Brave are the Lonely Page 6

  Mariska swallowed a smile. Her father’s face turned ripe crimson and he threw his arms skyward. “You see Siobhan, I try to reason with them, but the women of your family are stubborn.”

  Without another word he stomped off to the lead wagon. Mariska sighed. It usually took longer for her father to call upon the spirit of her mother for guidance, but those times grew shorter with each passing day as they came closer to the Romany mountains. They’d been in the French portion of Louisiana when her father negotiated the deal, the families having settled for months when he roused them to move again.

  They’d had to leave behind three other families—families who would not follow them into the hostile west—some too old, others too young and some just too disenchanted with Heinrig Ur’s belief that they could outrun the spread of the Gaje.

  “You should be kinder to your father,” Ancient Maia’s voice dragged her back to the present. Her grandmother did not spare her a single look. Instead, she reached for a fat roll of tobacco and squatted down to light it from the flames heating the cauldron. Smoking herbs filled the air as her grandmother puffed the thick piece, exhaling the fragrant smoke towards the stew. The herbs would thank the spirits for their offerings, the slain animals that would fill their bellies, blessing the Travelers and keeping them safe.

  It was an ancient way of offering that dated to the hills of old Hungary where her grandmother was born and raised.

  “Babchi, Father asks for too much. I am to take this man he has chosen for me? Take him into my bed? Fill myself with his seed? Father has not even met him, he knows not if the man is like his father or his father’s father. It is not his place to choose my husband.” Romany and Traveler were different. Romany males must prove themselves—they had to conquer their women with displays of strength, stubbornness and cunning. If their potential brides were not satisfied, no wedding would ever take place.

  “Your father is old and he worries for you. None among the Travelers are worthy, that leaves only another clan. You need not marry the boy nor mount him because your father wills it, but you could consider letting him try. What would you have for your husband? A Gaje? One who would fill you with Gaje babies and settle you in some Gaje town?” Ancient Maia blew another waft of smoke at the stew, her withered hands wrinkled like old parchment.

  Mariska sighed, snapping down another linen to fold. Her mind seemed full of questions and comments, but respect held her tongue. The Gaje were not as bad as her grandmother decried, their ways not as loathsome as her father would argue.

  But Mariska had no interest in marrying any male. Her father was enough trouble. A husband would expect obedience, a right surrendered when he proved himself worthy. The last of the linens folded, she secured the basket top, avoiding the addition of dust when the men returned from their hunt. Around her, their little encampment was alive with activity. Women mended, cooked and cleaned their wagons while the littlest played. Older children were seeded amongst the women, learning tasks or tending to chores. The eldest of the children, like Mariska, had their own jobs be it hunting, cleaning or tending the fires.

  They would gather wood along the way, but dried animal dung worked well in the coldest reaches. The teenage boys filled caskets with what remains of hard dung they could find for those days when wood was scarce.

  Everywhere color decorated the wagons, vibrant reds, oranges and yellows. The lead wagon was done up in blue, for her father, and the second wagon in purple for the much honored Ancient Maia. The third wagon, Mariska’s, was barren of any color save the traditional red of the hooded one, the maiden her family celebrated in stories around the old fires. Mariska argued once that gold should be the color of her wagon, but her grandmother told her that the golden path was the path of the Gaje and denied her.

  So, she left it decorated only with the sparse red. She should see to the horses, but she’d rather grab up her skirts and race across the meadow with her much younger cousins who squealed with laughter in a makeshift game of pinch the leader as they gathered smooth stones for hunting and crafting from the tall grasses.

  Unfortunately, she was a grown woman and those antics would be frowned upon.

  “Mariska,” her grandmother snapped her fingers along with the name. “Come, sit and learn.”

  “Yes, Babchi.” Mariska carried the basket to her grandmother’s wagon and shoved it inside before returning to the fire.

  Ancient Maia sent another thick puff of smoke into the flames, wreathing cauldron and fire in the pungent aroma. “What do you see?”

  A flash of gold sparked against the flames, but Mariska held her tongue. Thick skirts in one hand, she bent down next to her grandmother, kneeling in the dirt. The smoke swirled, ripples against the flames that punched at them.

  “Relax your mind, liebchen, what do you see?” Her grandmother rubbed her back with a withered hand, a soothing circular motion as she sent another waft of smoke to dance amongst the flames. The swirls eddied, sliding between the logs of the fire, a tumbling river of smoke, tripping over the rocks, racing faster. Her grandmother’s hand continued to offer slow comforting stroke on her back.

  She didn’t want to tell Ancient Maia that she never saw anything in the flames or the smoke. But her grandmother would not be denied. So, Mariska let her eyes unfocus, blurring the lines between smoke and flame.

  And then the oddest thing happened.

  The smoke looked like a wolf, running between the spits of fire, leaping over blackened wood.

  Startled she blinked and the image was gone. All that was left was the smoke, the fire, the simmering cauldron and her grandmother’s comforting presence.

  “What did you see liebchen?”

  Shaking her head, Mariska leaned away from the fire and met her grandmother’s rheumy gaze. “I didn—” but the lie died a quick death on her tongue. She couldn’t lie to the old seer. “I saw a wolf.”

  “An omen.” Her grandmother nodded, but Mariska didn’t miss the way the lines around her mouth tightened or how Ancient Maia’s eyes narrowed.

  A noise dragged her attention away from her grandmother and she saw Joaquin racing toward the campsite, his hands empty and his arms waving madly. “Indians!”

  Galvanized by the young boy’s shouts, the camp boiled to life. Mothers grabbed littles and shoved them beneath the wagons. What men remained went for their rifles. Mariska seized Ancient Maia’s arm and hauled her up, hurrying the older woman towards her own wagon. Joaquin barely passed the first fire when a group of six rode hard up behind him, an axe sailing through the air to slam into the dirt where Joaquin had just been.

  The men were fearsome, red skinned, dark hair, leather breeches and painted for war. A holler went up from that group as they closed on the camp. Joaquin slid beneath her father’s wagon, narrowly avoiding the swing of another axe, the weapon slamming into the wood of the wagon bed, splintering wood.

  Guns barked from the wagons, taking the axe swinging Indian from his horse and slamming him into the earth. Mariska pushed Ancient Maia behind a wagon wheel and seized the sharp knife from her belt. It wasn’t a rifle, but her rifle was stored in her own wagon a dozen feet away. The Travelers’ horses stirred at the rousing gunfire, the battle cries of the savages roaring around them and one by one, the horse pickets broke as the animals shied away and cantered away for safety.

  Most of the men were out hunting and the group of savages was small, already down to five men. But five armed savages were more than enough to face off against some thirty odd women, children and men too old or lame to hunt. The rifle reports slowed down as the men paused to reload, but the savages were unrelenting.

  Mariska’s heart lodged in her throat as Cassian, just one year older than Joaquin, brought his gun up, the rifle dwarfing the youth’s slender stature. He took aim at the Indian bearing down on him and fired. The shot went wide and the Indian clubbed Cassian as he passed, the young man sailing backwards in a spray of blood to slam into the unforgiving earth.

  A wai
l went up from the wagons. Cassian’s mother leaped out from the safety to race for her son. The Indian wheeled, his horse’s unshod feet kicking up hard clods of dirt. He took aim at the woman covering her son’s body and Mariska charged, flinging the knife from her fingers. The blade circled its way through the air, slamming into the savage’s shoulder with a meaty thunk.

  His weapon fell from his fingers and he whirled, his spitting black eyes promising retribution as they narrowed on her. He reached behind him and yanked the blade out with one harsh pull and kicked his painted mare into a gallop, aiming straight for her. Mariska focused on the blade he flung back at her, darting to the side to let it hit the wagon harmlessly, but her long skirts wrapped on her legs tripping her.

  The world slowed around her, the rifle reports muffled by the roar in her ears. The pound of horse’s hooves vibrated the ground around her. Mariska turned her head, catching her grandmother’s rheumy eyes and shook her head as the old woman rose from behind the wagon wheel.

  Pain seized her scalp. A hand fisted in her black hair yanking her up from the ground and her feet scrabbled as she was dragged upwards and onwards, the horse’s heaving sides slamming into her, a foot catching her just below her ribs. The Indian carried her away from the wagons. Fire raced through her head, her skirts ripped, the rending sound cutting through the buzz of fear and fury clogging her ears.

  And as quickly as she had been seized, she was flung to the ground, the wind exploding out of her lungs. She rebounded as she hit the land, tumbling three times. Her knees burned and her palms added their protest. Jerking her head around she saw the Indian hit the ground a few feet away.

  He roared something unintelligible as he lunged toward her, but he never made it. A golden haired giant planted himself in front of Mariska, meeting the Indian’s charge and then the two were grappling. The sun flashed against a blade as it swiped towards the blonde’s face, but he leaped back at the last moment, avoiding the strike. And just as quickly he lunged at the Indian.

  Mariska scrambled backwards, on her hands and feet, mesmerized by the violence exploding between the two men. Flesh slammed against flesh, blood spattered against the agitated earth. Soft leather scrapped against the land as they broke off from trading blows to wrestle. The knife flashed again and then it flipped through the air, the blonde giant disarming the darker skinned Indian and sending the knife to flop harmlessly several feet away.

  Mariska skittered to her feet and ran for the knife. One glance away from the two men and she saw another man standing dead center in the camp, rifle up and the two remaining Indians fleeing on horseback, three dead left behind.

  Three dead. A fourth fought the man with dirty golden locks. Reminded, she jerked around to see the Indian’s head twist with a ruthless, sickening crunch and the Indian dropped to the ground lifeless. The blonde giant in his buckskin leathers stood over the body, chest heaving and Mariska wielded the knife up and ready when he turned toward her.

  A piercing blue gaze stroked her from head to toe and her racing heart slid to a halt, paralyzed for a single second before it thumped against her bruised ribs.

  For that split second she didn’t see the blonde giant, she saw the wolf in the fire. But that was impossible. Shaking off the daze she pointed the knife at him, a warning lest he start forward.

  His eyebrows rose, easing the hard lines around his face, and the corner of his bearded mouth lifted. “You’re welcome, princess.”

  Behind her an excited babble exploded from the camp pitching high on one keening wail. Cassian’s mother.

  Mariska needed to go to her, but she didn’t dare turn her back on the stranger. He stared at her levelly, as though waiting to see what she would do.

  “Mariska!” Her grandmother’s yell broke the moment. With one wave of the knife at her rescuer, she grabbed up her torn skirt and limped a run back to the wagons. Everywhere her gaze touched she saw wounded, bewildered and angry. Most had gathered around Cassian’s fallen body and the mother who wailed over him, hands rending her hair.

  The second stranger, the god of thunder with his rifle, stood apart from them all, moving amongst the fallen savages and checking the bodies. Pain twisted his handsome boyish features, but she dismissed him as a threat and reached for her grandmother’s desperate arms. Ancient Maia hugged her close, but turned back to where Mariska left the Gaje warrior. The blonde carried the dead Savage over one shoulder and led the painted mare along with another chestnut around the grieving hoard to the other.

  He paused, however, when Maia pointed at him.

  “Babchi…” Anxiety spiked through Mariska, pushing past the pain of her injuries.

  “Wolf, you will not take my girl. She is not for you.” Ancient Maia’s voice rang over the din, authority clanging in each tone. The blonde paused, his eyebrows climbing as he met the old woman’s stare without flinching.

  “Ma’am…”

  “Babchi, he is not a wolf. He saved me…” Mariska’s voice trailed off. Oh hell, the Gaje had saved her.

  He was a wolf.

  The man who saved the female had his choice through the rite of spilled blood. He’d proved his worth, his masculinity, his right to choose the female or not.

  “She is not for you wolf!” Her grandmother dragged her backwards, planting her wizened frame between the Gaje and Mariska.

  Wincing, Mariska met the Gaje’s eyes, hoping he might read the apology there. He had saved her. Saved her a horrible fate. Now her grandmother waved a wrinkled finger at him as though preparing a curse. He deserved gratitude.

  Not curses and regret.

  The blonde spared her another half smile and shook his head. “I don’t want her, old woman.”

  Her sympathy evaporated in a wave of indignation. Why the hell doesn’t he want me?

  Is he blind?

  Chapter 7

  “Apache.” Cody nudged the fourth man over onto his back. A rifle shot had caved in the Indian’s chest, leaving bone to punch through the gaping, bloody hole.

  “You sure?” Kid wasn’t as pale now, but the lines pinching his mouth created deep grooves. Whatever was getting to him, it wasn’t the bodies.

  “The markings, here and here,” Cody squatted down, pointing to the eyes and cheekbones. “Those are invocations to the spirits to shield them in battle. Not that they did them much good. Comanche markings are different.” He didn’t bother explaining that Quanto’s training taught him the signs and symbols for most of the southwestern tribes. The Apache, in particular, were not friends to the Fevered or Cursed as they referred to them. Not even their wisest of wise men would tolerate the presence of the Cursed in their tribe.

  They wouldn’t execute them, but they would abandon them to the spirits. For the youngest Fevered, they would have been more merciful if they did kill them outright.

  “I’ll take your word for it.” Kid glanced behind him. “Company.”

  Cody rose, turning to face the bulky man approaching. His colorful livery included a heavy coat, lined with fur and a bright blue shirt ribbed in silver. His size and dress suggested more wealth and ease than the meager circumstances of their wagon train. For the most part, the caravan of grieving women and children had said little to either he or Kid since the old woman warned him off the fierce black-eyed witch and her waving dagger.

  “You will be our guests this night,” the man announced. His voice carried a curious accent, heavily rolling the vowels as though unaccustomed to them.

  “Thank you, sir.” Kid responded when Cody said nothing. He watched the older man, sprinkles of gray streaked his temples, sweat decorated his brow. While the women tended the dead youth, he was inviting them to dinner.

  Damn odd.

  “But that’s not necessary.” Cody had little interest in spending more time amongst the bereaved, particularly since the woman he’d rescued continued to glare daggers at him from a dozen yards and her grandmother looked ready to spit in his eye. He owed his elders respect, but that didn’t mean he
wanted to endure the stink of anger and disapproval rolling off her.

  “You must. It is our custom. You have saved our daughter and our clan. We are in your debt.” The man inched closer to them, his hands clasped together. “Our men will return soon, we will build a fire, honor our lost son and our guests.”

  Cody slanted a look toward Kid, glad to see his own bewilderment reflected in the Kane boy’s expression.

  “Sir, you should mourn your dead and I don’t think your women want us here.” Cody bit back a growl, because the woman in question was striding toward them, hell and brimstone bubbling in her eyes.

  Next time, maybe I’ll just let the Indians have her. The wolf rumbled an agreement, his gaze watchful and wary. The bulbous man wasn’t a threat.

  That woman on the other hand…

  “Our hospitality is not worthy of you?” She spit on the ground between them. Kid retreated a full step, but Cody held his ground.

  Inside, the wolf crouched, muscles bunching. “No, ma’am. That’s not what I said…”

  “Mariska!” The older man snapped. “Your manners. You should be on your knees in gratitude, not spitting on the man who saved you.”

  The wolf’s attention flickered to the man, but despite his harsh tone, he proffered no hint of physical violence. Satisfied, the wolf returned his gaze to Mariska. The name was beautiful, not as beautiful as the woman it was attached too, but then names didn’t bite.

  He was pretty sure she would.

  “Please forgive our daughter, it has been too long since we played host to outsiders. It is important to us, all of us, that you stay, enjoy a meal. Let us repay your kindness with what simple fare as we can afford.” Mariska’s father waved a hand to the wagons, one by one the women edged toward them. Curiosity peeked through their grief with an odd smile of welcome creasing more than one face.

  For once, Cody was at a loss. How did he turn down the invitation without offending anyone? Or at least offending anyone other than the hot eyed Mariska?