Badlands Bride. Cheryl St.John

to him from the first that he was stuck with her for at least two weeks, unless he took her back to the Missouri River crossing himself. That was out of the question. He had a business to run. He had lumber coming tomorrow and supply wagons the following day.

      Well, she would have to earn her keep. That’s why he’d sent for a woman in the first place. Wasn’t it?

      Cooper glanced at the wooden bar across the cabin door, unrolled his fur pallet and blew out the lantern. No sliver of light beneath the bedroom door showed him she’d doused hers, too. He slid off his moccasins and placed his rifle beside him before he lay down.

      He smiled, thinking of her reluctance at putting him out of his bed. He’d made the foreign piece of furniture only two weeks ago and had yet to sleep on it. The idea for it had come to him one night before he’d finished the log house. He’d lived in the soddy behind, his dead brother’s wife, Chumani, and son, Yellow Eagle, living in the soddy beside. Once he’d sent for a bride, he’d planned the cabin, but he hadn’t really considered all the added things that went with it—and her.

      A little at a time, he’d filled the place with the trappings of civilization. A wife from the city would need a stove; he couldn’t expect her to cook over a fire. And a bed, he’d thought, much, much later. A lady would need a proper place to sleep. And so he’d built it, thinking, as he planed and fitted each piece of wood, of what Tess Cordell would be like.

      Simple curiosity. It hadn’t mattered that she be young or attractive. A pleasant nature, capable hands and a quick mind would have been enough. Someone to help him with his work. Someone to teach Yellow Eagle to read so he’d have a running start on the future.

      He truthfully hadn’t expected Tess Cordell—or Hallie Wainwright — to jump off that stage into his arms, eager to marry him. But after meeting the headstrong young woman who had arrived, the thought was appealing. What would he be doing tonight if the saucy beauty in the other room had been his intended bride? The thought unleashed the long-denied physical cravings of his body. Cooper couldn’t help wondering... wishing....

      He turned over and adjusted his body in his nest of furs, banishing those dangerous thoughts. He’d see to her safety until the stage came to return her home. Until then, he’d be best off to keep his mind on business. If he didn’t, he’d be in for a whole pack of trouble.

      But as he fell asleep, the last images in his mind were those of gold-flecked eyes arid hair as dark and shiny as a prime pelt.

      

      Hallie awoke with a start. She sat up and blinked, orienting herself. Reassured at her surroundings, she relaxed against the warm, cozy mattress and pulled the soft blanket up to her chin. She’d slept the best she had in weeks. Her host had a comfortable bed and walls that blocked outside sounds. Anyone would be quite content here, no doubt.

      Why had she thought that? Reluctantly she tossed back the covers and got out of bed. She washed her face and cleaned her teeth with the tepid water in the pan and dressed quickly, wondering if DeWitt was up.

      Hesitantly she opened the door and peeked out. The man, along with his pile of furs, was gone. She wandered the scarcely furnished room and finally ventured out to use the necessary — the privy, he’d called it.

      Finished, she opened the door and headed back. A whoop sounded beside her and she collided with a four-and-a-half-foot bundle of energy. Hallie caught her balance, but the boy sprawled in the grass. Immediately he jumped to his feet and stared at her.

      Hallie stared back, heart pounding. An Indian boy!

      She cast a wild glance about. Where had he come from? Were there more hiding nearby? Surely he wasn’t alone. Was he lost?

      Seeing no one else, she inspected him from head to foot. He wore trousers, a fringed tunic shirt like DeWitt’s and moccasins. Jet black hair hung to his shoulders.

      Perhaps it was a trick. Maybe the rest of his tribe was waiting to swoop down on them. Should she run for DeWitt? Or scream?

      The boy, who appeared to be about ten, glared at her.

      She raised her hand in what she hoped was a peaceful greeting. “Hello,” she said, and thought herself foolish. How was he supposed to understand?

      “Who are you?” he asked in an annoyed tone, his black eyes scouring her face and hair.

      “I’m Hallie Wainwright. Who are you?”

      “Are you here to marry Cooper?” he asked without replying.

      Startled at his speech, she overlooked his rudeness. “No. He’s letting me stay with him. Who are you?”

      “I am Yellow Eagle of the Wajaje tiyospay, ” he said proudly.

      “Where are you from?”

      “What does it matter to you where I come from? It isn’t my home anymore because of your people.”

      His hostility took her aback.

      “Go back where you came from,” he said, and turned away.

      Just then an Indian woman appeared in the doorway of one of the sod houses. She wore a slim, ankle-length dress made out of the same soft-looking leather as Mr. DeWitt’s clothing. Hallie stared in fascination. How many of them were there? They lived here? She’d thought the buildings and property all belonged to DeWitt.

      The raven-haired woman walked toward them on silent moccasined feet. She said something to Yellow Eagle that Hallie couldn’t understand.

      Annoyance laced Yellow Eagle’s tone and expression as he replied in their language.

      The woman spoke sharply. He turned back reluctantly. “My mother says to tell you she is Chumani,” he translated. “She is honored to meet you and you must come eat.”

      “Oh, no, I—I couldn’t possibly. Thank you, but—”

      “Good, don’t eat.” He started to walk away.

      The woman stopped him with a sharp command.

      “She says Coop has already eaten and she has saved food for you.”

      “This morning, you mean? Mr. DeWitt ate with you this morning?”

      “He always eats with us.”

      Confused, Hallie met the dark-skinned woman’s gaze. She had prominent cheekbones and wide-set, uncertain eyes. It seemed to Hallie as though she were waiting for either approval or rejection. She said something to Yellow Eagle.

      “What did she say?” Hallie asked.

      “She wants to know what you said.”

      Hallie relaxed. If DeWitt ate with them regularly, it must be safe. “Tell her I’m grateful for her kind invitation.”

      Yellow Eagle spoke to Chumani in a few hard syllables. She smiled and led the way into the sod house.

      The small room was clean and orderly. Chairs on one side of the blackened fireplace were upholstered with hides. A solid table and benches sat on the other. Chumani gestured for Hallie to sit. She prepared a plate from the kettles over the fire and placed it before her. Hallie picked up a smooth bone utensil and tasted the gravylike mixture poured over biscuits.

      “This is delicious.”

      At a grunt from his mother, Yellow Eagle translated and Chumani gave her a cup of coffee. Hallie had never cared for coffee, but she took several sips so she wouldn’t offend her hostess. The woman sat across from her with a quill needle and sewed a sleeve into a leather shirt.

      Hallie wondered for a moment why the woman and her son hadn’t made an appearance the night before and then realized they’d probably assumed Mr. DeWitt was bringing a wife home and they had given him privacy.

      How curious that these Indians were living here among the motley bunch of inhabitants in Stone Creek. Now that she thought about it rationally, she realized that most news about the tribes in different areas