader.”
The old one stared into the sacred fire that had been brought all the way from their old homeland in the South. The original ashes had been buried with ceremony here in Indian Territory at Tulsey Town. “I am old and frail. Soon the Indian Territory will become a battleground as the gray ones from Texas fight the bluecoats from Kansas. We are unlucky enough to be in the middle of this land they both want.”
The others looked at each other. One of the mixed-black braves said, “Which side shall we go with, great leader?”
He shook his gray head. “I do not know if, in the long run, it matters. Whichever we choose means disaster for our tribe and our relatives, the Seminole.”
The others considered his words. Yellow Jacket looked around. There were leaders from almost twenty tribes sitting around the fire. One of them said, “Both sides promise us much to join them.”
“And both sides lie,” Yellow Jacket snapped. “Can we not ignore this white man’s war and stay neutral?”
Opothleyahola considered. “The western tribes like the Comanche and Kiowa are doing that, but here in the eastern part of the Nations, the whites will pull us into their war whether we like it or not. We must be on the winning side for the sake of our people.”
Yellow Jacket nodded. “I say that will be the bluecoats.”
The old leader considered. “Perhaps, perhaps not. The graycoats have won several battles lately in their faraway country to the east, if gossip is to be believed. The graycoats offer us much—rifles and food and blankets—if we side with them. They say that when they win, they will make Indian Territory a separate state, and no white man will ever be allowed to trespass here again.”
Yellow Jacket could not stop himself from snorting in derision. “It is the Southern whites who have run us out of Alabama and Georgia, stolen our land there. Have any of you forgotten how many of our people died on the Trail of Tears? There is not a man sitting here who did not lose many ancestors on that long forced march. I am only here because my older brother carried me on his back most of the way.”
“We are all sorry for the death of your brother at the hands of the rebel soldiers.” Opothleyahola took the pipe and smoked it. For a moment there was no sound save the crackle of the fire and the chill autumn wind blowing outside the tent. “Yes, Yellow Jacket, we hate the Southerners as much as you, and yes, we all remember how they stole our land and sent us here to this hostile place.”
“Will we be any better with the North?” Alligator asked.
The Muskogee leader nodded. “I have had a message from the great white chief, Abraham Lincoln, this past summer. He promises that he will provide us with the supplies we need and protect us if we will stay loyal to the bluecoats.”
Yellow Jacket shook his head. “I trust them no more than the graycoats.”
Smoke took the pipe. “So great leader, what would you have us do?”
He considered. “I have been stalling the rebels as they press me for an answer about joining their cause, but they grow impatient. They are insisting on an answer.”
“Maybe we can remain neutral,” Smoke suggested. “This is, after all, a white man’s war.”
The Seminole Billy Bowlegs shook his head. “No one will be allowed to remain neutral; the whites will not allow it. Like my friend Yellow Jacket, I trust the Southerners the least.”
Old Opothleyahola nodded. “Yes, I agree. We must gather our people and head north. If we can make it to this place called Kansas, the bluecoats there will protect our women and children.”
“Kansas?” The others looked at each other askance.
“Old One,” Yellow Jacket reminded him gently, “Kansas is hundreds of miles away, and the snows are coming.”
“Would you have us sit here and be harried by the graycoats or be caught in the middle of the white man’s battles?”
Another warrior cleared his throat. “But we have thousands of people gathered here; old ones, women, children. There are even some of the other Union tribes coming, to say nothing of all our livestock.”
“I am aware of that,” the ancient one said. “Did not the white man’s Good Book speak of God’s chosen people escaping from their enemy and marching toward the promised land with old people, women, children, and livestock?”
Alligator chewed his lip. We are surrounded by the graycoats. They will try to stop us from leaving.”
“Then we will fight our way through,” Yellow Jacket said.
“We will lose many,” said another.
“Better to die trying to join the Union forces than remain here and be killed by the graycoats, whom we know we cannot trust,” Yellow Jacket said.
“Well spoken,” said the ancient one. “I have prayed to the Master of Breath and feel there is no other answer.”
The others looked to Yellow Jacket, and he turned the alternatives over in his mind. It would be like the Trail of Tears all over again, marching thousands of people through the cold, with not even time to bury their dead if they fell.
“Opothleyahola is right,” Yellow Jacket said, “we must do this. We need to leave as soon as possible to beat the snows.”
Now the ancient leader shook his head. “We cannot leave right away. Tribal members are still arriving from all over the Indian Territory and driving their cattle with them. It will take careful planning and an element of surprise. If we could be on the trail a few days before the graycoats know we are gone, we have a better chance.”
“Then we are sworn to secrecy,” Yellow Jacket whispered, “and we will wait for the signal from you, great leader.”
“Maybe the Master of Breath will be with us,” the old man murmured. “We will head northwest and pick up reinforcements among the Union Cherokee, then turn due north. Now, let us depart this meeting with care. We do not want the graycoat colonel or his aide, Captain Wellsley, to suspect anything.”
They had been in council for several hours. Now they went out into the night, nodding to the faithful giant, Smoke, who would stay to guard the ancient leader.
Pretty had hatched a plan as she watched her uncle, Yellow Jacket, leave for his meeting. He might be a big, respected warrior, but because he idolized her, she figured she could bring him around. Tonight, though, she had plans to meet her lover. She waited a few minutes after Yellow Jacket left; then she put pillows under her blankets to make her bed look as if she slept. She took one last look in her little mirror, adjusted the blue bracelet on her arm, then sneaked out the door and through the woods toward the sutler’s store. Her lover would be waiting there, and she had something very important to tell him: She was now certain she was expecting his child.
Harvey Leland looked up from his bookwork as Pretty entered the store, and frowned. “I didn’t send for you.”
“Dear one, you hadn’t sent me a message in such a long time . . .”
“It’s been no more than a few days.” He was gruff and out of sorts as he slammed his ledger shut. In truth, he was tired of the silly Injun girl. Besides, now he was scared. “Why didn’t you tell me Matt Folane was your uncle?”
Matt Folane. The white man’s name for her uncle. She walked around the store, fingering ribbons and trinkets, the blue beaded bracelet on her delicate wrist gleaming in the light of the kerosene lamp. “It never came up.”
“No, you deliberately didn’t tell me.” He got up from his chair and limped across the store to confront her. “You knew I’d think twice—”
“Would you have?” She threw her arms around him, looking up at him coyly with her big, dark eyes.
His body reacted to the warmth of her full curves; then he regained control and pushed her away. “Anyone with any sense would tread lightly around that big warrior. They say he used to be a Lighthorseman and has killed a dozen men.”
“Or maybe more,” she laughed. “You know what folane means in our language? Folane is a Yellow Jacket, a kind of wasp that will sting—and sting hard.”
Harvey shuddered. “You know what your uncle thinks of whites and particularly Southerners. You should have warned me.” He looked about anxiously. “Where is he, anyway?”
She shrugged and played with her bracelet. “Gone to some silly meeting. He won’t be back for hours.” She reached to kiss him, molding the full curves of her body against him, her lips opening against his.
Damn, he wanted her, even knowing the risk of messing with Matt Folane’s niece. Harvey put his arms around her and deepened the kiss. “If he won’t miss you for hours, maybe we could . . .”
“Maybe we could,” she murmured, taking his hand and leading him toward the room at the back of the little store.
Damn, he was taking a chance, but she was so nubile and exciting. “Just a minute—let me turn off the light and lock the front door. Can’t be too careful.”
He did that, then took her hand, leading her back to his room and closing the door. A small kerosene lamp burned on the bedside table, illuminating her pretty brown face as she lay down on the bed.
“Dear one,” she whispered, “we have to talk.”
“Not now,” he replied in a hoarse whisper, hurriedly beginning to remove his clothes. He’d take her one more time and then tell her good-bye forever. His stepsister should be arriving by stage soon, and he didn’t want to have to explain Pretty to Twilight.
“Yes, now,” she protested even as he lay down on the bed naked and began to fumble with the top of her faded calico dress. “I have something I have to tell you—”
He cut off her words with his mouth, kissing her feverishly, running his soft, pink hands over her lithe brown body. He was all over her, enjoying her as much tonight as he had the night he had first taken her virginity, in July. “Save it, beautiful,” he gasped. “Let’s make love first.”
But she was pushing him away, scrambling out from under him to the other side of the bed. “No, we talk now.”
He was breathing hard, annoyed and angry. “You little tease. Get me all hot and then—”
“Remember that first night?” she smiled at him.
“Oh, honey, do I? Let’s do it again like we did that night. Let’s—”
“You remember you promised to marry me?”
Had he? What did it matter? He would have promised anything to get the voluptuous little redskin under him. “Maybe someday,” he drawled, and tried to pull her to him, but she resisted.
She put a stiff arm on his hairy chest to hold him back. “No, Harvey, we need to talk about that now.”
“Oh, hell. All right, I’ll marry you. Now let’s make love.” He tried to pull her into his fervent embrace, but she refused.
“Harvey, I—I think I’m going to have a baby.”
“What?” The mood was gone now. He sat up on the edge of the bed and began to curse.
Behind him, the girl started to cry. “I thought you’d be pleased.”
“Pleased? I don’t want no half-breed Injun brat. . . .”
“But we could be married, and I’d help run the store—”
“Look, you Injun tart, I got someone comin’ to help with the store. She’s comin’ on the stage—”
“A white woman?” She sounded angry and jealous. “There’s a white woman?”
He sighed, not bothering to explain. “You’ll just have to find some Injun buck to marry you if you’ve gotten yourself in trouble.”
“Harvey, there was never anyone but you.”
A horrible thought came to him. He turned to her. “You told anybody about us or the baby?”
Pretty shook her head, burying her face in her hands. “You—you told me not to tell about us.”
Relief washed over him. He didn’t want to face her vengeful uncle. Everyone around the camp said Matt Folane could cut a man’s throat or break his back without a second thought.
“But if you don’t keep your promise to marry me, I’ll tell my uncle.”
A cold chill swept over him as he turned on the bed to face the hysterical girl. “You can’t do that. You’ll be disgraced if word gets out.”
“I don’t care!” She rose up on her knees, screaming at him. “My uncle will make you marry me! I’ll tell him! I swear I will!” She was hysterical now, sobbing and screaming, beating him on the chest.
“Hush! Hush!” he ordered. “Someone will hear you!”
“I don’t care! You hear? I don’t care if everyone knows!” Her voice increased to a shriek.
“Shut up! You hear me? Shut up!” Harvey was terrified now, scared some of the Confederate officers camped nearby or some of the Injuns might hear her and go for her uncle. Harvey didn’t want the half-naked crying girl to be found in his bed. He’d placate her somehow—anything to make her hush. Harvey put his hand over her mouth, and they struggled. “Be quiet, you little slut! Stop that screaming now!”
They fought on the bed, but she was no match for his strength. He muffled her voice, but then she bit his fingers and he pulled back, cursing as she began to scream again. He had to shut her up. Harvey grabbed her by her throat—anything to stop that noise. She battled him, and he grabbed her arm as she scratched his face. The bracelet she wore broke, and blue beads flew everywhere.
“Shut up!” he shouted in panic. “Shut up!” He tightened the grip on her throat as her small fingers clawed at his hands. He was terrified that someone might have heard the uproar. In his mind, he saw the big Creek warrior bursting through the door, slamming him against the wall and then reaching for that huge knife he wore in his belt.
He tightened his grip on Pretty’s throat. If he could only shut her up until he had time to reason with her . . . He’d promise to marry her to buy time—anything to keep the secret until he had time to think what to do next. His lust had caused him to toss all good sense aside, and now it was coming back to haunt him. “Hush,” he pleaded as his fingers tightened, “Hush up!”
Her screams had become a mere whimper now as her eyes bulged and she gasped for air. Her small hands still clawed at his fingers, and she bucked and tried to twist out of his grasp, but she was powerless against him. He was past reason, past anything but sweating fear and anger. Yellow Jacket must not find out. He must not.
Pretty’s voice was only a gasp, and her struggles grew weaker. All Harvey Leland could feel was relief that he might make her stop screaming, figure a way out of this mess without having to marry this Injun slut. All he wanted to do was save his own hide—the same reason he had fled to Indian Territory to avoid the war. “Shut up, girl,” he gasped. “Oh, please shut up!”
Pretty stopped struggling, her breath coming in gasps as he tightened his hold on her throat. Her eyes rolled back. His cold sweat ran down his balding head and dripped on her brown face. What had he done?
Very slowly, Harvey loosened his grip. Why was Pretty so silent? His fingers had left blue marks on her slender neck. “Pretty?”
No answer. Her silence was even more terrifying than her screams had been. “Pretty? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to grab you so hard—it’s just that I panicked when you said you’d tell your uncle. Everyone’s afraid of that warrior.”
Still no answer. He shook her thin shoulder. “Damn it, I’m tired of your pretending, you hear me? Now you open your eyes and we’ll talk about this.”
She didn’t open her eyes. The girl lay very still and limp, looking small and brown against the sheets. A terror began to grow in Harvey’s heart, a terror even worse than the fear of her vengeful uncle’s finding out he’d seduced the girl with a few ribbons and trinkets. He was more scared than he’d ever been of fighting the war. “Pretty, you wake up, now.” He grabbed her shoulders and began to shake her, shouting at her, “Stop playactin’ on me, girl.” He shook her hard, but she did not answer. Her head shook from side to side, her eyes half open, long black hair a tangle around them.
Oh, my God. Harvey began to cry, not for the dead girl but for himself. He was a marked man. There was no telling what kind of torture that big Injun brave would mete out to his niece’s killer. Or maybe the rebel army would hang him. And all this with Twilight on her way to him, and his future so carefully planned.
Maybe it wasn’t too late. Maybe he could hide the body, or at least get it out of his store. Yes, that was what he would do. Anything to keep the secret. With those marks on her neck, they’d know she’d been strangled. How long would it take people to track it to him? Had anyone ever known he was her lover? Had anyone ever seen her coming and going from the store? He didn’t know. All that mattered now was getting rid of the body.
Hurriedly Harvey began to dress. The pebbles that he kept in his left boot to give himself a pronounced limp rolled out, and he didn’t bother to gather them up. No one would see him in the darkness, so no one would know about his fake limp.
He opened the outside door cautiously and was greeted by an icy blast. Shivering, he hurried to get his heavy coat. As he put it on, he glanced at the floor. The blue bracelet. Those damn beads had gone everywhere when it broke. He must pick them up.
The girl lay so still, he didn’t want to look at her as he went to his knees and began to gather the beads. The dim lamp made them hard to see in the shadows, but he picked up all he saw. A sound outside. Was that a sentry, or Yellow Jacket sneaking up on him? Harvey slipped the beads into the pocket of his coat and turned to the dead girl. He must get her out of his bed, no matter what he did with her. Maybe he could make it look like an accident. Yes, that was what he would do. No one would ever know.
He didn’t want to touch the body that was already so cool and limp, but he had to. Harvey had whipped many slaves, slaughtered a few chickens, and kicked a cat or dog or two in his forty years, but he had never killed a human. He didn’t have the courage for that. Taking a deep breath, he swung the slight body up in his arms. Her head dangled back, so that the marks on her throat showed almost black now. Her long hair swept the worn wooden floor. Where to go? What to do? He was so scared, his hands shook. Maybe he could make it look like an accident. Harvey grabbed a coil of rope off a nail. Then he headed out the back door and into the cold night toward the forest. The ground was damp and muddy beneath his small boots. His heart beat so hard, he was certain it would wake up everyone over at the sleeping rebel camp and the Indian settlement.
Suppose he ran into someone along the way? How would he explain his carrying a dead, half-naked Injun girl? The thought was so scary, he thought he would vomit, but he must not do that right now. There’d be time for the shakes later, when he was safely back at the store having a stiff drink. All that mattered now was making sure no one could track Pretty’s dead body back to Harvey Leland. If he was lucky, no one need ever know. Twilight should arrive in a few days, and he already had plans for his widowed stepsister. All he needed was a little luck and things would turn out fine, but first he had to get rid of this damned Injun slut’s body.
. . .
Twilight Dumont was both desperate and scared, but at least now she wouldn’t have to make a decision. It was being made for her.
She held Harvey’s letter and stared out the shack’s window at the smoldering ruins of her Virginia plantation. Damned Yankee renegades had burned the place to the ground two days ago while she hid in terror. The slaves had run away weeks ago, headed north.
Twilight ran her hand through her tangled brown hair and sighed, feeling guilty because she didn’t really like her stepbrother, Harvey, even though they’d been raised together. She reread the letter she’d gotten two days ago:
Dear husband. It had been a disastrous marriage, but Pierre had been a friend of her stepbrother, and Harvey had encouraged the match. Certainly Harvey had thought Pierre’s money would give her an easy life, and she hadn’t argued over it. Genteel Southern ladies usually did what they were told.
Indian Territory. Twilight’s petite form shuddered at the thought of savages. Everyone knew that faraway place was wild and uncivilized. Well, at least there was no war there. Twilight sighed and looked out at the smoldering ruins again. Yes, the decision had been made for her. She would throw her few things in a valise and journey to Indian Territory.
Indian Territory, mid-October 1861
Yellow Jacket frowned as he watched his niece comb her hair. “Heruse, where do you think you are going?”
She stopped humming and turned to face him. Her name meant Pretty in the Muskogee language, and it suited her. “Uncle, must you question my every move?”
He rubbed his chin and frowned. His dead brother’s child was so lovely and so naive. “You’re only sixteen, and I feel responsibility to your father.”
Her beautiful face saddened; then she shrugged. “I can look out for myself.”
“Stay away from the soldiers,” he ordered. “They will tell an Indian girl anything to get them into their blankets. Remember, they killed your father.”
She played with the blue beaded bracelet her uncle had given her, and didn’t look at him. “I swear I’m not seeing any soldier. I’m merely going over to visit a friend.”
Yellow Jacket shook his head. “I think you’d better stay here. It’ll be dark soon, and with rebel soldiers camped all around, I don’t like you being out alone.”
Her dark eyes flashed fire. “I’m not a child. You can’t tell me what to do.”
“Yes, I can,” he answered patiently. “I owe that to my dead brother.”
She whirled on him. “That was an accident. At the fort, they say they mistook him for a hostile in the dark.”
“He was hunting for food for us all,” Yellow Jacket reminded her. “Now, stay here and get ready for bed. I’ve got a meeting with the council.”
“All the council does is talk, talk, talk,” she complained, pouting.
“That’s because there’s so much riding on their decision.” Yellow Jacket sighed. “The leaders are meeting with our leader, Opothleyahola, tonight to decide what to do. There’s talk our people might go to Kansas to join the Union forces there.”
She blinked, askance. “Kansas? That’s crazy. I’d just as soon stay right here.”
“It’s not your decision to make. Now, do as I say. I’ll be back late.”
“I hate you!” she yelled after him.
Yellow Jacket didn’t bother to answer as he went out into the dusk and shut the door behind him. His brother’s death weighed heavily on his soul, and he hated the rebel soldiers for it. If he learned which one was responsible, he would kill that man very slowly. Yet, he had no time for personal revenge. Events were in upheaval for all the Five Civilized Tribes of the eastern Indian Territory because of the white man’s Civil War raging to the east of them, far, far away.
As he slipped through the night to the meeting place, he fingered the big knife in his belt. It was dangerous to be out after dark, but Yellow Jacket, named for the aggressive stinging wasp, was a seasoned warrior who was afraid of nothing . . .except that he might let his dead brother down in rearing the wild, pretty Heruse.
The weather had a chill to it. The coming winter might be a bad one with snow and cold winds. That would not be good for the tribes in their temporary shacks and tents who had gathered around their old leader, Opothleyahola.
Yellow Jacket crept through the grove of blackjack oak, his moccasins as soundless as a bobcat moving through the forest. Now he saw the silhouette of a sentry and paused in the shadows, scarcely breathing.
“Halt! Who goes there?” The rebel soldier sounded young and scared.
Yellow Jacket did not move or answer. He could easily slip up on the green youth and cut his throat, but it would only bring trouble to his people when they found the body tomorrow.
After a time the soldier resumed his march, and Yellow Jacket continued his trek through the trees until he came to an old tent deep in the woods. Outside, Smoke, the mixed-blood black-Muskogee former slave stood guard. “Yellow Jacket?”
“Yes, Ekkuce.” He came up to the big man and smiled. The black people had been slaves and then comrades. There were many with black blood mixed into their tribe. “Is everyone here?”
The other nodded. “Waiting for you.”
Yellow Jacket’s big frame stooped and entered nodding to the many tribal leaders gathered around the small fire. “I was dealing with my niece. Sometimes dealing with women is worse than fighting ten warriors.”
The others laughed, and he sat down cross-legged.
“She is not satisfied to be a Muskogee girl?” Alligator, the Seminole chief asked.
Yellow Jacket shook his head regretfully. “Now that we have all been uprooted, she sees the easy life of the white girls and envies it.”
Ancient Opothleyahola sighed. “Once we were a proud people; now that they have marched us to this land at gunpoint, we are not much better than beggars.”
The leader was very old and frail. Everyone knew he had fought on the side of the British many, many years ago in the War of 1812. Yellow Jacket said with great politeness, “O great one, we will tame this new land yet and be prosperous, once the bluecoats and the graycoats stop fighting each other and go away.”
Alligator said, “we all must now drink the black drink, vsse-passv, and purge the impurities from our bodies before we meet in council.”
They all went outside into the darkness and passed the ceremonial drink among them. The powerful herbal drink soon made them all vomit, and now they were cleansed and ready to make momentous decisions.
They returned to the ragged tent, and someone lit a pipe and passed it around. The Seminole chief, Billy Bowlegs, took a puff. “I think they will never go away. The whites will not be satisfied until they have every inch of every bit of land.”
It was true; Yellow Jacket was certain of it. “Tell us, oh, ancient leader, if you have reached a decision.” He accepted the pipe and took a puff of the fragrant tobacco.
Opothleyahola’s rheumy eyes surveyed the gathered men. “Yellow Jacket, you are one of the leaders of my people, the warrior the others will follow.”
Yellow Jacket ducked his head modestly. “Our people follow you, great leader.”
The old one stared into the sacred fire that had been brought all the way from their old homeland in the South. The original ashes had been buried with ceremony here in Indian Territory at Tulsey Town. “I am old and frail. Soon the Indian Territory will become a battleground as the gray ones from Texas fight the bluecoats from Kansas. We are unlucky enough to be in the middle of this land they both want.”
The others looked at each other. One of the mixed-black braves said, “Which side shall we go with, great leader?”
He shook his gray head. “I do not know if, in the long run, it matters. Whichever we choose means disaster for our tribe and our relatives, the Seminole.”
The others considered his words. Yellow Jacket looked around. There were leaders from almost twenty tribes sitting around the fire. One of them said, “Both sides promise us much to join them.”
“And both sides lie,” Yellow Jacket snapped. “Can we not ignore this white man’s war and stay neutral?”
Opothleyahola considered. “The western tribes like the Comanche and Kiowa are doing that, but here in the eastern part of the Nations, the whites will pull us into their war whether we like it or not. We must be on the winning side for the sake of our people.”
Yellow Jacket nodded. “I say that will be the bluecoats.”
The old leader considered. “Perhaps, perhaps not. The graycoats have won several battles lately in their faraway country to the east, if gossip is to be believed. The graycoats offer us much—rifles and food and blankets—if we side with them. They say that when they win, they will make Indian Territory a separate state, and no white man will ever be allowed to trespass here again.”
Yellow Jacket could not stop himself from snorting in derision. “It is the Southern whites who have run us out of Alabama and Georgia, stolen our land there. Have any of you forgotten how many of our people died on the Trail of Tears? There is not a man sitting here who did not lose many ancestors on that long forced march. I am only here because my older brother carried me on his back most of the way.”
“We are all sorry for the death of your brother at the hands of the rebel soldiers.” Opothleyahola took the pipe and smoked it. For a moment there was no sound save the crackle of the fire and the chill autumn wind blowing outside the tent. “Yes, Yellow Jacket, we hate the Southerners as much as you, and yes, we all remember how they stole our land and sent us here to this hostile place.”
“Will we be any better with the North?” Alligator asked.
The Muskogee leader nodded. “I have had a message from the great white chief, Abraham Lincoln, this past summer. He promises that he will provide us with the supplies we need and protect us if we will stay loyal to the bluecoats.”
Yellow Jacket shook his head. “I trust them no more than the graycoats.”
Smoke took the pipe. “So great leader, what would you have us do?”
He considered. “I have been stalling the rebels as they press me for an answer about joining their cause, but they grow impatient. They are insisting on an answer.”
“Maybe we can remain neutral,” Smoke suggested. “This is, after all, a white man’s war.”
The Seminole Billy Bowlegs shook his head. “No one will be allowed to remain neutral; the whites will not allow it. Like my friend Yellow Jacket, I trust the Southerners the least.”
Old Opothleyahola nodded. “Yes, I agree. We must gather our people and head north. If we can make it to this place called Kansas, the bluecoats there will protect our women and children.”
“Kansas?” The others looked at each other askance.
“Old One,” Yellow Jacket reminded him gently, “Kansas is hundreds of miles away, and the snows are coming.”
“Would you have us sit here and be harried by the graycoats or be caught in the middle of the white man’s battles?”
Another warrior cleared his throat. “But we have thousands of people gathered here; old ones, women, children. There are even some of the other Union tribes coming, to say nothing of all our livestock.”
“I am aware of that,” the ancient one said. “Did not the white man’s Good Book speak of God’s chosen people escaping from their enemy and marching toward the promised land with old people, women, children, and livestock?”
Alligator chewed his lip. We are surrounded by the graycoats. They will try to stop us from leaving.”
“Then we will fight our way through,” Yellow Jacket said.
“We will lose many,” said another.
“Better to die trying to join the Union forces than remain here and be killed by the graycoats, whom we know we cannot trust,” Yellow Jacket said.
“Well spoken,” said the ancient one. “I have prayed to the Master of Breath and feel there is no other answer.”
The others looked to Yellow Jacket, and he turned the alternatives over in his mind. It would be like the Trail of Tears all over again, marching thousands of people through the cold, with not even time to bury their dead if they fell.
“Opothleyahola is right,” Yellow Jacket said, “we must do this. We need to leave as soon as possible to beat the snows.”
Now the ancient leader shook his head. “We cannot leave right away. Tribal members are still arriving from all over the Indian Territory and driving their cattle with them. It will take careful planning and an element of surprise. If we could be on the trail a few days before the graycoats know we are gone, we have a better chance.”
“Then we are sworn to secrecy,” Yellow Jacket whispered, “and we will wait for the signal from you, great leader.”
“Maybe the Master of Breath will be with us,” the old man murmured. “We will head northwest and pick up reinforcements among the Union Cherokee, then turn due north. Now, let us depart this meeting with care. We do not want the graycoat colonel or his aide, Captain Wellsley, to suspect anything.”
They had been in council for several hours. Now they went out into the night, nodding to the faithful giant, Smoke, who would stay to guard the ancient leader.
Pretty had hatched a plan as she watched her uncle, Yellow Jacket, leave for his meeting. He might be a big, respected warrior, but because he idolized her, she figured she could bring him around. Tonight, though, she had plans to meet her lover. She waited a few minutes after Yellow Jacket left; then she put pillows under her blankets to make her bed look as if she slept. She took one last look in her little mirror, adjusted the blue bracelet on her arm, then sneaked out the door and through the woods toward the sutler’s store. Her lover would be waiting there, and she had something very important to tell him: She was now certain she was expecting his child.
Harvey Leland looked up from his bookwork as Pretty entered the store, and frowned. “I didn’t send for you.”
“Dear one, you hadn’t sent me a message in such a long time . . .”
“It’s been no more than a few days.” He was gruff and out of sorts as he slammed his ledger shut. In truth, he was tired of the silly Injun girl. Besides, now he was scared. “Why didn’t you tell me Matt Folane was your uncle?”
Matt Folane. The white man’s name for her uncle. She walked around the store, fingering ribbons and trinkets, the blue beaded bracelet on her delicate wrist gleaming in the light of the kerosene lamp. “It never came up.”
“No, you deliberately didn’t tell me.” He got up from his chair and limped across the store to confront her. “You knew I’d think twice—”
“Would you have?” She threw her arms around him, looking up at him coyly with her big, dark eyes.
His body reacted to the warmth of her full curves; then he regained control and pushed her away. “Anyone with any sense would tread lightly around that big warrior. They say he used to be a Lighthorseman and has killed a dozen men.”
“Or maybe more,” she laughed. “You know what folane means in our language? Folane is a Yellow Jacket, a kind of wasp that will sting—and sting hard.”
Harvey shuddered. “You know what your uncle thinks of whites and particularly Southerners. You should have warned me.” He looked about anxiously. “Where is he, anyway?”
She shrugged and played with her bracelet. “Gone to some silly meeting. He won’t be back for hours.” She reached to kiss him, molding the full curves of her body against him, her lips opening against his.
Damn, he wanted her, even knowing the risk of messing with Matt Folane’s niece. Harvey put his arms around her and deepened the kiss. “If he won’t miss you for hours, maybe we could . . .”
“Maybe we could,” she murmured, taking his hand and leading him toward the room at the back of the little store.
Damn, he was taking a chance, but she was so nubile and exciting. “Just a minute—let me turn off the light and lock the front door. Can’t be too careful.”
He did that, then took her hand, leading her back to his room and closing the door. A small kerosene lamp burned on the bedside table, illuminating her pretty brown face as she lay down on the bed.
“Dear one,” she whispered, “we have to talk.”
“Not now,” he replied in a hoarse whisper, hurriedly beginning to remove his clothes. He’d take her one more time and then tell her good-bye forever. His stepsister should be arriving by stage soon, and he didn’t want to have to explain Pretty to Twilight.
“Yes, now,” she protested even as he lay down on the bed naked and began to fumble with the top of her faded calico dress. “I have something I have to tell you—”
He cut off her words with his mouth, kissing her feverishly, running his soft, pink hands over her lithe brown body. He was all over her, enjoying her as much tonight as he had the night he had first taken her virginity, in July. “Save it, beautiful,” he gasped. “Let’s make love first.”
But she was pushing him away, scrambling out from under him to the other side of the bed. “No, we talk now.”
He was breathing hard, annoyed and angry. “You little tease. Get me all hot and then—”
“Remember that first night?” she smiled at him.
“Oh, honey, do I? Let’s do it again like we did that night. Let’s—”
“You remember you promised to marry me?”
Had he? What did it matter? He would have promised anything to get the voluptuous little redskin under him. “Maybe someday,” he drawled, and tried to pull her to him, but she resisted.
She put a stiff arm on his hairy chest to hold him back. “No, Harvey, we need to talk about that now.”
“Oh, hell. All right, I’ll marry you. Now let’s make love.” He tried to pull her into his fervent embrace, but she refused.
“Harvey, I—I think I’m going to have a baby.”
“What?” The mood was gone now. He sat up on the edge of the bed and began to curse.
Behind him, the girl started to cry. “I thought you’d be pleased.”
“Pleased? I don’t want no half-breed Injun brat. . . .”
“But we could be married, and I’d help run the store—”
“Look, you Injun tart, I got someone comin’ to help with the store. She’s comin’ on the stage—”
“A white woman?” She sounded angry and jealous. “There’s a white woman?”
He sighed, not bothering to explain. “You’ll just have to find some Injun buck to marry you if you’ve gotten yourself in trouble.”
“Harvey, there was never anyone but you.”
A horrible thought came to him. He turned to her. “You told anybody about us or the baby?”
Pretty shook her head, burying her face in her hands. “You—you told me not to tell about us.”
Relief washed over him. He didn’t want to face her vengeful uncle. Everyone around the camp said Matt Folane could cut a man’s throat or break his back without a second thought.
“But if you don’t keep your promise to marry me, I’ll tell my uncle.”
A cold chill swept over him as he turned on the bed to face the hysterical girl. “You can’t do that. You’ll be disgraced if word gets out.”
“I don’t care!” She rose up on her knees, screaming at him. “My uncle will make you marry me! I’ll tell him! I swear I will!” She was hysterical now, sobbing and screaming, beating him on the chest.
“Hush! Hush!” he ordered. “Someone will hear you!”
“I don’t care! You hear? I don’t care if everyone knows!” Her voice increased to a shriek.
“Shut up! You hear me? Shut up!” Harvey was terrified now, scared some of the Confederate officers camped nearby or some of the Injuns might hear her and go for her uncle. Harvey didn’t want the half-naked crying girl to be found in his bed. He’d placate her somehow—anything to make her hush. Harvey put his hand over her mouth, and they struggled. “Be quiet, you little slut! Stop that screaming now!”
They fought on the bed, but she was no match for his strength. He muffled her voice, but then she bit his fingers and he pulled back, cursing as she began to scream again. He had to shut her up. Harvey grabbed her by her throat—anything to stop that noise. She battled him, and he grabbed her arm as she scratched his face. The bracelet she wore broke, and blue beads flew everywhere.
“Shut up!” he shouted in panic. “Shut up!” He tightened the grip on her throat as her small fingers clawed at his hands. He was terrified that someone might have heard the uproar. In his mind, he saw the big Creek warrior bursting through the door, slamming him against the wall and then reaching for that huge knife he wore in his belt.
He tightened his grip on Pretty’s throat. If he could only shut her up until he had time to reason with her . . . He’d promise to marry her to buy time—anything to keep the secret until he had time to think what to do next. His lust had caused him to toss all good sense aside, and now it was coming back to haunt him. “Hush,” he pleaded as his fingers tightened, “Hush up!”
Her screams had become a mere whimper now as her eyes bulged and she gasped for air. Her small hands still clawed at his fingers, and she bucked and tried to twist out of his grasp, but she was powerless against him. He was past reason, past anything but sweating fear and anger. Yellow Jacket must not find out. He must not.
Pretty’s voice was only a gasp, and her struggles grew weaker. All Harvey Leland could feel was relief that he might make her stop screaming, figure a way out of this mess without having to marry this Injun slut. All he wanted to do was save his own hide—the same reason he had fled to Indian Territory to avoid the war. “Shut up, girl,” he gasped. “Oh, please shut up!”
Pretty stopped struggling, her breath coming in gasps as he tightened his hold on her throat. Her eyes rolled back. His cold sweat ran down his balding head and dripped on her brown face. What had he done?
Very slowly, Harvey loosened his grip. Why was Pretty so silent? His fingers had left blue marks on her slender neck. “Pretty?”
No answer. Her silence was even more terrifying than her screams had been. “Pretty? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to grab you so hard—it’s just that I panicked when you said you’d tell your uncle. Everyone’s afraid of that warrior.”
Still no answer. He shook her thin shoulder. “Damn it, I’m tired of your pretending, you hear me? Now you open your eyes and we’ll talk about this.”
She didn’t open her eyes. The girl lay very still and limp, looking small and brown against the sheets. A terror began to grow in Harvey’s heart, a terror even worse than the fear of her vengeful uncle’s finding out he’d seduced the girl with a few ribbons and trinkets. He was more scared than he’d ever been of fighting the war. “Pretty, you wake up, now.” He grabbed her shoulders and began to shake her, shouting at her, “Stop playactin’ on me, girl.” He shook her hard, but she did not answer. Her head shook from side to side, her eyes half open, long black hair a tangle around them.
Oh, my God. Harvey began to cry, not for the dead girl but for himself. He was a marked man. There was no telling what kind of torture that big Injun brave would mete out to his niece’s killer. Or maybe the rebel army would hang him. And all this with Twilight on her way to him, and his future so carefully planned.
Maybe it wasn’t too late. Maybe he could hide the body, or at least get it out of his store. Yes, that was what he would do. Anything to keep the secret. With those marks on her neck, they’d know she’d been strangled. How long would it take people to track it to him? Had anyone ever known he was her lover? Had anyone ever seen her coming and going from the store? He didn’t know. All that mattered now was getting rid of the body.
Hurriedly Harvey began to dress. The pebbles that he kept in his left boot to give himself a pronounced limp rolled out, and he didn’t bother to gather them up. No one would see him in the darkness, so no one would know about his fake limp.
He opened the outside door cautiously and was greeted by an icy blast. Shivering, he hurried to get his heavy coat. As he put it on, he glanced at the floor. The blue bracelet. Those damn beads had gone everywhere when it broke. He must pick them up.
The girl lay so still, he didn’t want to look at her as he went to his knees and began to gather the beads. The dim lamp made them hard to see in the shadows, but he picked up all he saw. A sound outside. Was that a sentry, or Yellow Jacket sneaking up on him? Harvey slipped the beads into the pocket of his coat and turned to the dead girl. He must get her out of his bed, no matter what he did with her. Maybe he could make it look like an accident. Yes, that was what he would do. No one would ever know.
He didn’t want to touch the body that was already so cool and limp, but he had to. Harvey had whipped many slaves, slaughtered a few chickens, and kicked a cat or dog or two in his forty years, but he had never killed a human. He didn’t have the courage for that. Taking a deep breath, he swung the slight body up in his arms. Her head dangled back, so that the marks on her throat showed almost black now. Her long hair swept the worn wooden floor. Where to go? What to do? He was so scared, his hands shook. Maybe he could make it look like an accident. Harvey grabbed a coil of rope off a nail. Then he headed out the back door and into the cold night toward the forest. The ground was damp and muddy beneath his small boots. His heart beat so hard, he was certain it would wake up everyone over at the sleeping rebel camp and the Indian settlement.
Suppose he ran into someone along the way? How would he explain his carrying a dead, half-naked Injun girl? The thought was so scary, he thought he would vomit, but he must not do that right now. There’d be time for the shakes later, when he was safely back at the store having a stiff drink. All that mattered now was making sure no one could track Pretty’s dead body back to Harvey Leland. If he was lucky, no one need ever know. Twilight should arrive in a few days, and he already had plans for his widowed stepsister. All he needed was a little luck and things would turn out fine, but first he had to get rid of this damned Injun slut’s body.
. . .
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