a hole that allowed the sunlight to brighten what might otherwise have been a dark and confining space. Despite the sunlight, it was surprisingly cool inside, and much larger than she’d imagined.
“Nehaeanaha?”
Lorna turned to the other woman and shook her head while shrugging. “I don’t know what you are saying.”
The woman put her fingers to her lips. “Nehaeanaha?”
“Eat?” Lorna mimicked the action. “Nehaeanaha means eat?”
Repeating the action again, the woman nodded. “Nehaeanaha.”
“Why would it need so many syllables?” Lorna asked.
The woman frowned.
Shaking her head, Lorna said, “Never mind.”
“Nehaeanaha?”
Considering their lunch had been interrupted, food didn’t sound too bad. It would give her time to create a plan. “Sure,” Lorna said. “Why not?” Then, trying her best to copy the other woman’s word, she added, “Nehaeanaha.”
The woman’s smile never faded as she gestured for Lorna to sit on a pile of what looked like animal furs before she moved to where several things sat along the edge of the teepee—bowls and such. A few minutes later the woman handed Lorna a wooden bowl with chunks of jerky and a wooden tumbler full of water.
Once her thirst was quenched, Lorna took a bite of the jerky. It was hard and rather tasteless, but she ate it. That was one thing she’d learned since leaving home. Picky eaters went hungry, and hungry people had no energy. She needed all the energy she could get. There was a lot she had to do, and little time.
The woman refilled her bowl as soon as Lorna took out the last piece. Although her stomach could handle more, her jaw couldn’t. “No, thank you,” she said. “I’ve had enough.”
Still smiling, the woman nodded and took away the bowl.
“What is your name?” Lorna asked.
The woman shook her head and shrugged.
Lorna pointed at her chest. “Lorna.” Pointing at the woman, she asked, “Your name?”
The woman nodded and said a single word long enough it would have filled up an entire diary page.
“Uh?” Lorna asked. There was no way she could even attempt to pronounce what had been said.
Smiling brighter, the woman pointed at her lips.
“Happy?” Lorna asked. “You’re happy?” Shaking her head, she added, “I’m glad someone is.”
The woman pointed at her lips again, making her smile bigger.
“I see your smile.” She pulled up a fake one. “See mine?”
The woman giggled.
Lorna giggled, too. These were some strange people. Whether it was her name or not, Smile was a fitting name for the woman. Lorna drank the last of her water and held out the cup. “Thank you.”
Smile returned the cup to the edge of the teepee and then carried something else across the small area. To Lorna’s surprise, it was a hairbrush, a primitive one, but it would do the job. Her hair was a mass of snarls after swimming, and she reached for the brush.
With another ten-syllable word, Smile refused to hand over the brush. Instead, she sat down beside Lorna and started to brush her hair. Anna used to do that, but she’d been merciless when it came to wrenching apart the curls that twisted among each other, whereas Smile was gentle, brushing small sections at a time.
Other memories of England floated through Lorna’s mind. Of her mother. A memory she’d forgotten. Mother had never brushed her hair because once, when Lorna had been very little, Mother had cut it all off. Right to the nape of her neck. Her father had been furious and forbade her mother from ever touching her hair again. Mother hadn’t. Even after her father died. Lorna had been only seven, and didn’t remember a lot about him, considering he’d been absent more than not, but she did remember riding with him, and that hair-cutting incident. How mad he’d been over it.
Smile said something, and the memories disappeared as quickly as they’d formed. “I don’t understand what you’re saying,” Lorna said again.
With her smile never faltering, the woman rose and crossed the small space again. This time toward a pile of things on the other side of the opening. When she turned around, she was holding a hide dress, much like the one she wore. She then pointed at how Lorna’s dress was still wet in spots.
Lorna shook her head. “Oh, no,” she said. “My hair needed to be brushed, but we aren’t playing dress up. Wet or not, I’m not putting that on. I need to find my friends.” It was clear Smile didn’t understand. Lorna rose and crossed the room. Taking the dress from the other woman, she folded it and placed it on top of a pile of other things. “My friends,” she repeated. “The other women with me. I must find them so we can leave.” Waving a hand toward the teepee surrounding them, she said, “We can’t stay here. We are going to California.” Since the other woman didn’t understand a word she said, Lorna added, “I need to check on an investment, one my father willed to me. I’ll be a very rich woman then. I could pay you to help me escape.”
Lorna sighed then, knowing the Indian woman had no idea what she’d said. “I’ve told you more than I’ve told the women I’m traveling with.”
Still smiling, Smile nodded again.
Lorna shrugged but she smiled, too, and nodded. It felt good to tell someone else, even if they didn’t understand. “When I find Elliot Chadwick—he was my father’s partner, and I met his brother in New York—I’m going to see my stepfather pays for what he did to me.”
Black Horse circled the wagons one more time. They carried foodstuff and clothing, pots and pans, blankets and odd things he did not know the purpose of, but which held no value to him. There were no cases of books like the other holy men and women had tried passing out; nor were there guns or fire water.
He turned to Ayashe, who was gingerly picking through things.
“I no remember what some things are...are for, but no secrets. No traps,” she said. Known as Little One to Tsitsistas, Ayashe had lived with their band for many seasons. A band of Southern Cheyenne had brought her north one hunting season. Before that, she had been on a wagon train that had been attacked. Too young to be a slave, she had been left with his band when the southerners returned to their land. Black Horse believed One Who Heals—a powerful and respected medicine woman—had been the reason the southerners had left Little One behind. They turned children of all ages into slaves, even those younger than Little One had been, but One Who Heals was firmly against such behavior.
He had asked Little One to search the wagon, to look for things the white men might use as traps, or for things the other men could have been after.
“Men no want stuff,” Ayashe said, dropping a blanket. “Bad men want the uh...uh...woman. Women.”
There
