Stone Heart's Woman Read online

  Table of Contents

  Stone Heart’s Woman

  Copyright

  Praise for Velda Brotherton

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  A word about the author...

  Thank you for purchasing this Wild Rose Press publication.

  Stone Heart’s

  Woman

  by

  Velda Brotherton

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Stone Heart’s Woman

  COPYRIGHT © 2012 by Velda Brotherton

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: [email protected]

  Cover Art by Kim Mendoza

  The Wild Rose Press

  PO Box 708

  Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

  Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

  Publishing History

  First Cactus Rose Edition, 2012

  Print ISBN 1-60154-997-0

  Published in the United States of America

  Praise for Velda Brotherton

  STONE HEART’S WOMAN won a First Place for Historical Fiction from Oklahoma Writer’s Federation, Inc. in 2010.

  Dedication

  To my husband Don and my daughter Jeri.

  No matter what, they’ve always been in the wings

  cheering me on.

  Chapter One

  Silence hammered in his ears like the rumble of gunfire that lingered in the haze of his memory. An arm, heavy with death, lay across the back of his neck, pinning his cheek against the frozen, blood-soaked earth. Stone Heart had no muscle or bone but sprawled limp, molded into the snowbank. Either he had perished under the white soldier’s vicious attack or was frozen stiff. Perhaps this was only a vision of himself alive, his spirit determined to take one final look at what horrors had been visited on the Beautiful People before journeying to the afterlife. The only way he knew he lived was the fire that burned in his side and leg.

  A stench of black powder hung in the frigid air that earlier had echoed with hideous shouts of bluecoats. To the west a huge silver moon poised on the horizon and slipped away, even as a wintry sun rose, nipping at ghastly thick shadows that lay across the battlefield. Everything glistened with a coat of new-fallen snow. Still afraid to move, he gazed into the grotesque face of his friend White Elk, who lay still in death, arms and legs splayed awkwardly. Eyes wide and unseeing, mouth open in a silent scream; blood matted the ebony braids, a rime of ice frosted his flesh.

  In fear that a white soldier remained to guard the battleground, Stone Heart slanted his eyes to stare through the mist of his breath into the pearlescent sky. He would wait before learning if his spirit and body remained with the living. Had the soldiers butchered all his people? The women and children, the elderly, along with the exhausted, half-starved warriors who had rebelled one final time, with no hope for anything but death? They must have thought him dead too, or they would not have left him here. He felt a coward, submitting to his wounds while the massacre raged around him. Surely some must have gotten away. They couldn’t all be dead, could they?

  Lulled by the dangerous, creeping cold, he lay thus for what seemed like a full night embraced by nightmarish visions. Many who could not escape Fort Robinson had killed their wives and children to save them from the white soldiers, then taken their own lives. Boys armed with broken knives went up against the fiery blast of rifles. Yet still some survived and fled alongside him. When he stirred from the reverie and opened his eyes, the sky gleamed like the burnished blade of his knife. Only a few moments had passed, though it might have been an eternity. An eternity in which he punished himself for failing to save even one of them. The great elk-hide coat had protected him from the cold, yet its weight added to his dilemma. He must rise, for he would be dead if he lay here any longer. It was clear the soldiers had moved on.

  He stirred. The slightest movement inflamed the agony of his wounds. Leather fringes on his leggings clung fast to the frozen, bloodied ground. Filled with sadness and a growing rage, he welcomed the lances of pain that alerted his senses. Pushing to both feet, jerking free of the chains of ice and shaking away the snow, he squatted there a moment to breathe raggedly of the carnage-tainted air.

  And cursed his father’s white blood with each beat of his heart. If slashing his wrists would rid him of every drop, he would yank his knife from its scabbard and do so. Let the hateful legacy of the Yellow Hair soak into the ground, mix with the blood of his mother’s Beautiful People.

  Fury drove him beyond the pain as he moved about among the dead, lifting a head here and there and recognizing one after the other of his dead brothers. His younger blood brother, Yellow Swallow, was not among them. Only nine summers in age, he too had been sired by the cruel Custer. A man who hated the Sioux and Cheyenne but loved to lie with their women. Neither son would ever call him father.

  Little Wolf carried the precious Chief’s bundle, and Stone Heart was filled with a need to find him and Dull Knife, the great elder leader. With frantic precision he passed from body to body, soon knew neither were among the dead, nor was Hog, the man who most recently had risen to lead the fight for the tribe’s freedom.

  From where he searched along the bluffs he could see the dead strewn in the snow all the way down to the bridge over the White River. Let them not all be dead. Let some have escaped onto the prairie. Others may have been taken back to the fort by the white soldiers. Hope diminished the sorrow that cut deep into his heart, but he refused to allow either of the emotions to blur a rage that swelled within his chest until his heart thundered like the drums of battle. His Cheyenne soul and spirit roared in defiance, the bellow cutting the cold air and hammering at the lightening sky. He would kill them all, every white man that walked this land.

  If the soldiers had his people, they would be at Fort Robinson, but not for long. Soon they would be sent back down south to Indian Territory, a punishment worse than death. For six moons they had fled that place, only to be recaptured. They must be allowed to go north to their home where they could live and die in peace, yet he had so little strength left in his body. The wounds he’d sustained bled heavily, but no more. Still he felt weak, depleted. How could he make this happen when he could scarcely move? He must rest, recover, and then rescue all who had survived.

  With the distasteful purpose in mind, he set about robbing the dead, for only in that way could he live. He would need weapons, medicines, clothing to ward off the bitter cold, and food, though he doubted he would find much to eat on these half-starved, escaped captives.

  Hardening his heart and spirit, he searched the bodies of his friends, brave warriors he had lived and worked and played with. He amassed an assortment of items: an old musket engraved with a dragon denoting itself as a trade rifle, good enough only for Indi
ans; a possible bag containing black powder, patches, and lead balls; a bundle of herbs and healing potions which he packed into a parfleche that already contained steel and a striking stone, candles, and writing tools. From the bodies of the dead he gathered up extra leggings, several blankets, and spare moccasins; from the lone soldier’s remains he took jerky, hardtack, and a full canteen. The man’s weapon was nowhere, probably retrieved by the victorious army. Constructing a backpack with a large four-point trade blanket, he shrugged into it and retreated from the haunted place of death. To leave his friends like this shattered his stone heart, but he could do nothing for them except save the living.

  By full daylight he had traveled a painfully short way from the massacre, driven forward by something buried so deep within him he could not give it a name, moving beyond the pain and exhaustion into another plane where spirits guided the soul. Only temporarily, he left the White River and Fort Robinson behind. He would return, but for now he stumbled along the bluffs and over the endless prairie, looking for a place in which he could heal. Over and over he pitched face first into drifts swirled into mountains by the wind. Rose to move on only to fall again, until he could only crawl, leaving in the white powder a trail of blood. At last his strength gave out and he slept, in the bright winter sun on the open plains wrapped securely in brother elk’s hide and the blankets he had taken, trusting his friends the animals to keep watch over him. Once recovered he would return to Fort Robinson, where he would live or die with what was left of the Cheyenne, whom even the whites referred to as the Beautiful People.

  ****

  With a sigh, Aiden rose and went to the mirror to pin long blue feathers in her upswept hair.

  “Stephan, if I could get my hands on your throat, I’d cheerfully squeeze the life out of you.” She pinched her cheeks to redden them and adjusted the bodice of the filmy blue dress. The color made her green eyes shine like turquoise.

  Though she wanted nothing more than to lie down and cover her head, she raised her chin and stepped through the door onto the boardwalk. A bitter wind tore at the filmy skirts, exposed her stockinged legs, and threatened to rip loose her hairdo. She fought to keep everything under control. Perhaps that’s why she failed to see the preacher’s wife until the lovely woman slammed her across the back of her shoulders with a broom.

  “You’re not welcome in this town, you godless creature,” Amelia Durbridge screamed and connected with another swing.

  Racing from the street, a mob of screeching followers descended upon Aiden, who threw her arms over her head in defense. Each attacker came armed with her favorite household weapon, beating her about the head and shoulders. The blows knocked her to her hands and knees, sent flashes of pain through her body. She tried crawling through the sea of swirling skirts, but the women quickly closed rank and trapped her. Some weren’t so kind as Amelia Durbridge, calling her “whore” and “fallen woman” as they pounded on her. Embarrassment almost outweighed the pain. If her own dear sainted mother could see her now, she’d die of shame.

  One of the women abandoned her weapon to rip Aiden’s cloak from her shoulders, another tore the dress away to reveal her corset. A small bag filled with coins stuffed between her breasts popped out and dangled from the ribbon that secured it around her neck. Scrambling to all fours, she stuffed it back in place. Frantic to escape, she bumped into the solid legs of a man who dragged her upright into the shelter of his enormous bulk. She recognized one of her admirers, Wiley Lawson, and leaned gratefully into the whisky smell of him.

  Lawson’s voice all but drowned out by the uproar, he shouted, “Ladies, now ladies.”

  He managed to wrap her in a heavy fur coat that smelled of human and animal sweat, grain and tobacco smoke.

  But the women had worked themselves into a frenzy and no mere man was about to slow them down.

  “Out of the way,” one shouted, and hit him across the shins with the handle of her weapon.

  “Dang it, Miz Lucy,” he yelled, hopping around on one foot and losing his hold on Aiden. “What’s wrong with you? Does your husband know where you are?”

  The rest of them turned on him in one huge roil of womanhood, and Aiden fled, dragging the heavy coat. She stumbled along the street, slipping and sliding through the churned, frozen ruts, past the theater where she would not be performing this night. The menfolk of town would have to find other recreation. Behind her the ranting mob finished with Lawson and turned once more on its original prey. She had to escape or they’d beat her half to death. Already her back and buttocks throbbed from the blows she’d sustained.

  She rounded the corner into a bitter prairie wind that sucked her breath away. Gasping, stumbling, sobbing, turning her ankles in the absurd high-heeled boots, she jabbed her arms at the sleeves of the heavy coat. Gave up and hugged it around her half-bared chest. She dare not stop to put it on. Fury and outrage had turned the women from meek and obedient creatures to murderous predators. No doubt they’d had enough of their men worshiping at the feet of “that red-haired Irish hussy.” If they caught her, they’d not only beat her senseless, they’d no doubt tar and feather her and run her out of town, as suggested by someone in the crowd.

  At her back and closing on her quickly came the rattle of wagon wheels over the frozen ruts. Lungs on fire, she knew she was lost, for she’d never outrun a team of horses. They must have taken Lawson’s wagon to run her down and finish the job they’d started.

  Horror squeezed at her heart, boiled in her stomach, crawled up her back as she imagined them gaining on her. The wagon was right on top of her. If she was going down, she’d look her enemies in the eye. Out of breath and out of options, she turned to face the charging women, chin thrust high, the oversized coat wrapped tightly around her quaking body.

  It wasn’t the charge of the virtuous women she faced, but rather a lone driver standing, whip snapping in the brittle air.

  He slowed the horses, hauled back on the brake, and gestured frantically. “Climb on, quick. I’ll get you out of town. Hurry, ma’am. Hurry.”

  She leaped onto the back of the skittering rig, diving over the tailgate to land with a painful thud on hands and knees, the buffalo coat clutched under one arm.

  Lawson whipped the team into a full run, sending her tumbling around between bags of feed and wooden casks; an assortment of tools of some kind prodded at her skin. Finally she managed to grab the back of the seat and hang on. Kneeling on a fat gunny sack, every muscle throbbing, she twisted a quick look over her shoulder. The pursuing mob faded into the distance. Howling like a pack of wolves, they brandished their brooms at the glowering winter sky. A wedge of fear in her throat loosened. Sucking at the frigid air until her lungs nearly caught fire, she sank to her butt and held on tight while Lawson urged the team onward. Galloping hooves thudded across the wooden bridge that spanned the river at the edge of town. The cold afternoon air crackled with the noisy clatter of wagon wheels over ice. Hunkered behind her savior, out of the brutal wind, she wrapped up in the warm coat and tried to calm her racing heart. Patted the bulge between her breasts. If she lost the money she would be doomed. Or maybe she was anyway.

  When they reached the rise above town, he braced against the reins, handled the brake once more and coaxed his team to a halt on the slithery surface. He glanced down at the small town of Benson, Nebraska, clustered in the snow-drifted valley below. She followed his gaze. The crowd of women had dispersed, leaving the street deceptively peaceful.

  “Sorry, ma’am. I couldn’t stop them. When a passel of females get the urge, a man just about has to stand back and let ’em have at it. You okay?” He fingered his swollen lower lip.

  Nodding, she swallowed hard and shuddered. “What got their dander up, do you suppose?”

  “Why don’t you put that coat on?” He grinned wickedly. “Might of been that little bump and grind at the end of your finale last night, ma’am. ’A course, I’m purely guessing.”

  Dazed, she put her arms through the sleeve
s and felt instantly warmer. “I see nothing funny about this, Wiley.” Her voice trailed off, lips trembling so she couldn’t speak further. If she wasn’t careful she’d start bawling and the tears would freeze on her cheeks.

  “‘A course not. I apologize.” He angled heavy dark brows at her. “You got a place to go?”

  “Home. Saint Louis,” she murmured, “But I don’t know how to get there.”

  “This weather, there won’t be no stage to carry you to the depot for days, maybe weeks. I hear some of the trains ain’t even running. You’d think in this day and age they’d have a way to clear the tracks.”

  The team danced nervously, and he hauled back on the reins, making gentling noises, then went on.

  “Hell, the war’s been over almost fifteen years, and still we live like we do out here. Did you ever see it so cold? And ever’ dang time it warms up a tad, here comes another blizzard. Haven’t seen the like in twenty year or more. Snow’s piled higher’n an ox’s ass.” A sly grin twisted his gnarly features, a slitted gaze fastened on her bosoms.

  With both fists she wadded the coat tight under her chin and moved backward. One heel came down on a short-handled cutting tool of some sort.

  She ought to be more cautious than grateful. This could go from a bad situation to a worse one. Wiley could have his own reasons for rescuing her, nothing to do with sympathy for her plight.

  Never once did he take his eagle eye off her as he wound the reins around the brake handle and made to step over the back of the seat into the bed with her. She’d been right to be wary. She knelt and grabbed the adz, held it at her side hidden in folds of the coat.

  In the time it took her to do that, he towered over her, no longer a rescuer but a menacing threat.

  “Ain’t nobody gonna come along here for a spell. Maybe we could get acquainted. I’ve seen the way you goggle down at us from off that stage. Looking to pick the one you want. Heard stories, too, ’bout how you like to have a little fun. I reckon you might owe me something for getting you out of your...little difugalty.” He gestured crudely with stained fingers.