The pesky rooster crowed
with confidence that sounded as though he had inspired the sunrise. For
Cecile he only announced another lonely day. Still tired from yesterday’s
chores, she fought the urge to roll over and go back to sleep, but resisted.
Although staying within the comfort of the warm and cozy blankets was much
more enticing than all the things that had become her responsibility, she
threw back the covers and steeled herself against the brisk morning air.
The rough
plank flooring felt icy cold as she moved her bare feet from side to side,
searching for her slippers. She pulled on her worn and faded wrapper and,
hunching into a shiver, shuffled across to the fireplace. Fingers of morning
light touched the pitiful mismatched furniture and roughhewn walls, a grim
reminder of her disappointment in her new home, nothing at all like the
painted rooms and elegant furnishings in her parents’ place. Who would have
guessed that marrying the man of her dreams would bring her miles from
civilization to a life that left her feeling older than her actual nineteen
years?
When flames
crackled in the fireplace, she opened the door and stared across the
prairie, at the fiery orange halo stretching across the horizon. A light
breeze blew the knee-high grass back and forth in a rhythmic dance, and
drops of dew reflected the rising sun. Goose bumps peppered her arms.
Loneliness hung heavy in her heart.
The
chickens foraged the ground for feed, and the cow and horses kicked the wall
of the barn, restless for release into the roomier outside pen. Unhappy
grunts from the pigsty indicated the sow was ready to eat. Cecile sighed,
wondering about Walt. He should have been home by now. Maybe today was the
day. She ducked back inside and changed into her work clothes.
During her
husband’s absence, she’d perfected the routine of balancing the outside
chores with the inside ones. Thankfully, the colder weather lessened the
amount of dust seeping through the crooked shutters, giving her a respite
from sweeping. With everything done for the day, she sat down to practice
her crocheting, noting she was getting pretty good at it. Strangely, the
practice piece of knotted yarn was beginning to grow into something
resembling a baby blanket.
Images of a
young boy in little denim coveralls, working alongside his father, filled
her head. The lad looked like Walt. The picture switched to a miniature of
herself, the Cecile that wore pretty dresses and looked feminine as a child.
Which would
Walt want? A son or a daughter? He’d said he wanted lots of children, but
was she up to the challenge? If this sickly feeling was part of it,
she didn’t much like it.
She poured
herself a cup of coffee from the pot simmering on the back of the stove. It
was bitter from having sat for so long, but at least it was hot; she didn’t
feel like making a new batch. Finding that she tired more easily of late,
she went back to her rocking chair, longing to see her mother and get
answers to the million questions spinning in her mind. More than anything,
she wished Walt would come home so she could share her suspicions with
him—with anybody, really. Why did her new friend, Hilda Stinson, live so far
away?
As Cecile
rocked back and forth, thinking about the possibility of motherhood, she
heard footsteps on the porch. Funny, she hadn’t noticed the rumble of wagon
wheels in the yard, but then she'd been preoccupied in thought. Walt was
finally home! Her lips spread into a wide smile.
Cheerfully
tossing her crocheting aside, she prepared to jump up and give him a very
warm welcome! Before she could get out of the chair, the front door flew
open and hit the wall, vibrating the whole house, and in walked a stranger.
Fear seized her throat. Frozen to her chair, she wondered if this was her
time to die.
The man
before her was a mirror image of Indians she’d seen before only in
storybooks and magazines, and those tales didn’t portray red-skinned people
kindly. This one wore fringe-trimmed buckskin leggings and shirt, and had
long ebony braids. He towered over her; his cold, steely black eyes bored
through her.
Cecile
stared back, her mouth agape, trying to accommodate the scream rising in her
throat. Strangely, she couldn’t make a sound. Escape entered her mind, but
even if her trembling legs supported her, there was nowhere to run.
As quickly
as the Indian entered, he fell to the floor at Cecile’s feet. She remained
seated for several minutes, dazed, confused, and frightened, waiting for him
to move. When he didn’t, she cautiously slid off the rocking chair and knelt
beside him.
Was he
dead? She cautiously poked him, then quickly drew her hand back. Seeing no
sign of reaction from him, she gently rolled him onto this back. A spreading
crimson stain colored the front of his shirt.He was hurt and she had
to do something. But what? She wished with all her might that she wasn’t
alone.
Reminding
herself he was a human being in need of aid, she pushed aside her fear and
tried to assess the nature of his injury, hoping if he survived he would be
grateful enough to let her live.
She took a
deep breath and pressed her ear to his chest, listening for heartbeat. It
wasn’t strong, but it was still there. Before doing anything, she needed to
determine how he’d been hurt and what action to take. Tugging at his shirt,
she lifted it enough to find his injury. Blood oozed from a nasty lesion
just below his left shoulder. Since she’d never seen a bullet wound, she
wasn’t sure if she dealt with one. A closer inspection led her to believe
that it looked more like a stab wound. Hopefully, her amateur evaluation was
correct, for if indeed a bullet remained in him, there was little she could
do. Frustration surged through her as she hurried to find something to use
for bandages. After finding an old petticoat in her trunk, she tore it into
pieces.
“Damn you
for leaving me here alone, Walt Williams,” she mumbled. Her nausea and
thoughts of pregnancy were forgotten.
Using water
from the pitcher, she washed the wound, trying to be gentle, cleansing the
area around the gaping hole, then folded a piece of cotton cloth and placed
it directly on the injured site. The remaining strips she wrapped around his
chest to secure the bandage in place.
That’s
the best I can do. Sitting back on her heels, she watched his smooth,
well-muscled chest rise and fall with each breath. She boldly reached out to
touch it, comparing it to the feel of her husband’s fur-covered skin.
She
couldn’t move the injured man, much less get him onto the sagging bed, so
she covered him and put a pillow under his head. Exhausted from the ordeal,
she collapsed back into the rocking chair to rest and wait. Dozing in and
out of sleep most of the night, she kept a watchful eye on him lest he
awaken, not sure what she‘d do when he did. At sunup he still hadn’t
stirred. The blanket covering him moved with each breath, so she knew he was
alive. She gazed at his bronzed face, wondering who he was and why he’d
come.
Although
stiff and sore from sitting in a chair all night, she forced herself to rise
and get more fuel for the fire. She silently called upon God to let Walt
come home before the stranger woke, but as she added another log, it became
apparent her prayer fell on deaf ears. The Indian moaned and grew restless.
Cecile
knelt at his side, and again, with trembling hand, checked his wound for
bleeding. She breathed a sigh of relief at seeing no fresh stain on the
bandage, then checked for fever. His forehead felt cool to her touch.
Her heart
seized a beat when his eyes fluttered.
The Indian
gazed at her through half-lidded eyes and struggled to pull himself up. She
gently pushed him back down. “Lie still. You’re hurt, you mustn’t move.”
He gave a
knowing nod and relaxed, though his breathing seemed labored.
“Who are
you? Do you understand English?”
He nodded
again. “I am Lone Eagle of the Sioux.”
Although
his halting words were weak and heavily accented, she understood them.
“How were
you hurt? How did you find this place?”
Still
groggy from his injury and loss of blood, he dropped back into a restless
sleep.
Her
shoulders sagged. “Oh Lone Eagle, please wake up. Please!”
What if he
died? What would she do? She inched back up into her rocking chair and
silently prayed again that Walt would come home soon.
