Brave are the Lonely Page 7

  “Will it bring true ease to your people?” Kid rejoined the conversation, his skin having gone pale beneath the sun ruddy tan.

  Cody expected the man to answer, but Mariska looked at Kid, her own expression softening. “More than we can explain.” For Kid, her voice was gentle, her accent adding an exotic lilt to the words. “It would honor my father, Heinrig Ur and our people if you would allow us to serve you.”

  She wasn’t serving Kid anything. Cody swallowed another growl. He was the one that saved her, but she couldn’t do more than snarl at him while Kid earned all the sugar.

  “Fine. One night won’t kill us.” It was the less than gracious response, but at least the witch’s hot gaze wasn’t all dewy soft on Kid anymore. “We’ll take care of the bodies.”

  Heinrig clapped his hands together. “Excellent. We offer our thanks for dealing with their dead and shall see to ours as well. The fire will begin at sunset. Please, take the last wagon there for your own needs.” He motioned to the wagon the furthest from the circle. “Come Mariska.”

  Rather than obey, the little witch stepped right up to Cody. The cinnamon and sunshine smell of her filling his lungs. “You will bring manners to the fire tonight, my father offers you a great honor. One I do not think you deserve.”

  “Yeah?” Cody couldn’t help the slow grin pulling up the corner of his mouth. She was all spitting cat up close, white teeth bared in a hostile smile. “Good to know my invitation had nothing to do with keeping that long black hair on your head. The food will go down easier.”

  Mariska’s eyes widened, her grimace pulling her lips back from her teeth. The wolf braced itself, a warning growl ready.

  “Mariska.” Her grandmother yelled from the wagon and his little cat jerked in a half turn and stalked away. And it was definitely stalking. Her head was up, her back ramrod straight and her long legs peeked out from the torn skirt. Beyond her, the grandmother waved a wizened finger at him.

  He didn’t have to be close to hear the muttered, foreign curses rolling off her tongue.

  Heinrig muttered something that sounded suspiciously like an apology before rushing off to the wagons.

  “I bet she’s a real wildcat in bed.”

  Cody swung around, gaze narrowing on Kid’s speculative look. He took a step to the right, blocking the boy’s view. “No.”

  “What?” Kid adjusted his hat, pushing the brim up to meet Cody’s eyes.

  “Just no. They offered food and hospitality. You keep your dick in your pants and your hands out of theirs.”

  “Theirs? Or hers?”

  Cody ignored the taunt and motioned to the body. “Grab his feet.” He didn’t think twice about hoisting the man’s shoulders or how his head flopped at an unnatural angle. Kid’s pallor nagged at him so he gave him the easier job, the furthest from the true evidence of death. The boy didn’t shy from a fight, saving his reactions for afterward.

  But the reactions puzzled Cody. He and the wolf agreed that was a better focus for their attention than the hot gaze he could still feel raking over his flesh. He didn’t know what Mariska’s problem was, but the sooner they rode away from her, the happier he and the wolf would be.

  “Do you know how the Apache bury their dead? Or if they bury them?” Kid asked, careful of the man’s legs as they secured the body to the back of his horse. They’d rounded up all the routed horses, Indian ponies included.

  “They never burn them. They usually wait for darkness, but we’re not. We’ll bury them with everything, including what they had on the horses and cover them with rocks.” The second man was heavier than the first, but Cody hoisted him easily. They worked in near silence until all four were laying across the backs of their horses. Cody caught Mariska staring at him, her mouth pursed and her eyes thoughtful. Her expression hardened when his gaze met hers and she turned her back.

  Crazy woman.

  Mounting their own horses, they led the others in a string of pairs with Cody taking the lead. The landscape was rich with only glimmers of the desert beyond the mountains visible in the high rocks, shaved by the passage of time. They went south from the camp, fording the river. A mile away from the camp Kid began whistling a familiar tune. He’d whistled it enough for company when Cody had been the wolf.

  The wolf liked the sound, so Cody said nothing. Another mile and he reined his horse in. The land tapered into a flat, rocks rising on all sides. They could bury the dead and find enough stone to cover the graves. The river behind them was far enough back that flooding wouldn’t disturb the dead.

  It was the best they could do.

  Three hours of sweaty digging and rock hauling later, Cody leaned against a boulder. Kid stood, hat off staring at the four graves, side by side. They’d stripped the Indian ponies of their blankets, ropes and laid them with each of the bodies. They’d had little to wrap them in, so settled for covering them with bandanas from the saddlebags.

  “I feel like we should say something.” Kid stared at each stone marker, hat pressed against his chest. Like Cody, sweat decorated his face and dirt clung damply to the moisture.

  “It was a good day to die.”

  Kid cut a look toward him.

  Cody shrugged. “They were warriors, Kid. They died the way they would have wanted to, in battle. What else is there to say?”

  “Don’t you know any rituals?”

  “Sure, but not theirs. You want to give them a prayer to your god? What does it matter? The dead don’t care.”

  “I don’t know that I believe that.” Kid’s voice was so low, Cody had to strain to hear it. Is that his gift? Does he see ghosts?

  “Then say a prayer for them. Can’t hurt.” The urge to comfort the boy was an unfamiliar one, but he would have said the same thing to Rudy, Jimmy or Buck.

  “Our father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name, thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven. Yea, though I walk through the valley of death, I will fear no evil…”

  Cody stood up and brushed dirt off his pants before bowing his head. He didn’t have to share Kid’s beliefs to respect them. If saying a prayer made him feel better, then fine. He closed his eyes and blinked at the image of Mariska’s flashing dark eyes. Despite the heated gaze and bad temper, she really was beautiful; dark skin, long black hair and a slender neck. What he’d seen of her legs wasn’t bad either.

  What the hell had he done that offended her so much? He and Kid had been riding, mulling their own thoughts. It was a rare moment of peace with the talkative Kane, when gunfire erupted. They’d said nothing, just kicked their horses into a run. He’d veered off as he saw the brave seize the woman by her hair and ride with her dragging the ground.

  Consensus with the wolf had him leaping on the brave, knocking him from his horse and freeing the woman. He’d planted himself between them and warned the brave to flee while he had the time. Cody hadn’t expected the Indian to listen, wasn’t surprised when he didn’t. The fight was short, bloody and fierce. Snapping his neck released more tension than the fight at Fort Courage.

  But when he turned to see if the woman was okay, she was holding a knife on him. He hadn’t been particularly upset by the response. She had no idea who he was, but then the old woman screeched at him.

  “She’s not for you, wolf.” Did they know what he was?

  That thought sobered him.

  Was it the wolf or the fever that they rejected?

  Cody turned away from Kid’s now silent prayer and looked north. If they knew, that could make them a threat. The wolf roused beneath his skin and he lifted his nose, scenting the air. The Apache drove out their Fevered. The Comanche shunned them. The whites burned them.

  Or worse, tried to trap them.

  Did the little clan plan something with that dinner invitation? Were they setting a trap?

  “Cody, they’re not the enemy.” Kid’s voice was too close and he jerked around. How the hell Kid kept catching him unaware was beginning to annoy the hell out of him.
r />   “How do you know?”

  Kid shrugged. “They aren’t. They are grieving their dead. They just want to feed us so they don’t feel indebted.”

  “But how do you know?”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  Cody grabbed Kid’s arm before he could head for the horses. He could feel the wolf watching from behind his eyes as they both studied him. “It does matter. It matters because you seem to get a lot of these ‘feelings’ and I want to know how you know.”

  “It. Doesn’t. Matter.” Kid yanked his arm away, his normally open expression closing off. “Skip the fire and the hot meal if you want. But I’m going to let them feed me. Besides, if you don’t go, I’ll get Mariska to myself.”

  Cody scowled. “I already told you no.”

  Scattering the ponies, Kid swung up on the back of his horse and gave Cody a bland look. “True, but if you aren’t there, why does it matter?”

  He kicked his horse into a trot before Cody could respond. Sighing, Cody climbed up onto his own horse. If he didn’t go, Kid would end up wed to those women or shot by some angry father. It would be better if Cody were there to watch his back.

  That was why he would go to the meal and the fire or whatever it was the odd little band called it.

  Not for another glimpse of the dark, hostile Mariska.

  Chapter 8

  “A princess is not a prize to be passed to the first Gaje you deem worthy.” Ancient Maia’s terse statements were sprinkled with recrimination. “She is not yours to gift Heinrig Ur.”

  “In all things, the woman hath the right save for the suitor who proves his worth in blood and bone.” Heinrig’s confidence barely budged under Maia’s searing gaze. “The meal celebrates the gift of life given to our daughter. She belongs to him now.”

  “Papa, he doesn’t want me.” Mariska couldn’t hold her tongue any longer, not with her father so hell bent on giving her to the blonde giant. She could only hope a pack of wolves found them burying the bodies and took the blonde with them.

  “He will, my darling. You are the prize of our clan and he will bring fresh, strong blood to your children. Did you not see him in the battle? He used no weapon save his hands.” Heinrig Ur rubbed his hands together. “He has strength that one.”

  “He is wolf you daft fool.” Ancient Maia swatted at Heinrig, the wooden spoon in her hand spattering him with broth from their stew. “Gaje wolf. We do not honor the wolves that come to take our people away.”

  Heinrig rounded on Ancient Maia, his face turning ruddy red. “And that has been our failing. You know the story of the Red as well as I do. We have lost too many on this journey, too many to Gaje towns and settlements, more still to illness and death. We burn Cassian even now, committing his ashes to the trail. His mother weeps and tears at her hair. The wolves have had us, old woman.”

  Mariska sighed. This argument had been ongoing since the Gaje rode away with the bodies of the fallen. The hunting party returned and joined in the mourning for Cassian while butchering the meat. Her grandmother supervised the building of the great fire that even now consumed Cassian’s bones. The second fire was built in the center of the camp. Cauldrons filled with fragrant stews bubbled under the watchful eyes of the camp’s women while the men brought out casks of ale carried across from the ports in the Carolinas.

  Soon the liquor would flow freely, the musicians would play and the stories would be told. But nothing would truly begin until Heinrig Ur’s honored guests returned…if they returned. The argument between her father and grandmother continued, neither paying her any attention. For all their talk of choice, apparently her opinion mattered little.

  She grabbed the forgotten basket of laundry and carried it to her wagon. The linens would serve for making bed pallets in the wagons and later she could quilt them into heavier blankets when they crossed back into the mountains. Neither of her relatives took any notice of her absence. Glancing south, she watched for movement beyond the river. Wherever the hunting party came from, they had not returned.

  Nor had the hairy, blonde giant.

  Lips compressing, she shoved the woven wicker basket into the wagon. Wool gathering over a man who made it clear he wasn’t interested. His too beautiful blue eyes danced with amusement at her fury. He’d denied interest and her pride stung under the whip of his dismissal. Mariska never undervalued her own worth, she was a princess, she could ride, she could shoot, she could hunt, mend, cook, drive her own wagon and care for her people. She was a woman of high value, not some chit that he could shake off with just a wave of his hand.

  Frustration bubbled up from her belly. Irritation burned the back of her eyes. Around her, the camp moved in noisy contemplation. The loss of Cassian was felt by all but death was a familiar companion on their journey. They would mourn him, sing songs of him and then they would ride on. It was the way of the Travelers.

  “Mariska,” Zevra appeared at her elbow, powder dusking her face from the pasty she worked between her palms. “I have no more pans in my wagon. May I borrow one of yours?”

  Zevra kneaded the doughy mixture, working it between her palms to flatten and then scrunch again.

  “We have enough bread. Anya and Toba have made a dozen loaves this day alone.” The two-day respite at their campsite allowed them to not only restock their meat stores, but to bake the bread that would feed them when hotter fare was scarce.

  “This is not for bread. It is to make Korcikk for the young man.” Zevra was nearly two years younger than Mariska. She’d married at fourteen, been widowed just two months before at the age of nineteen.

  The Korcikk was a rich meat pie traditionally served to a prospective suitor inviting his attentions.

  “Zevra, he is Gaje.” First her father was taken by this madness involving the blonde giant, now Zevra wanted to invite him to her bed with the offering of Korcikk. Mariska’s jaw tightened, she curled her fingers, nails biting into her palms, lest she rip the dough from Zevra’s fingers.

  “He is beautiful boy, no? Younger than Theopole, more vigorous.”

  Boy? Mariska could attribute a number of descriptions to the blonde giant, but boy was not one of them.

  “The younger one? With the hair of dark river sand and sad eyes?” Relief surged against the irritation in her breast.

  “Yes, he saved us. You did not see because the brute carried you off, but the boy, he ride straight into the fray using only his legs upon the horse. The mare twisted with him, turning him left to right as he shot those who would take us. It was magnificent. And such sadness in him, I could take that sadness from his gaze.”

  “He will not stay with us, Zevra. They are Gaje, they do not journey with Travelers. You know this, yes?” Mariska picked up her skirt to climb into the wagon. Her pots and pans were stored in a heavy wooden box along with what few other precious possessions she had inherited from her mother.

  “If he warms my bed maybe he will fill my belly and then I will not be alone.” Zevra shrugged, her fingers working the dough harder. “I deserve such comfort. Theopole left me with no children, he would not begrudge me this boon.”

  “And you don’t care what the others will think?” Mariska carried the pan to the edge, swinging her legs over to sit on the back of the wagon. Her knees still ached from their scraping, but the bruises would heal.

  “I have a year, any child born in the year of my widowhood would be considered Theopole’s, you know that. I have no desire to seek a husband, but the boy would be as good as any…I watched him astride his horse. I would not mind riding that. You will understand, once you have held a man between your thighs.”

  Embarrassment heating her face, Mariska tucked the pan under Zevra’s arm. “I am not sure if I should wish you luck or not.”

  Zevra’s laughed, a merry, sweet sound. “I will wish you luck with the man your father gifts you to tonight. He is huge and strong. You will be sore in the morning. If you are too sore, come find me and I show you how to ease the ache.”

>   “Zevra! My father gives me to no man.”

  “As you say. But I would not turn away one so vigorous. He is older, bigger than the boy, I will be happy with the boy. Take your happiness with the other. It is your choice, yes?”

  “Yes, it’s my choice.” Mariska drew herself up. “And I choose not him.”

  “Pity. I would like to have known if he is as large in other areas.” With that Zevra marched away to make her meal of offering. Mariska watched her wind through the others. She would build her pie, wrap it and place it in the hot coals near the base of the fire to bake. Everywhere preparations continued.

  I would like to have known if he is as large in other areas… Damn Zevra, now Mariska wondered if the Gaje was as well endowed.

  Her father popped around the edge of the wagon, jolting her away from that lascivious direction. “You must change. Your red dress tonight.”

  “Papa, no. I will not dress myself as a bride for him.”

  “The red dress, mischka, you will wear it. You will honor your clan. We owe him your life and you will offer it to him.”

  “And if I don’t?” In everything, she could convince her father of a different way. He treated her with respect, a tacit equal. Except…

  “I am still king of this clan, am I not, Mariska?”

  “Yes, Papa.” Except when it came to final word. Heinrig could be swayed when he had doubts. In this, her father apparently possessed none.

  “You will do your duty. He has offered you blood, bone and life. You are his until he discards it or refuses.”

  “He has already refused.”

  Her father waved off the objection. “The red dress, mischka. The sun will set soon and we will begin our feast.”

  “Yes papa.” But her father hadn’t waited for her response. Whatever alliance he had planned with the Romany to the west had disintegrated with the arrival of the Gaje. Hopefully, the blonde giant would refuse her publicly and her father would have no choice but to accept it.

  Grumbling, she climbed back into the wagon and pulled the tarp down for privacy. She would wash, brush out her hair and change into the red dress. Perhaps she would choose some silver as well.