Midnight Star (Star Quartet 2)

Her blouse was torn off and her skirt quickly followed. She was sobbing, screaming at him all the curse words she’d ever heard in her life. He took a step back, releasing her for a moment, a wide grin splitting his lips as he studied her.

Chauncey couldn’t move. She stood shaking and sobbing, dressed only in her disheveled dirty shift and her boots.

He was looking up and down her body with calm possessiveness. Suddenly he frowned and hurled out a string of the strange guttural sounds. He took another step back, a look of frustration on his face. He was shouting at Cricket now, pointing back at Chauncey.

Cricket answered him, then shrugged. Chacta’s voice rose and he gesticulated wildly. He stopped his invective for a moment, his lips curling with both anger and . . . disgust. Disgust! Filthy savage—she didn’t smell nearly as bad as he did.

Chatca strode from the lean-to without another word.

Chauncey stood still, wondering what the devil was going on. Why had he suddenly left her alone? “Cricket, I—”

“You bleed,” Cricket said flatly. “No good for man. Unclean.”

Bleed? Chauncey looked down, to see blood staining her shift. She wanted to laugh and cry at the same time. He’d left her alone because of her monthly flow! “Oh God,” she whispered, falling to her knees, “I can’t bear this.”

“No cry. You demon woman. I get cloths to stop blood. Chatca no make you wife until you clean again.”

Oddly enough, as she knelt on the ground, she felt a stab of disappointment that she wasn’t pregnant with Delaney’s child. She quietly, hopelessly, whispered his name.

* * *

“Please, Circket, you must let me bathe! Surely no one would mind.”

“Water cold and no good. You still bleed.”

“I’m filthy!” Chauncey picked up her thick braid and waved it at the impassive Cricket. “Filthy! I can’t stand it anymore. As for the . . . other”—she choked a moment in embarrassment—“I don’t care. It doesn’t matter.”

“I ask Chatca tomorrow,” Cricket said, and sat down on the dirt floor cross-legged.

Two days. Two nights. It seemed an eternity. Chauncey knew every mound of dirt on the ground of the lean-to, every seam in the animal skins. She was beginning to feel scarcely human. At least Chatca hadn’t come near her. Her only companion was Cricket. She’d heard Tamba’s loud, angry voice outside the lean-to several times, but she hadn’t seen the woman. She was allowed outside for only a few moments to relieve herself, then herded back inside.

“Cricket,” Chauncey said after a moment, “please talk to me. I’m going mad.”

“Chatca tell me no talk, just watch you.”

“Please. I can’t bear it. Please. Just tell me how many of you are here in this camp.”

“Only eight. No children. Three women.”

“Where are your other people? What tribe do you come from?”

Cricket gave her what Chauncey had come to call her what-a-stupid-woman look. “Other Indians dig gold for white man. Many die. Chatca angry and come here to hide and live free.” Her chin rose a bit and a gleam of pride lit her black eyes. “We Nisenans, come from tribe of great Maidu chief, Wema. White man steal lands from us, kill our game, ruin our rivers with . . .” She paused a moment, frowning.

“With their mining equipment,” Chauncey said.

“More yellow men now than Indians,” Cricket said. “Wema lose to great white father. Chatca save us.”

No, Chauncey thought. Chatca didn’t have a chance of saving anybody.

“Cricket, how did Chatca find us? Why did he bring me here?”

Cricket shrugged. “No matter. Ivan angry, but Chatca want you. Tamba make more trouble.” Cricket calmly began to pluck lice from her hair and crush them between her fingers.

Chauncey wanted to shake her in frustration. She wrapped her arms about her knees and lowered her face. She wondered dully if Delaney had ever killed an Indian. She felt swamped with grief at the thought of him. She felt tears burn her eyes and realized that dirt was making them sting. Some lady, she thought vaguely. An English lady sitting on the rough ground, thoroughly filthy and wearing only a bloodstained ragged shift! She could just imagine Aunt Augusta’s face if she could see her.

Delaney. He wasn’t dead. She sensed it. But where was he? Was she so desperate that she didn’t want to face the truth? What if Chatca had killed him? What if she had to remain here and be raped by the renegade Indian?

“I tell you demon woman no cry. Make Chatca mad.”