Page 9 of Shoshone Sun (Native Sun #3)
- Peter Jacobs Land Claim, 1866
Ninety miles west of Fort Laramie -
The snowstorm continued to rage through the night. The winds howled like wolves at the edges of the earth, sending their icy breath through the cracks of the cabin. Snow piled high against the door, and the world outside seemed to vanish beneath a blanket of white. The darkness inside the cabin pressed in on all sides, interrupted only by the crackle and pop of the fire. The warmth was a fragile thing, held in place by the steady efforts of Jane, who kept the fire fed with fresh fuel.
The Shoshone brave, still unconscious, lay before the fireplace, his breathing slow but steady. Jane had not left his side, except to feed the fire, since Peter had gone out to keep watch. Her hands, though trembling with the cold, never left him. She wiped his brow, stroked his hair, and kept the fire burning as though by sheer will alone. The firelight flickered on his face, casting long shadows that danced like ghosts on the walls.
Susan’s thoughts kept wandering back to the man on the floor. Every so often, she would steal a glance at the wounded Indian, and each time, her stomach twisted. Though she knew Peter was only helping the man out of common decency, her fear had not diminished. It had grown, in fact—tangled with a dread she couldn’t put words to, a feeling that the worst was still to come.
And where was Peter? Was he all right? It was as if the world around her had become a series of faint echoes, distant and muffled by the storm. Her mind had fixed itself on one thought: What if they come for him?
The hours dragged by, and Petey—blessedly unaware of the tension around him—was now asleep, bundled in the corner on his small bed, clutching his favorite ragdoll. The child’s soft and even breathing filled the silence, a small comfort amidst the uncertainty.
Jane stood up from her vigil, stretching her stiff legs. Her eyes though kept flickering back to the brave’s face. His breath had become steadier and stronger. There was a chance he might live—if they could keep him warm and if infection didn’t set in. In her mind, she could still feel the faint thrum of his pulse beneath her fingertips, but there was something else too. A heat, almost an electric pulse, a strange pull she couldn’t ignore.
“Susan,” Jane said softly, her voice almost too quiet against the wind’s howl. “I’m going to check the bandages. He might wake soon.”
Susan looked up from the sweater she was knitting. “I don’t know why you’re still fussing over that savage. You’ve done enough. Let him go.”
“He’s a human being, Susan,” Jane said firmly. “Let me help him.”
Susan looked down, biting her lip, her eyes wide and her expression torn. “I know you’re trying to help him, Jane, but you’re not thinking of what could happen if the Blackfoot come for him. They might kill us all for coming to his aid. Peter might be willing to protect us, but you can’t expect him to stand up against an entire war party!”
Jane had to admit that was true. “I do realize that. But it’s not likely that the Blackfoot are coming,” she responded, her voice firm with something Susan couldn’t quite place. “He could die from his wound, Susan. Or he could survive, and he deserves our help to live.”
Susan swallowed hard. “And what if he’s a bad man, Jane? What if he did something terrible?”
“I don’t think he did. But if he did, we’ll deal with it. We can’t condemn him without knowing the facts.”
Susan closed her eyes, and Jane could see the conflict writhing inside her sister, and that Susan’s fear was winning that conflict. Jane didn’t blame her though; her sister had lived with this fear for a long time. It had been ingrained into her since childhood—the tales of savage Indians, of raids, scalping’s, and bloodshed. But Jane knew full well that not every man was the same, and that went equally for Indian men.
With a small shake of her head, Susan muttered, “I won’t be part of this. I just won’t.”
Jane said nothing. She returned to the brave’s side and checked his bandages again, her fingers gentle as she touched the wound. The bleeding had slowed to a trickle, but the edges of the wound were starting to turn an angry red. She sighed, knowing that if infection set in, it could kill him.
Her fingers brushed against the man’s skin again, lingering this time. The heat of his body seeped into her own, and she swallowed a sudden surge of emotion that startled her. He had the kind of presence about him that unsettled her, made her feel both drawn to him and wary of that pull.
But it wasn’t the time to dwell on such things. She had to keep vigil and be alert for signs he needed assistance.
Time continued to crawl by, the storm outside intensifying with every gust of wind. Peter had not yet returned. He remained a shadow somewhere out there, alone in the white wilderness.
It was sometime past midnight when the Shoshone brave stirred again. His eyelids fluttered, and a groan escaped his lips, rough and strained. Jane, who had been staring at him intently, moved closer to his side instantly, her hands hovering just above his chest.
“Shh, rest easy,” she whispered, her voice low but urgent. “You’re safe now. We’re going to help you.”
The man blinked, his eyes cloudy at first, as though he was still trapped between the world of the living and something darker. He tried to move, but his body—still weakened by the blood loss—shuddered beneath the blankets. Jane reached out to steady him, her fingers pressing against his skin.
“Water,” he rasped, his voice rough, like gravel grinding against stone. “Please.”
Jane grabbed a tin cup from the nearby table, filled it with water from the pot, and gently lifted his head, holding the cup to his lips. He drank vigorously, his hands trembling as he gripped her wrist with surprising strength.
“Easy now,” Jane murmured, her heart pounding in her chest. She was so close to him now—too close—and his eyes locked with hers. There was something in his gaze, a quiet intensity that she could not decipher, but it made her pulse quicken all the same.
Finally, he seemed to relax, his body sinking back into the blankets. But his eyes remained open.
“Who you?” he croaked, his voice hoarse but steady. “Why you help me?”
Jane hesitated. Her heart skipped in her chest, her throat tight. There was a kind of vulnerability in his voice—an exhaustion that matched her own. She knew she had to answer him, but part of her didn’t want to speak the truth aloud. It felt too complicated, too dangerous.
“We couldn’t leave you to die out there,” Jane said simply. “Your wound—it’s serious, but we’ve done what we can. I ... I don’t know what will happen next.”
His gaze softened, a brief flicker of something like gratitude in his eyes. But then he winced, his hand moving to his side where the arrow had been removed.
“Where Blackfoot?” His question was quiet, but it carried with it an edge of urgency.
Jane took a steadying breath, brushing a loose strand of hair from her face. “We saw them. But they didn’t follow you here.” She didn’t know how much English he understood, so she tried to give him a reassuring smile. With her fingers she imitated them riding off into the distance.
The Shoshone brave closed his eyes for a moment, as though in relief or perhaps acceptance. When he opened them again, the look he gave Jane was one of silent understanding—there was no more need for words.
And then, despite his pain, a small, almost unnoticeable smile tugged at the corner of his lips. It was brief, but it made Jane’s heartbeat faster, her breath catching in her throat.
“You ... save me,” he murmured, his voice fading as sleep began to claim him again. “Thank you.”
Jane didn’t know what to say. The words that were supposed to come to her, to reassure him, seemed to escape her entirely. Instead, she only nodded silently as his breathing evened out again, and the weight of the night settled back over them.
But she couldn’t shake the feeling that nothing would ever be the same in her life again.