Colton's Folly (Native American contemporary romance) Page 13

  “You did all the work, and I’m the one who’s tired.” Her eyelids fluttered as she struggled to stay awake. “I can’t shake that stuff you gave me.”

  “The sleep will do you good. Don’t fight it.” When Abby smiled he asked, “What’s so funny?”

  “I told Penny the same thing the first time we met.”

  “Well, you told her the right thing. Now stop talking,” he insisted.

  “I wonder if Ghost is okay,” she whispered drowsily.

  “He’s fine. We found him and took him home.” He checked her pulse and her reflexes again, then muttered, “I wish I could say you were fine, too.” But she was out again and never heard him.

  When Cat realized she’d fallen asleep he left the cave and went outside to sit with his back against a tree, gazing at the stars and listening to the sound of the waterfall and the night creatures that moved about in the nearby underbrush. The air was moist and redolent with the scent of growing things, and the falling water made soothing sounds in his ear.

  Suddenly the tranquility was shattered by a cry from inside. He rushed to Abby’s side to find her sobbing in the midst of a bad dream. He lifted her gently and held her in his arms, whispering words of comfort until she opened her eyes, her confusion and embarrassment clearly evident.

  “Do you want to tell me about it? The dream, I mean.” His eyes held a worried expression, and she turned away so that she wouldn’t have to look at him.

  “No, please. I’m sorry for disturbing you. Put me down.”

  He looked down at her. In the firelight her face looked oddly exotic: blue-green eyes glowing like a cat’s; her long, dark lashes casting shadows at the corners of her lids, giving them an Oriental cast; the deep hollows in her cheeks, gaunt now from her recent ordeal, accentuating the bone structure of her face. He looked at her steadily, saying nothing.

  Finally she broke the silence. “Why are you looking at me that way?”

  “You’re beautiful,” he answered simply.

  “Don’t say that. You know you don’t mean it.” She turned away, but he reached over and gently turned her back to face him. She stared at him, but said nothing.

  “God, but you’re something,” he whispered with a touch of awe in his voice. “Lying there, battered and weak, and all the while shooting sparks at me.”

  “I haven’t said a word.”

  “Your eyes talk for you.” He took her hand and held it gently but firmly, despite her attempt to pull away. “Abby, I’m sorry I hurt you. What I said... what I wanted to say.. .it came out all wrong.”

  “And what were you trying to say?” she questioned bitterly.

  He ran his fingers through his hair in a familiar gesture that told Abby just how uncomfortable he was. “I was trying to say that maybe you just don’t understand how things work in a place like this, and that I couldn’t blame you.” He stopped as he realized how his next thought would sound.

  “Because I didn’t know any better?” She took his silence for agreement. “For heaven’s sake, Cat, I wasn’t hatched out of an ostrich egg! And I haven’t lived with my head in the sand for the past twenty-seven years. I have eyes and a brain and, believe it or not, I’m even capable of a decent human emotion or two.” She closed her eyes for a moment, then looked at him and continued. “What really hurts is that you took something I’ve never shared with anyone, twisted it all to hell and used it against me. How can I trust you with anything else?”

  “I know I have a lot to learn.”

  “But not at my expense. There’s been too much pain already in my life. I’m not sure I can handle any more.”

  She slept deeply through the night, never once stirring. During the next day she rested, sometimes dozing, sometimes talking quietly with him.

  “What was it like growing up in Twin Buttes?” she asked at one point.

  “It wasn’t bad, especially when we were real young, before we found out what was waiting for us. We hunted and fished and rode, and went exploring clear down to the Black Hills and up to Teddy Roosevelt country in North Dakota. We were okay as long as we stayed with our own kind. Things began to change when we couldn’t get a teacher and had to go to school in Crossroads. That’s when I realized how much we were hated by the outside world.

  “There was a kid by the name of Joey Little Horse. Small, quiet, used to carry a wooden flute on a string around his neck. Whenever someone got hurt, a person, an animal, he was always there to patch them up. He was in town one day--couldn’t have been more than sixteen--some kid was lying on the sidewalk, looked like he was bleeding. Joey went to help him, and he got jumped from behind by a batch of town kids who’d been waiting in an alley. They beat him senseless and then, for a joke, shoved the flute down his throat. A storekeeper saw it, called the sheriff and went out to help Joey. Only by that time he’d choked to death. The other kid had run away, along with his friends. Later they found a bottle of ketchup in the alley. They’d used it to fake the blood. They never caught the kids. I don’t think they even tried.”

  “Couldn’t the storekeeper identify any of them?”

  “Couldn’t, or wouldn’t.”

  “Damn!”

  “Yeah.” He grimaced. “Just one wasted life among many, like Dorrie and Slow, who got married on nothing and have had nothing ever since. Like fresh, clean young women who grow old before their time struggling to survive, and strong young men who turn to alcohol to escape from hopelessness, or who fight and end up dead.”

  He ran his fingers through his hair and shook his head. “There was this guy I knew in the Corps, a buddy. When we got back we got involved in the protests, landed in jail a couple of times--”

  “You? I can’t believe that.”

  “Yeah,” he admitted ruefully. “Once for a week, once for ten days. Anyway, one day I was helping him organize a protest in his hometown about some land that was being appropriated for a power plant. The police came and somehow, I never figured it out exactly, a fight started. The next thing I knew Andy was in the hospital with a fractured skull. He was in a coma for five days before he died.”

  Abby watched his hands harden into fists as he spoke again. “He lived through three years under fire, only to be killed by his enemies at home.”

  “He fought for what he believed. That isn’t a waste, it’s a victory. And Dorrie and Slow’s struggle isn’t for nothing--their sons will have a better life. Even Joey’s death had to be for something. Just because we can’t see it from where we are...”

  “I hope to hell you’re right, ’cause I can’t see any good in any of it.”

  “Surely there are lives that haven’t been... wasted.”

  “Of course. There’s Emma, with her Ph.D. in sociology, except she can’t use it unless she leaves here permanently and moves to some big city somewhere. There’s Art Devlin, who comes home twice a month from a really good computer programming job in Bismarck and lives in two different worlds at the same time, struggling to keep from going schizo from the pressure. There are at least a half- dozen of our friends, including two of my sisters, who we hardly ever see because they’ve left here to try and make it in the white man’s world. Real success stories, wouldn’t you say? But by whose standards?”

  “Which is your way of saying that you can’t see any good in any of those accomplishments.”

  “That’s about it.”

  “No wonder you have trouble seeing me.”

  She awoke the next morning with a start. She was alone on the pallet. Fifty feet away Cat lay thrashing about on his own bed, shouting curses and muttering incoherently, in the throes of a nightmare of his own. She made her way over to him and placed a hand on his forehead. It was dripping with perspiration, but his body shook with chill. She hobbled over to the fire and added wood till the flames roared and gave off a strong wave of heat, then went back to where he lay.

  She could see him clearly now; his bare chest was bathed in sweat, and the hair at his forehead was soaked. She reached for a shir
t lying on the ground near his head and gently dried him. Her fingers touched something rough, and she looked closer to find a scar on his upper chest between his left breast and shoulder. She touched it again lightly, wondering if he’d gotten it during the war.

  What a shame to mar such a beautiful body, she thought. Her hand moved to his face, and she used the shirt to blot up the rivulets that glistened on his forehead and trickled down his cheeks. Her touch seemed to have a calming effect; his voice quieted to a hoarse whisper, and his thrashings diminished and finally stilled. Her heart seemed to swell as she looked down at him. He seemed young and vulnerable, needing comfort and care. She bent down and gently kissed his mouth, then pulled back to watch his face. His eyes, with their long thick lashes, opened slowly, but they were still focused on whatever was happening in his dream. In their dark depths Abby saw terror and disgust and rage, and she became afraid for him. She desperately wanted to bring him back from that place into the here and now with her, to shield him from whatever secret horror haunted him.

  “Cat?” she called softly once, then once more. The sound of her voice registered; his brow furrowed briefly, and his head turned toward her, although he was still focused inward.

  “Ab? Are you here with me? You shouldn’t be. ” He

  tossed his head from side to side. “Go back. It’s bad here... it’s hell. Go home.”

  “Come back with me,” she whispered urgently, “where it’s warm and safe. I’ll take care of you.”

  She shifted and lowered her weight gently onto him in an effort to dispel the nightmare with her presence. She held his face and lowered her mouth to his, gently caressing his lips and his cheek, murmuring to him wordlessly, much as she talked to Ghost. Finally he began to respond, his lips moving beneath hers, his arms coming around to press her to him.

  She smoothed back the hair from his forehead and dabbed at the moisture that had gathered there once more. His mouth searched for hers hungrily, devouring her, gaining sustenance from her warmth. One hand traveled over her body and cupped a firm breast. Suddenly he turned on his side, taking her with him, but never loosening his hold on her. Abby felt the pain from her ribs, and her knee ached, but she stayed with him.

  His head was on her shoulder, and she felt his warm breath against her cheek. “I’m so glad you’re here,” he whispered. “It’s not so bad now that you’re here.”

  She knew he was still dreaming, that his conscious mind would never let him speak this way, and she was grateful to the very torment she cursed for making him suffer.

  The hand that covered her breast moved as if searching in the darkness. She pushed it gently aside and began to unbutton her blouse. Then she took his hand and, after kissing its open palm, laid it against her warm bare flesh. She heard him moan deep in his throat, and a second later his mouth closed over her nipple, his tongue laving and caressing the engorged tip. Her heart hammered against her breastbone, and a burning wetness started deep within her; her body trembled as wave after wave of desire swept through her.

  Just then Cat moved over her, crushing her beneath his weight. She cried out in pain and pushed against his chest. The sound of her voice and the pressure of her hand seemed to penetrate the layers of semi-sleep, and he rolled off her. A second later he leaned over her with a look of concern.

  “God, Abby, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize.. .I was dreaming.” He touched her cheek lightly. “Do you hurt bad?” You’ll never know how bad, she thought. Aloud she said, “Just a little.”

  “I’ve had this dream since Kandahar but it was different this time.”

  “How?”

  “You were in it.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “I can’t. I don’t want to. And you don’t want to hear it.”

  “If I didn’t want to, I wouldn’t have asked. And you can. Just try.”

  “What for?”

  “Sharing a bad time with someone always helps. And getting your feelings out in the open is better than keeping them buried inside to fester. Sometimes looking at a bad experience in the light of day can take away the terror.”

  “Not this, and not to you. You wouldn’t understand.”

  “Try me.”

  “Abby, it’s not kindergarten stuff. It’s people at their worst. It’s... me at my worst.”

  “Okay, you’ve warned me.” She sat up gingerly, mindful of her aching ribs, then turned to face him, inching forward until they were nose to nose. “But you can’t scare me off.”

  He smiled. “No?”

  “No.” She smiled back. “So fire away.” She lay back against his arm.

  He went quiet; she felt his body stiffen and put a hand on his chest. He’d broken out in a cold sweat again. She moved her hand to his arm and gripped it tightly; he closed a hand over hers and began to speak.

  “I’m coming out of the shelter of the mountains, running through this village. All around me is bleached of color, all of it the color of sand, hot, dry sand. It whips at my face, scours the skin off my hands and any part of my body that’s exposed. The sky is as white as the sand and the sun scorches everything. I keep running, only now these bare, thorny bushes are cutting my body to shreds. I’m bleeding, and I wonder why my clothes aren’t giving me any protection. I look down, and all I’m wearing is this thing we call a kipangu, which is an apron, like I used to wear as a kid during the hot weather. On my feet are knee-high moccasins. That’s how I know it’s a dream and not the real thing.

  “ ‘I’ve got to get to the guys,’ I think. They’re up ahead, in the village. There’s Taliban in there, and we’ve got to clean ’em out so people from the village can live in peace. They’re good people. They don’t mean anyone any harm: old men and women, mostly, and little kids, and a few young women whose husbands are off fighting, or working on the base. I spend my time off there sometimes; they’re good to me. In a funny way, it makes me think of home when I’m there. I keep running.

  “Now my ears pick up sounds: gunfire, shouting, screaming, more gunfire, and then a sound like an ax hitting away at a tree trunk. ‘Why would they be chopping wood?’ I wonder. The noises get louder. I’m almost there. Finally I break through and into the clearing where the village stands. I stop short. I can’t believe what my eyes are seeing.

  “There are bodies all over the place, or what used to be bodies. Some guy’s walking around hacking ’em to pieces. There’s blood all over everything.

  “ ‘Where’s the Taliban?’ I yell.

  “ ‘Ain’t no Taliban,’ somebody answers back.

  “I go over to one of the guys. ‘Why’d we kill all these people?’ I ask.

  “He looks at me and laughs. ‘Who cares about them, Chief?’ he says. ‘We got to add to the body count... Chief.'

  “My stomach rises up in my throat, and I think I’m gonna throw up, but I force it back down and go on. I keep looking, hoping to find someone alive. But all I see are bodies. ‘This must be what hell is like,’ I think. Then the lieutenant starts shouting orders to police up the area. Everybody is carrying corpses and parts of corpses into their houses. They’re laughing and talking, making inhuman human sounds. Suddenly all I can see are my people being massacred by white soldiers. These are no longer Afghani villagers. They’re red men and women and kids. They’re the Lakota at Wounded Knee and Slim Buttes. They’re the Cherokee at Sand Creek. My blood begins to boil, and my chest feels like it’s about to burst. I let out a yell, then another, and I know it’s a war cry. I grab a gun and I start to shoot.

  “People run, dodge, hit the dirt. Some roll away, others lie still. I can’t tell who’s hit and who’s not. I don’t care. I hate them. I see my ancestors dying like these villagers died, and I feel their pain, and I want to kill.

  “I hear my name being called. It’s the lieutenant. ‘Chief, hold up,’ he says. ‘Give me the gun.’

  “ ‘No,’ I say. Suddenly I’m calm, quiet.

  “ ‘Don’t make me kill you. You’re a good man,’ he says.
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  “‘Why’d you let them do it? You could’ve stopped them.’

  “‘I couldn’t.’

  “ ‘You’re just as bad as they are.’

  “‘Maybe,’ he says, ‘but you’re not. Stop this now, before it’s too late.’

  ‘“I can’t. It’s already too late. It’s three hundred years too late. You’ll have to kill me.’

  “I raise my gun, aiming at him. He lets go with his and hits me twice.. .in the chest and the leg. I go down, and three guys pile on top of me. I feel a sting in my arm and I know they’ve given me a shot to knock me out. But I don’t go under. I hear the voices, see everything that’s going on. I just can’t move. Soon I see the flames as they fire the homes. Then I smell the burning flesh. The men are cleaning up the place, leaving no evidence of what happened. I know nothing will ever live again in this cursed place. Like with my people, who never live in a tipi where there’s been a death, but tear it down, destroy it and move on somewhere else. Only this time there was no one left to move. They give me another shot, and I go out for good.” He went silent.

  “How much of the dream is real?”

  “All of it.”

  The fire had died down, and the cave was cold and almost dark. Abby found her makeshift crutch and left Cat’s side to add more wood. She filled the coffeepot, set it in place, then went back to him.

  He stared at the fire, then looked at her. “I should have done that.”

  “Never mind,” she said. “It’s no big thing.”

  His sleek, muscular body glistened in the firelight; she patted him dry with the same shirt she’d used before. She put her head on his chest, and his hand went to her hair. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

  “For what?”

  “That you went through all that, that you had to see it, that you were driven to do what you did. That I made you talk about it.”

  “No, it’s okay. I think you were right... about getting it out.”

  “What happened after? With the Corps? Didn’t you get into trouble?”

  “No one got killed. That’s what saved my neck. The guys I hurt came to see me in the hospital, said they figured they owed me for treating them and getting them out of some tough spots, so they dummied up. The lieutenant never reported any of it, and I got out on a medical discharge.” He stared into her eyes. “I have the dream all the time, and it’s as clear as the real thing. Certainly more real than being back here again in the world. Except this time. I heard you calling to me to come away with you, and the closer I got to you the more unreal that place became. When I touched you, I could feel the hurt and the anger slipping behind me, until they were a distant memory, the sights and sounds and smells only a faint echo. Suddenly you were the reality.” Abby took in his words, tucking them into a corner of her heart where she knew they would be safe until she needed their comfort. That time would come, she was certain, because she’d simply caught him in an unguarded moment. He would never again let her see that side of him, or get that close. Could her growing love for him be contained in that secret place as well?