Dara vacillated between anger and fear while watching the twenty Cheyenne braves stationed between the wagons and the Cheyenne camp. How could Papa leave her? She could sit silently while the railroad bosses and Cheyenne elders transacted their business. Instead, he’d left her with the railroad workers, many grumbling about the savages milling about. The demeanors of the braves ranged from boredom to vigilance to suspicion. Were they simply being watchful, or were they positioning themselves for attack? The fact that they carried weapons provided no comfort. She remained alert, praying no trouble would erupt.
More than a half hour later, the entourage emerged, a crowd of Cheyenne growing as they drew near. After a brief discussion, Mr. Marston and Mr. Adgate instructed the men who’d stayed with the wagons to off-load the crates and pry them open. Two smaller crates contained new knives with leather sheaths. The more plentiful larger crates contained folded trade blankets. Once the Cheyenne began filing up to collect their blankets and knives, Dara approached her father.
“Papa, may I have a word … please.” She kept her voice soft and even.
He nodded to the brave who rather cautiously took items from each crate. “Now is not the best time, Dara-girl.”
The childhood endearment had once made her feel so safe and loved. Now he used it to keep her at arm’s length. “Please. I need you to understand.”
“Understand what?”
“I’ve participated in meetings while Mama and I worked to free the slaves. I’ve organized hundreds of picnics and bazaars to raise money for that cause. I’ve helped soldiers find their loved ones after the war. I am not a child. Why wouldn’t you let me sit with you while you spoke to the Cheyenne?”
“Now is neither the time nor the place for this discussion.”
The words stung, but she tamped down her disappointment. “I know you’re busy. When would be a better time?”
He focused only on the line of Cheyenne. “Perhaps tonight. At home.”
“Tonight, then.” Hopefully, he wouldn’t dismiss her then also. She meandered away, putting distance between her and the camp.
“Dara.” Gage hurried after her. “Where you headed?”
“I was in the way.”
He fell in beside her. “I’m sorry. I tried to change his mind as we rode to Little Wolf’s tent.”
“Don’t apologize. This isn’t your fault.”
He drew her to a halt. “I don’t like what just happened.”
“Thank you.” At least he understood.
“Maybe this isn’t the best time, but Spotted Hawk’s daughter is asking to meet you.” He nodded at a lone figure standing halfway between the camp and their solitary vantage point. “She’s about your age.”
“That sounds like a nice diversion.”
At Gage’s signal, the Cheyenne woman hurried their way.
“Dara, this is Walks In Shadows.” He turned to the Cheyenne woman and spoke to her in her native tongue.
Smiling, Walks In Shadows stepped forward, spoke Dara’s name, and held something out. Dara darted a glance Gage’s way then back to the woman. When she didn’t immediately take the item, Walks In Shadows nodded and held it nearer, spouting a flurry of words.
Gage shook his head. “I taught you the words.” He spoke in English this time. “Tell Dara yourself.”
Walks In Shadows scowled at Gage, first in confusion, then as if upset. However, she held out the object again. “You take my … friend?” She chewed her lip, waiting for Gage’s confirmation.
“Friendship.”
The Cheyenne woman nodded. “You take my friendship.”
“She’s offering you this gift of her friendship,” Gage clarified.
Dara took the small leather medallion and ran her finger over the intricate and colorful decoration. “It’s beautiful. Thank you.”
The raven-haired woman nodded, braids dancing.
“She decorated that with dyed porcupine quills.”
Dara’s eyes rounded.
“You might think about giving her a gift in return.”
“I have nothing to give,” she whispered, “unless she’d like my hair ribbon.”
“That’d be perfect.”
She tugged the dark green bow from her blond braid and held it out to Walks In Shadows. “Please accept this symbol of my friendship.”
Walks In Shadows’s face lit up, and she attempted to poke her braid through the already-tied bow.
“Let me tie it for you.” Dara retied the bow around her hair, and Walks In Shadows’s smile deepened. She chattered happily in a combination of Cheyenne and English.
After a moment, Gage halted Walks In Shadows’s words. “She’s never seen something tied in a bow before.”
“How?” Walks In Shadows plucked the ribbon from her hair and pushed it into Dara’s hands.
“I’ll teach you.”
Gage chuckled. “I ought to get back in case they need my help. I’ll leave you gals to your bow tying, but … do me a favor.”
“What favor?”
“I don’t mind you walking around some, but stay where I can see you.”
“We will.” She grinned. “Thank you. She’s charming.”
Gage shifted his attention between the railroad’s gift giving and the largest hill in the distance where Dara and Walks In Shadows had wandered. Dara had stayed in sight, but they’d gone much farther than he preferred. He could trust Walks In Shadows to watch over the other woman, but he’d feel a heap better if they were nearer.
Forsythe was oblivious—both to the fact that his daughter had wandered out onto the plains and that he’d wounded her. Unaware, or unconcerned. Regardless, it stuck in Gage’s craw.
Was the man blind? Dara’s caring, intelligence, and loyalty were obvious the day he awoke in her bed. Women with such qualities deserved to be lavished with a man’s attention. If Forsythe would put aside his work and listen to her, Dara would become one of his greatest allies. That’s exactly what happened with his Beth. Her pa taught his girls about farming and livestock. In turn, she’d taught Gage plenty when he’d listened.
At seventeen, Dara was the same age Beth had been when they’d married. Both women had a spunk and a boldness he admired. But Beth had been simple and unassuming, content to be a farmer’s wife. Dara oozed splendor and refinement, from her big, impractical dresses to her perfect manners and etiquette. To her credit, Dara had never made him feel like the man of humble means he was. He was grateful. Her unwavering acceptance stirred every ounce of protectiveness in him. Particularly where her thickskulled father was concerned.
An older Indian boy approached, new blanket over his bony shoulder and knife in hand, grinning as he showed off the blade. Gage listened to his proud ramblings, commenting on the fine quality of the weapon. As the boy continued, Gage scanned the distance again.
His gaze stalled on Walks In Shadows, sitting alone on the distant hill. He watched a moment, then two. No Dara. Brow furrowing, he excused himself and approached his horse. Where had she gone?
Unfastening his saddlebag flap, Gage withdrew a cartridge and percussion cap for his rifle while scanning the surrounding countryside. She was nowhere to be seen. Despite Walks In Shadows’s seeming lack of concern, apprehension climbed Gage’s spine.
“Lord,” he breathed. “Give me eyes to see the dangers….” One half of the prayer he’d prayed each time he’d taken out a target during the war.
Eyes firmly on Walks In Shadows, Gage led his horse away from the crowd a good thirty feet then slid the Whitworth rifle from its scabbard. Settling the gun over his saddle for stability, he peered through the telescopic sight.
He finally found her, or rather, the top of her head. Her honey-blond hair—nothing more—was visible over the crest of the rise. Drawing back from the scope, he squinted at the distance then looked through the scope again. What was she doing?
“C’mon, Dara …”
As if on cue, her head and shoulders bobbed into view over the rise, though she halted again, her back to him. Gage’s mouth turned to cotton. Something wasn’t right….
“Wells?” Forsythe called. “Everything all right?”
Dara backed up another step, and another, coming farther into view, her posture rigid, every movement slow and deliberate.
“What’s got you spooked?” he whispered, searching the crest of the hill.
“Wells. Don’t ignore me.” Mr. Forsythe’s footsteps rustled as he approached.
“Stay.” He stalled the man with an upraised hand, focus never leaving Dara and the terrain around her. After an instant, she took one more backward step then turned sideways slowly. At the edge of the scope’s view, a flash of movement. He shifted the gun to see Walks In Shadows stand and look at the crest of the hill.
By the time Gage shifted back to Dara, she’d started down the hill, running for all she was worth. At the top of the little rise, a sizable tawny splotch slinked into view. Mountain lion.
The cat crouched, ready to pounce.
Every nerve fired as he cocked the hammer and sighted in on the cougar. “Lord …” he whispered. “Give me true aim.” He squeezed the trigger.
The gun bucked against his shoulder just as the big cat leapt. Heart hammering, he held steady, willing the cougar to drop. It did, but not before it took one mighty swipe at Dara’s back, sending her to the ground also. Wasting no time, he reloaded, checked to see the cat wasn’t moving, then swung into his saddle. Gage spurred his horse into a gallop, racing past Forsythe and several others who ran toward the distant hill.
By the time he reached them, Walks In Shadows had pulled Dara to her feet and led her away from the animal before her legs crumbled again. Dara sat upright, a distant, glassy look in her eyes.
“The ghost cat is still alive,” Walks In Shadows panted, jutting her chin toward the cougar.
Gage dropped from his saddle and approached the beast. It lay on its side, laboring for breath, a low growl rumbling in its throat. With one more shot, he dispatched the animal, then dashed back to the women and sank to his knees.
“Are you all right?” he asked Dara.
She shifted a dazed glance his way, then to the others who had arrived, but said nothing.
“Your woman is hurt.” Walks In Shadows held out a bloody palm before pressing it once more to Dara’s shoulder.
Gage dragged Dara close, her head resting against him as he peeked over her shoulder. Her coat was shredded near the shoulder, dark fabric glistening with her blood. Probing beneath the fabric, he found several cuts stretching from her arm toward the center of her back. A chill ran through him.
“Give me your blanket,” he barked at the nearest Cheyenne. When the brave did, Gage cut a wide patch from one corner then instructed the man to cut several narrow strips for him.
Forsythe dashed up, too winded to speak, though he sidled up to his daughter and brushed her hair back from her face.
“It clawed her pretty good.” Gage pressed the folded patch against the wound and tied it in place with the strips the Cheyenne brave handed him.
Forsythe shook his head. “Take her to William,” he panted. “I’ll follow.”
Gage stowed his rifle and mounted, Forsythe handing Dara up to him. The Cheyenne brave shoved the remnant of the blanket into Gage’s hands, and after wrapping Dara in it, Gage spurred his horse into a lope.