darker than her bright chestnut hair. Little wonder he’d been smitten with her, but had she ever felt drawn to him? She’d accepted his proposal to appease her father, but now he believed she’d never felt anything beyond a sense of duty. No man wanted to feel like an obligation.
He didn’t really blame her. They were too different. They wanted different things. He’d wanted to marry and start a family. She’d been ardent about her education and medicine. It was better she’d been strong enough to end it than to allow them to make a mistake and enter an ill-fated marriage. “And once you’d graduated, you started looking for a place to locate?”
“I shared a practice with a colleague for a time, but we struggled. Most city people who appreciated advanced medicine already had established doctors. I’d followed the articles and ads about Western locations for some time. The more I looked into the new towns, the more I saw the possibility of pioneer communities being open to new and unconventional practices. Once I had the idea, I couldn’t let go of it. I saw several advertisements encouraging brides and business owners to Cowboy Creek. I wrote the town council, and the town clerk sent me a map and a list of available properties.”
“How did you select your location?”
“Because of my need for water, it wasn’t difficult. I wanted access to the well between the bath house on Second and the laundry on First. Also it’s only three businesses in from the main thoroughfare.”
“Maybe I could include more of your personal story in the next article.”
“I forgot for a moment I was speaking to the journalist. I’ll think about it.”
“Being a journalist is a big part of who I am. Like being a doctor is an important part of who you are. A person’s passions are part of them.”
“Like being a writer also makes you eloquent.”
“Am I?” He glanced over to find her looking up at him. For the first time he felt self-conscious in her presence.
“You have the ability to reach people. You’re able to inspire sympathy or understanding of anything you’re focusing on.”
That was quite a compliment. “You said you’d read my book.”
“And several articles.”
His book was a personal account, and it perhaps revealed more about him than he was comfortable with her learning. He didn’t know why her opinion was different than anyone else’s. People across the nation had read his book, and he wasn’t concerned about their reactions.
Sam couldn’t afford to expend any energy in the direction his thoughts kept leading. Enough was enough.
* * *
They rode in silence for a while. James rode back to let them know they would be arriving at the Cheyenne camp before long. Anticipation quivered in Marlys’s stomach. She’d been looking forward to this for so long. Meeting the indigenous people was part of her reason for leaving the East.
“James will test the temperature with these people before we approach,” Sam warned. “Strangers can be a threat to them, and we don’t know their situation today. They may welcome us, they may not.”
“Understood.”
They drew near the village, where smoke trailed out the tops of tipis arranged in an encampment. Two skinny dogs ran forward, one barking, the other sniffing the horses. Half a dozen braves stood facing them, as though they’d been alerted to the visitors. They wore deerskin leggings, moccasins and coats and hats made of fur.
James signaled for Sam to halt the wagon and rode forward. “Haáahe.”
“Nėhetáa’e. Nétsėhésenėstsehe?” the tallest of the Indians called out.
“He asks if I talk Cheyenne.” James nodded. “Héehe’e.”
“Tósa’e néhéstahe.”
“He asks where we’re from.” James spoke several more words, gesturing to Sam and Marlys. She heard their names, and James mentioned Cowboy Creek.
The Indian seemed to ask more questions and pointed at her.
James turned. “He wants you to climb down so he can look at you.”
“I’ll help you.” Sam climbed down and came around the rear of the wagon to assist her to the ground.
With one of the dogs sniffing at the hem of her riding skirt, Marlys took several steps toward the Indian. Sam remained right beside her.
“Nétsêhésenêstsehe,” he said to her.
“Red Bird asks if you speak Cheyenne,” James said.
She shook her head.
“Má’heóná’e,” James told them. “That’s the word for medicine woman,” he explained.
“Tell him I have medicine. Soap and blankets. Are there any children?”
James spoke with Red Bird and then turned to her. “There are about twenty children. A few are sick. Their medicine woman is old and feeble, and her helper died.”
“I can help them.”
James relayed her message, and Red Bird pointed to the wagon.
“He asks to see,” James said.
Marlys gestured for Red Bird to follow and led him to the back of the wagon, where she climbed up onto the bed to open crates and show him the contents.
Red Bird looked down at her. His eyes were so obsidian they shone, his dark skin lined from the sun, though he didn’t appear old. He had a broad nose and a long scar from his lower lip across his chin, but in his uniqueness she found him strikingly beautiful.
“Ho’eohe,” he said, and gestured for her to join him. Sam was right there to help her down, and she followed Red Bird toward the encampment. Red Bird spoke to James on the way past.
“Leave the wagon, but bring the supplies,” James said to Sam.
The other Indian men picked up crates as well and followed.
Red Bird led Marlys to the largest tipi, called out before entering and held the flap aside for her. She took a deep breath and followed him into what appeared to be their chief’s dwelling. A man whose long, coarse black hair was shot with steel-gray exchanged words with Red Bird. Red Bird led Marlys forward. “Né’seéstse’hena.”
“Take your coats off,” James interpreted.
The three of them did so, and the chief gestured for them to sit near the fire.
Among those in the tipi was a woman who was perhaps the chief’s wife and two women not much older than Marlys, as well as several children, ranging in ages. All the children sat quietly behind their mothers.
“Éhame.” The chief pointed to Sam.
“Chief Woodrow Black Snake asks if you are her husband,” James explained
