really be the same one? But surely all eagle feathers looked pretty much alike.
And yet, there had been a look of recognition in his eyes when he saw the feather.
“Is it yours?” she asked. She pointed at the feather, then at him. “Yours?”
He frowned at her a minute, then thumped his chest and smiled. “ Han. Mitawa .” Yes. Mine.
“But I need it.” She reached through the bars, silently asking for the feather’s return. She had to have it. Somehow, it had brought her here. She was sure of it. She remembered that the old man who had sold it to her had said it contained much magic. Had he known what it was capable of? Was that why he had admonished her to remember that it was a prayer feather?
But surely, if he had known what power the feather held, he would not have parted with it.
“Please,” she said, “please give it back. I need it.”
Tate Sapa shook his head. Questions raced through his mind. How had this white woman come into possession of his sacred eagle feather? Why did she say she needed it? How had she found it in the first place? He had left it at his mother’s burial site five winters before, the same winter his father’s brother had disappeared. Tate looked at her sharply, wondering if she had desecrated the holy ground of the Lakota?
In the distance, one of the sentry posts called out the hour.
“I guess I’d better go,” Susannah said. She glared at him a moment. “Are you sure you won’t give me the feather?”
“ Mitawa ,” he said firmly.
“I know, I know,” she muttered. “It’s yours. But mark my words, Mr. Black Wind, I intend to get it back!”
He waited until she was out of sight, and then he smiled.
“You will not, Su-san-nah. But I will enjoy watching you try.”
Chapter Six
Susannah let out a heavy sigh and pulled the covers up to her chin. She had been at the fort for two weeks now, and still had no idea of why she was there, exactly how she had gotten there or how she would ever get home. Elliott Carter continued to call on her each evening, taking her for walks, escorting her to the colonel’s house to play cards or charades. Once he arranged for the colonel’s striker to serve them a quiet dinner for two. But it was the Indian, Black Wind, who occupied her thoughts and made her heart pound in a most alarming way.
The Army worked him mercilessly. He was hard at work from early morning until dusk, mucking stalls, currying horses, carrying water, cutting wood, digging trenches, scrubbing the barracks floors, raking the parade ground, burning the trash. He worked steadily, his face an impassive mask. The soldiers taunted him relentlessly. She had heard them call him names, cursing him, ridiculing his people, calling him a dog-eating redstick and a dirty blanket-back Indian and other names that didn’t bear thinking about. She was glad he couldn’t understand what they were saying, though she was certain the disdain in their voices could be understood in any language.
She spent far too much time sitting at her window, watching him when he was working nearby. Far too much time admiring the rhythmic play of his muscles, noting the width of his shoulders, the length of his legs, the way his breechclout covered just enough for modesty’s sake and little else.
He always seemed to know when she was watching him. Inevitably, he would pause in whatever he was doing and look her way, his midnight black gaze resting on her, making her feel as if they were somehow connected.
The soldiers set to guard him treated him abominably, hitting him with their rifle butts when he didn’t move fast enough to suit them. She had seen them take the food meant for Black Wind and eat it themselves, or feed it to the dogs. On more than one occasion they had refused to give him water.
It seemed childish and cruel to Susannah, and she wondered how he endured it, day after day.
Nights, lying in her narrow cot, staring at the ceiling, she fought the urge to go to him,
And yet, there had been a look of recognition in his eyes when he saw the feather.
“Is it yours?” she asked. She pointed at the feather, then at him. “Yours?”
He frowned at her a minute, then thumped his chest and smiled. “ Han. Mitawa .” Yes. Mine.
“But I need it.” She reached through the bars, silently asking for the feather’s return. She had to have it. Somehow, it had brought her here. She was sure of it. She remembered that the old man who had sold it to her had said it contained much magic. Had he known what it was capable of? Was that why he had admonished her to remember that it was a prayer feather?
But surely, if he had known what power the feather held, he would not have parted with it.
“Please,” she said, “please give it back. I need it.”
Tate Sapa shook his head. Questions raced through his mind. How had this white woman come into possession of his sacred eagle feather? Why did she say she needed it? How had she found it in the first place? He had left it at his mother’s burial site five winters before, the same winter his father’s brother had disappeared. Tate looked at her sharply, wondering if she had desecrated the holy ground of the Lakota?
In the distance, one of the sentry posts called out the hour.
“I guess I’d better go,” Susannah said. She glared at him a moment. “Are you sure you won’t give me the feather?”
“ Mitawa ,” he said firmly.
“I know, I know,” she muttered. “It’s yours. But mark my words, Mr. Black Wind, I intend to get it back!”
He waited until she was out of sight, and then he smiled.
“You will not, Su-san-nah. But I will enjoy watching you try.”
Chapter Six
Susannah let out a heavy sigh and pulled the covers up to her chin. She had been at the fort for two weeks now, and still had no idea of why she was there, exactly how she had gotten there or how she would ever get home. Elliott Carter continued to call on her each evening, taking her for walks, escorting her to the colonel’s house to play cards or charades. Once he arranged for the colonel’s striker to serve them a quiet dinner for two. But it was the Indian, Black Wind, who occupied her thoughts and made her heart pound in a most alarming way.
The Army worked him mercilessly. He was hard at work from early morning until dusk, mucking stalls, currying horses, carrying water, cutting wood, digging trenches, scrubbing the barracks floors, raking the parade ground, burning the trash. He worked steadily, his face an impassive mask. The soldiers taunted him relentlessly. She had heard them call him names, cursing him, ridiculing his people, calling him a dog-eating redstick and a dirty blanket-back Indian and other names that didn’t bear thinking about. She was glad he couldn’t understand what they were saying, though she was certain the disdain in their voices could be understood in any language.
She spent far too much time sitting at her window, watching him when he was working nearby. Far too much time admiring the rhythmic play of his muscles, noting the width of his shoulders, the length of his legs, the way his breechclout covered just enough for modesty’s sake and little else.
He always seemed to know when she was watching him. Inevitably, he would pause in whatever he was doing and look her way, his midnight black gaze resting on her, making her feel as if they were somehow connected.
The soldiers set to guard him treated him abominably, hitting him with their rifle butts when he didn’t move fast enough to suit them. She had seen them take the food meant for Black Wind and eat it themselves, or feed it to the dogs. On more than one occasion they had refused to give him water.
It seemed childish and cruel to Susannah, and she wondered how he endured it, day after day.
Nights, lying in her narrow cot, staring at the ceiling, she fought the urge to go to him,
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