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Savage Illusions

Page 13

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''Here now, let me ta­ke you to my pri­va­te dwel­ling," Ralph sa­id, sud­denly nud­ging his way bet­we­en Jole­na and Kirk. "You can get com­for­tab­le with a cup of hot tea be­fo­re ever­yo­ne el­se ar­ri­ves for sup­per. Yo­ur trunks and per­so­nal be­lon­gings are be­ing se­en to. To­mor­row they will be lo­aded in­to the co­ve­red wa­gons that sho­uld be ar­ri­ving from anot­her out­post. The­se wa­gons will ta­ke you whe­re you ne­ed to go. Spot­ted Eag­le knows the ave­nue of tra­vel that will ta­ke you aro­und the worst, im­pas­sab­le ter­ra­in."

The na­me Spot­ted Eag­le ma­de Jole­na's he­art le­ap. She lo­oked gu­il­tily at Kirk and saw that his re­ac­ti­on to the na­me was much dif­fe­rent from her own. In his blue eyes she co­uld see a tra­ce of gu­ar­ded an­ger.

Steve gu­ided her and Kirk to­ward the lar­gest and most han­d­so­me of the log ca­bins. She fol­lo­wed him in­si­de, fin­ding a hu­ge sto­ne fi­rep­la­ce whe­re a soft fi­re bur­ned in the mas­si­ve gra­te; plush, de­eply cus­hi­oned cha­irs we­re po­si­ti­oned be­fo­re the fi­rep­la­ce.

As she lo­oked slowly aro­und the ro­om, she fo­und signs that only a man li­ved the­re and con­c­lu­ded that Ralph was not mar­ri­ed, or per­haps was wi­do­wed. All the fur­ni­tu­re was manly and cru­de, and li­ned along the far wall we­re his trop­hi­es­stuf­fed he­ads of de­er and every ot­her kind of wild ani­mal to be fo­und in this un­ta­med Mon­ta­na Ter­ri­tory re­gi­on.

Jolena tur­ned qu­ickly when a Me­xi­can wo­man ca­me in­to the ro­om, wi­ping her hands on an ap­ron. Her gra­ying ha­ir was worn in a tight bun atop her he­ad, and her eyes we­re wi­de and smi­ling as she ga­zed from Kirk to Jole­na.

"We ha­ve vi­si­tors, s?, Mis­ter Ralph?" Ma­ria Es­te­fan sa­id, still smi­ling her ap­pro­val. "And isn't she the pretty one?" she sa­id, lo­oking Jole­na slowly up and down. "Indi­an? Which tri­be?"

Jolena had be­en re­tur­ning the wo­man's smi­le un­til she had re­fer­red to her as an In­di­an, go­ing as far as as­king her tri­be.

There was a stra­ined si­len­ce.

Ralph qu­ickly in­ter­ce­ded. "Ma­ria, this is Jole­na and Kirk Ed­monds from Sa­int Lo­u­is," he sa­id, ges­tu­ring to­ward them. "They ha­ve co­me to se­arch for a ra­re but­terfly. They will be le­aving on the ex­pe­di­ti­on to­mor­row. Don't you think you sho­uld show them the sup­per you've pre­pa­red for them and the­ir as­so­ci­ates?"

Maria squ­in­ted cu­ri­o­usly up at Jole­na from her ex­t­re­mely short he­ight, but sa­id no mo­re as she gu­ided them in­to the di­ning ro­om, which was set for the eve­ning me­al. The long oak tab­le se­emed to gro­an un­der the lu­xu­ri­es of the co­un­t­r­y­buf­fa­lo me­at and ton­gu­es, be­avers' ta­ils and mar­row fat. A bot­tle of Ma­de­ira and an ex­cel­lent port sat glis­te­ning in the light of se­ve­ral can­d­les in the cen­ter of the tab­le, and pi­les of bre­ad and che­ese lo­oked tem?

?p­ting midst the ot­her de­li­ca­ci­es.

"Does it me­et with yo­ur ap­pro­val?" Ralph sa­id, mo­ving to the tab­le and run­ning his hand along its smo­oth, highly po­lis­hed top.

"I wasn't even awa­re of be­ing hungry un­til I saw this," Jole­na sa­id, la­ug­hing softly.

One by one the rest of the sci­en­tists and the­ir as­sis­tants fi­led in­to the ro­om. Jole­na sat down be­si­de Kirk and wel­co­med a cup of tea as Ma­ria then fil­led a long-stem­med glass with wi­ne. She smi­led her thanks, yet was re­mem­be­ring the wo­man's qu­es­ti­on­w­hich tri­be was she from?

It ate at her in­si­des, the not kno­wing.

Now, mo­re than ever be­fo­re, she had to find out her true he­ri­ta­ge… her true fat­her… her true pe­op­le.

Somehow, so­me way­s­he wo­uld.

Her tho­ughts swit­c­hed qu­ickly to the han­d­so­me war­ri­or. Per­haps he co­uld help her dis­co­ver the truths that un­til now we­re kept from her?

She tin­g­led from he­ad to toe to think that she had a true re­ason to be­co­me clo­ser to Spot­ted Eag­le.

Still in awe of this wo­man who was In­di­an, yet was dres­sed in whi­te clot­hing, Spot­ted Eag­le only went thro­ugh the mo­ti­ons of ma­king camp just in­si­de the fort's walls. Ever­y­t­hing he did he did mec­ha­ni­cal­ly, wit­ho­ut tho­ught. He co­uld not con­ce­ive how this wo­man co­uld be an­yo­ne but the da­ug­h­ter of Swe­et Do­ve and Brown Elk. No one co­uld lo­ok so li­ke so­me­one wit­ho­ut be­ing re­la­ted!

He glan­ced at Two Rid­ges as he was spre­ading his pelts for the night clo­se be­si­de the fi­re. He fo­und it im­pos­sib­le to sha­re with Two Rid­ges his sus­pi­ci­on that Jole­na was Two Rid­ges' half-sis­ter.

Looking away from Two Rid­ges, aga­in oc­cup­ying him­self with his own cho­res of pre­pa­ring his pelts for the night, he de­ci­ded that kno­wing who Jole­na su­rely was wo­uld be his sec­ret, to be sa­vo­red un­til the ti­me ca­me that Jole­na wo­uld be ta­ken to me­et her true pe­op­le. Then Two Rid­ges wo­uld know.

Only then.

Spotted Eag­le did not want to sha­re Jole­na with Two Rid­ges for any re­ason as yet. It was go­ing to be dif­fi­cult eno­ugh to find ways to get her away from her whi­te brot­her, this man se­emingly ob­ses­sed with her.

In ti­me, this wo­uld chan­ge, he tho­ught, smi­ling to him­self.

The only man who wo­uld pos­sess and be ob­ses­sed with her wo­uld be Spot­ted Eag­le!

He to­ok a pi­ece of dri­ed me­at and back fat from the buc­k­s­kin po­uch that he had bro­ught from his hor­se, sat down by the fi­re, and be­gan eating slowly, his tho­ughts still on this wo­man who so re­sem­b­led the wo­man of his past. It was brin­ging back many me­mo­ri­es that ma­de a slow ac­he aro­und his he­art.

Two Rid­ges lo­oked gu­ar­dedly over at Spot­ted Eag­le. When he tho­ught that his fri­end might be too lost in tho­ught to no­ti­ce his ab­sen­ce, he mo­ved ste­al­t­hily away from the cam­p­si­te. He had no­ti­ced the ar­ri­val of anot­her Blac­k­fo­ot fri­end of anot­her Blac­k­fo­ot vil­la­ge ma­king tem­po­rary camp out­si­de the fort walls to tra­de his pelts on the mor­row.

White Mo­le did an­y­t­hing for pay­ment, even if it was tel­ling a lie to add hor­ses to his cor­ral back at his vil­la­ge.

For two hor­ses, Whi­te Mo­le wo­uld do most an­y­t­hing.



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