The Endless Sky (Cheyenne Series) by Shirl Henke

had stripped down to his trousers, rolling up the legs so he could show her how the Cheyenne caught fish with their bare hands. It looked like such fun, she had wanted to try it, too. With her typical eight-year-old pluck and disregard for convention, she had taken off her shoes and socks and hiked up her skirt between her bare legs to wade in after him. She could still feel the fierce wriggling of that fat trout she'd caught. The sounds of their childish laughter echoed through the tall stand of alders as they tossed the slick, plump fish onto the bank, splashing each other with water in the process.
           Now, she looked at his tense body, the broad shoulders hunched as he leaned his hands on the window sash, standing barefoot across the room, so long-legged and tall, refusing to face her. The harshly beautiful profile of his hawkish face gleamed like a copper mask of some fierce Aztec god. Her throat constricted remembering the lonely boy, always an outsider. “Was that what made you run away back to your father's people?”
           He stiffened as the old shock and dread seized hold of him. “No. I endured lots of beatings before that one. Old Jeremiah tried his damnedest to whip the Indian out of me. Couldn't change the color of my skin no matter how much he prayed or used the hickory cane. The only reason I'm tolerated in society now is because of the size of the Remington bank account. Most of the good mamas of the city lock up their daughters when the dirty half-breed walks in.”
           “And you've taken pity on me because I don't have a mama to protect me.”
           The trace of impatient asperity in her voice caused him to turn around and face her. Unwillingly, he felt himself start to smile. “All this nobility is wearing on both of us. Why don't you bundle up in those blankets and I'll see about getting us some of that soup Essex made this morning?”
           The mention of the manservant suddenly brought back visions of him stripping a bloody bandage from Oliver Standish's head. She bit her lip and asked, “Is Oliver all right?” Overcome by guilt, she added, “He was bleeding.”
           “Not nearly as much as he deserved. I saw the entire fool accident from the hill. He could’ve killed you.”
           Remembering the insane way Oliver was driving, she couldn't argue with that. “But he's going to live?” she persisted.
           He grimaced as he tugged on his cold boots. “Yes, he'll live.”
           He started toward the door as she called after him. “You will come back, won't you? I mean...not send that servant?”
           Her uncertainty was matched by her tenacity. He had always admired that in the stubborn little tomboy. He smiled. ‘‘I'll come back, Stevie.” And may the Powers protect us both.
           Essex had the Standish boy well in hand, liberally dosed with good brandy, bundled in blankets and sleeping soundly on a chaise placed in front of the hearth. It was twilight now and the storm raged on. Little help for it, they would be snowed in at least overnight, perhaps for several days.
           Chase had come up to the deserted country place for a few days of peace away from the Remington clan. He had needed time to think about what he would do with the rest of his life. The day he had been captured at the massacre when Custer's soldiers stormed Black Kettle's camp on the Washita, the wounded young warrior had sworn a blood oath to return to the Cheyenne.
           Upon learning he was the half-breed heir of the powerful Remington dynasty, the Blue Coats had not killed him, although there had been one young officer who had tried his damnedest to convince Custer to disregard the orders to take him captive. Custer, ever eager to curry favor with the powers in Washington, had refused to listen to the second lieutenant. They had been forced to shackle the boy hand and foot in order to place him on the train