Feather in the Wind Read online

  “Yes.”

  “I thought so. After the grand entry song comes the flag song.”

  Susannah listened to the Lakota words, wishing she knew what the singer was saying.

  The Indian woman translated for her. “Tun’kas’ilayapi, tawapaha kin’han’oihan’ke s’ni najin’kte lo. Iyohlateya, oyate kihan’wicicag’in’kte ca, lecamon’welo. It means the Grand Father’s banner will stand forever. Underneath it, the people will grow, so I do this.”

  “Do this?”

  “It means he will honor the flag.”

  “Oh thank you,” Susannah said. Following the others, she sat down. “I, that is…” Susannah paused, afraid she might be committing some terrible breach of etiquette if she asked the woman what tribe she belonged to.

  “My name is Cindy Two Crows,” the Indian woman said.

  “Susannah Kingston.”

  “What brings you here today?”

  “I’m a writer,” Susannah replied.

  “Oh?”

  “I write romance novels,” Susannah explained. “I’m here doing research for my next book.”

  “It’s about Indians?”

  “Well, sort of,” Susannah said, suddenly embarrassed. “My hero is going to be Sioux.”

  “Oh, one of those kinds of books,” Cindy said, grinning broadly. “I love them.”

  “Do you read romance novels?”

  “Of course. How many books have you written?”

  “Ten.”

  The woman lifted her eyebrows, clearly impressed. “What name do you write under?”

  “My own. Susannah Kingston.”

  “Kingston, sure, I’ve read some of your books.”

  “Really?”

  Cindy nodded. “I read the last one, Marriage on Her Mind. It was really good.”

  “Thank you.”

  Cindy nodded toward the dance circle. “This is called the Rabbit Dance. It’s sort of like an Indian waltz. The words are usually about unfulfilled love, or a loved one who is far away. There are also honoring songs and give-away songs.”

  Susannah nodded, her eyes drawn to the dance circle where several young women were dancing, their bodies moving in graceful rhythm to the beat of the drum. Bending slightly, their feet made subtle movements as they slowly turned from side to side. Their costumes were beautiful, buckskin dresses with heavily beaded yokes. Each girl carried a shawl over her arm, and carried a fan and a matching beaded purse.

  As the morning wore on, she saw that Indians of all ages danced, from children barely able to walk to elderly men and women. Susannah was mesmerized by the multicolored costumes, the willowy movements of the women in their long fringed shawls, the intricate steps of a handsome young man doing a hoop dance. He twirled and bent and twisted every which way, his body moving fluidly as he passed the hoops over his body—two hoops, four, six, then eight, each movement producing a different effect, each one more complex than the last.

  The sun beat down upon her head, the scent of dust and fry bread filled her nostrils. She heard the whir of a snow cone machine.

  In need of something cool to drink, she thanked Cindy for explaining the dances to her and then left the dance area and made her way to the refreshment stand. She bought a large cup of root beer, heavy on the ice, then went to stroll through the booths, wanting to buy a souvenir of some kind to take home with her.

  She passed by t-shirts and vests and scarves, dreamcatchers in a variety of sizes and colors, Indian dolls, brightly beaded chokers, baskets, a wide assortment of jewelry crafted in silver and turquoise, fetishes carved in onyx. She saw much that was pretty, but nothing she wanted to take home.

  Disappointed, she was about to turn away when she saw a single black and white feather attached to a loop of rawhide. Hanging from a post, it fluttering in the breeze, as if beckoning her.

  Lifting the feather from a hook, she ran one finger lightly over the spine, surprised by the warmth of it, the way it seemed to snuggle into her hand, inviting her touch. She knew, in that moment, that she had to have it, knew, somehow, that it was meant to be hers.

  “Can I help you, miss?”

  Susannah smiled at the man standing behind the counter. Tall and lean, he was dressed in a pair of faded blue jeans, moccasins, a long-sleeved Western shirt and a buckskin vest that had a moon and stars painted on one side and a slash of lightning painted on the other. He wore his long gray hair in twin braids that reached his waist.

  “How much do you want for this?” Susannah asked, holding up the feather.

  The man shook his head. “It is not for sale.”

  “It isn’t? Why not?”

  “It is a Lakota prayer feather,” the man explained, taking it from her hand. “It is very old, and sacred to my people.”

  “But I’ve got to have it.”

  He looked at her intently, his deep black eyes seeming to look at her and through her, almost as though he could read her mind, her heart. “Give me your hand.”

  “What?”

  “Your hand,” he repeated, and extended his own.

  Susannah felt a chill of unease skitter down her spine. Almost, she was tempted to tell him to just forget it. Almost. She stared at his hand. His skin was brown and wrinkled, like sunburned leather. His palm was heavily calloused.

  Her heart began to beat faster as she placed her hand in his, felt his fingers, surprisingly strong for such an old man, curl around hers. He closed his eyes, his grasp tightening. Susannah’s breath caught in her throat as the image of a man standing atop a high mountain flashed through her mind. For an instant, she thought she heard someone chanting to the sound of a distant drum.

  With a nod, the old Indian released her hand and opened his eyes. “You are the one,” he murmured, his voice thick with wonder.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Take the feather. It is yours.”

  “Oh thank you,” she said, disconcerted by the man’s intense gaze. “How much do you want for it?”

  The man shook his head. “It is yours.”

  “That’s very nice of you,” Susannah said puzzled by the man’s peculiar attitude, “but I couldn’t…”

  The man silenced her with a wave of his hand. “This is no ordinary feather,” he said somberly. “It is Wakán.”

  “Wakán?”

  “Holy. You must be careful with it.”

  “I will. Are you sure I can’t pay you for it?”

  “Very sure. Things that are sacred must not be sold.” His dark-eyed gaze met hers again. “Eagle feathers are sacred to the Lakota people. This is a medicine feather. If you are worthy, it will bring you that which you most desire.” Reverently, he placed it in her hand. “Remember,” he warned, his voice solemn, “it is a prayer feather.”

  “Yes, I will,” Susannah replied, wondering what, exactly, he was warning her to be careful of. “Thank you so much.”

  At home, she went immediately to her office and placed the feather beside the photograph of the Indian, which she had framed. They looked well together, she mused as she sat down and switched on her computer.

  For a moment, she stared at the blank screen, thinking of Western movies she had seen and historical novels she had read in the past, and then, like a flood that could no longer be restrained, the story unfolded in her mind. She saw it clearly, from beginning to end. Words began to pour out of her, almost faster than she could type them.

  Four hours later, feeling pleased and weary, she sat back in her chair. It was going to be the best story she had ever written, the break-out book that would make her name a household word.

  Stretching her arms over her head, she glanced at the picture of the Indian and smiled. Tomorrow, she would have to call Vivian and tell her she had been right after all. Changing from category to historical had been just the boost she needed.

  Susannah ran a finger over the Indian’s picture. Having a handsome hunk for inspiration hadn’t hurt either.

  A breeze wafted through the open window beside her
desk, stirring the feather. With a smile, Susannah picked it up and twirled it between her thumb and forefinger. The Indian who had given it to her had told her it was old. How old, she wondered? Or had he just said that? But there had been no reason for him to lie. He hadn’t been trying to coax her into buying anything. And what was all that nonsense about her being the one? She frowned. What else had he said? Something about the feather being holy and bringing her the desires of her heart.

  She ran her finger lightly over the feather, wondering why it felt warm to the touch. Little frissons of heat seemed to travel from her hand all the way up her arm to settle in the region of her heart. Maybe it really was magic…

  She shook off the notion, certain she was just being fanciful. She was a writer, after all, blessed with an extremely vivid imagination. After backing her work up on a floppy, she switched off the computer.

  She fixed a big salad for dinner, rinsed the dishes and put them in the dishwasher, took a long bubble bath. After drying off, she slipped into a long white cotton nightgown. She had ordered the gown from a Victorian catalog. It looked old-fashioned, with its high neck, long sleeves and ruffled hem.

  Feeling suddenly melancholy, she picked up the feather and slipped the rawhide loop over her wrist, then walked out into the small side yard that opened off the kitchen.

  It was a beautiful night. A cool spring breeze had blown the smog out of the city. A full moon hung low and yellow in the sky, shining like amber glass in a sea of black velvet.

  A beautiful night, she mused, meant to be shared with someone you loved. Someone who loved you…

  With a sigh, she stretched her arms over her head and gazed up at the night sky. A million stars winked back at her, as if they shared a secret she would never know.

  A faint breeze caught the feather dangling from her hand. She stared up at it, watching it rotate in the gentle wind. The black and white of the feather reminded her of the black-and-white photograph she had bought at the workshop. There had been an eagle feather in the warrior’s hair, one that looked just like this, she thought, and then grinned. Surely one eagle feather looked pretty much like another.

  Lowering her arms, she ran her finger over the feather again. The warrior in the painting had looked handsome and brave, the kind of man women dreamed of and writers brought to life in the pages of a book.

  Where was her knight in shining armor, she wondered. Where was the man of her dreams?

  With a sigh, Susannah sank down on the chaise lounge and closed her eyes, the words of an old song playing in the back of her mind.

  “Mr. Sandman, send me a dream…”

  Yes, she thought, drawing the edge of the feather across her lower lip. Send me the man of my dreams…

  Chapter Three

  With a low moan, Susannah rolled over, trying to find a more comfortable position. When had her bed gotten so hard? She shivered as a cool breeze whispered over her face. She was certain she had left the heater on last night. Why was her room so cold? And what on earth was that racket? It sounded like…like a bugle!

  With a sigh of irritation, she opened her eyes, blinked. And blinked again.

  She was dreaming, she thought as she sat up. It had to be a dream. But never, in all her life, had she had a dream quite as vivid as this one.

  Men in blue uniforms were emerging from long wooden barracks, forming lines, standing at attention. The bugle blared again. There was the sound of drumming. Someone raised a flag. She stared at it for several moments, thinking it seemed to have fewer stars than it should have. She had seen a flag just like it not long ago…of course, she thought, it looked just like the old flag she had seen at the reenactor workshop.

  Feeling confused, she brushed a lock of hair from her forehead. It was then she noticed the feather dangling from her wrist. Frowning, she glanced around. Numerous wood and adobe buildings were grouped around a large stretch of empty ground. She heard a man shouting orders. Dust filled the air as the soldiers broke ranks and headed toward a long low building on the far side of what she decided must be the parade ground.

  She heard the whinny of a horse, and then the sound of footsteps coming closer. Alarmed, she scrambled to her feet.

  “Excuse me, ma’am, but what are you doing here?”

  Susannah whirled around and found herself face-to-face with a man who looked as if he had just stepped out of an old Western movie. He wore a dark-blue sack coat, trousers and black boots, as well as a black slouch hat set at a rakish angle. A wide black belt circled his waist.

  Maybe she was on a Hollywood back lot, she thought, except Hollywood’s forts always had high wooden walls with catwalks and lookout towers. She didn’t think she had ever seen a fort without walls before.

  “Dorothy, I don’t think you’re in Kansas anymore,” she muttered.

  “Ma’am?”

  “Nothing.” She folded her arms over her breasts, careful not to crush the feather, and wished she was wearing something a little more concealing than a cotton nightgown.

  The man’s gaze ran over her, curious and slightly suspicious. “I don’t recall seeing you here before, ma’am.”

  “No. Well, I’ve never been here before,” Susannah replied, wondering where, exactly, “here” was.

  He nodded, his expression puzzled. “What are you doing out here at this time of the morning, ma’am?”

  “I’m not sure.” She glanced around again. “I think I…that is, I…”

  “Do you…ah, excuse me for asking, but do you walk in your sleep?”

  “I never have before,” Susannah replied. She glanced at the flag fluttering in the morning breeze. “But if I didn’t know better, I’d think I’d walked all the way back to the nineteenth century.”

  “Ma’am?”

  “Nothing. Where am I?”

  “Fort Collier, ma’am.”

  Susannah frowned. Why did that name sound so familiar? “Who are you?”

  He snapped to attention.”Lieutenant Elliott Carter, at your service, ma’am.”

  She smiled uncertainly. Elliott Carter was a handsome young man, probably in his early thirties, with close-cropped blond hair, a thin moustache and light blue eyes.

  Susannah shook her head. Fort Collier. Lieutenant Carter.

  She closed her eyes, willing herself to wake up. She had to be dreaming! But the ground felt cold and hard and damp beneath her feet, and the sun felt warm upon her face.

  “Ma’am?”

  She opened her eyes to find him staring at her.

  Carter removed his coat and draped it over her shoulders. “I think I’d better take you to Colonel O’Neill.”

  * * * * *

  The colonel was seated behind a large mahogany desk. He was making notes on a sheet of paper and didn’t look up when they entered the room.

  The lieutenant cleared his throat. “Excuse me, Colonel O’Neill.”

  “In a minute, Carter.”

  Feeling like a child about to be reprimanded, Susannah stood in front of the colonel’s desk, waiting for him to acknowledge her presence. It reminded her of the time her father had kept her standing at the dinner table for ten minutes while he decided what her punishment should be for spending the day at the mall instead of going to school.

  With a sigh, she folded her arms and glanced around the room. It was small and square. A wooden filing cabinet stood in one corner. There was a picture of President Ulysses S. Grant on the wall behind the desk. A small table held several rolled-up papers that looked like maps. Pegs held a bayonet and a hat similar to the one Elliott Carter was wearing.

  She turned her attention back to the colonel. He was a tall, gray-haired man with skin like leather. He chose that moment to look up and she saw that his eyes were blue.

  The colonel’s expression remained impassive as his gaze skimmed over Susannah from head to foot. He glanced at Carter. “Who’s this?” he asked brusquely.

  “My name is Susannah Kingston.”

  The colonel grunted softly. “Wha
t are you doing running around my post in your nightclothes?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  One thick gray brow rose in annoyance. “Not sure?” He glanced at Carter again. “Lieutenant, what’s going on here?”

  “I don’t know, sir. I found her near the trading post, sir.”

  The colonel transferred his gaze back to Susannah. “Do you have family here?”

  “No.”

  O’Neill tapped his fingertips on the top of his desk, and then, between one breath and the next, his eyes turn cold and hard. “What are you doing with that?”

  “With what?”

  “That feather. Unless I’m badly mistaken, it’s a Lakota prayer feather.”

  Susannah shrugged. “So what?”

  “Two possibilities come to mind. You’ve run away from the Indians, or you’re spying for them.”

  “Spying!” Susannah squeaked. “Me? That’s ridiculous. I don’t even belong here.”

  “Yes,” the colonel replied dryly. “I think we’ve established that. Well, ma’am,” he asked briskly, “what do you propose I should do with you?”

  “Do with me? I don’t think you need to do anything with me, thank you very much. I’m quite capable of looking after myself.”

  “Indeed? This is an army post, ma’am. I have several hundred soldiers under my command. I can’t have a single young woman running around unchaperoned.”

  He cleared his throat. “Especially attired in her nightclothes. Lieutenant Carter, take her to Sud’s Row. She can stay in the Pedersons’ hut. Oh, and find her something more suitable to wear. Try MacDougal’s wife. They, ah…” A faint flush tinged the colonel’s cheeks. “They seem to be about the same size. Miss Kingston, you are to consider yourself confined to quarters until I decide what to do with you.”

  “Confined to quarters! You can’t do that. I’m not in the Army.”

  “Everyone on this post is under my command, ma’am, and that includes you. You are not to try to leave this post until the reason for your being here is established to my satisfaction.”

  “Now wait just a minute…”

  O’Neill leaned across his desk, his gray eyes as hard as flint. “Is that clear, Miss Kingston?”