Chapter Four
"You were looking for this man?"
"Oh!" Mackenzie spun around. Once again, she'd never heard him approach her. "Fire Dancer, you startled me."
"This man is sorry to scare Mack-en-zie."
She lifted a shoulder, the paint brush still held tightly in her fingers. "You didn't scare me, you just surprised me. I didn't hear you come up the steps." She was in her favorite place on the palisade, with the morning sun shining on her back.
He studied her sketch of Major Albertson and the color she'd just begun to apply. "Perhaps this man should not sneak like a heathen savage, no?"
She dropped her hand to her hip and met his gaze. "I didn't say that." She pointed, emphasizing each word with her finger. "You have never heard those words pass these lips, nor has anyone else!" It seemed so easy to talk to him now, as if more than the perilous moment with the Huron had passed between them.
He was silent for a moment, studying her face as if to assess the truth of her words. Then he nodded. "You are right. This man has not heard those words from your lips. I am sorry."
He was staring at her again, but his stares no longer made her uncomfortable. She liked his attention. "You asked if I was looking for you. I wasn't, but since you're here—"
"This man meant yesterday. I saw you watching my horse from your window. I saw your eyes search the horizon for this man. You walked down to the stream, risked danger, looking for me."
Embarrassed to have been caught, she flushed and fumbling for words. Imagine, Mackenzie Daniels seeking out a man's company. A redman's, no less. And he was right. Going to the stream alone had been a dangerous, foolish thing to do. She'd tried to play the whole incident down when she told her father what had happened. But she and Fire Dancer knew the truth. Only she and Fire Dancer and the dead Huron knew how close she had come to being murdered. "I wasn't looking for you, except to know when you could sit for your portrait." She tried to sound businesslike and calm. "I'd really like to begin. Today."
Still he stared, as if he hadn't heard her at all.
Mackenzie tore her gaze from his. He made her uncomfortable. He made her want to look at him, not just at his face, but at his bare arms and legs, and his broad, bronze chest.
Mackenzie turned to face the major's portrait, her left shoulder to Fire Dancer. From the corner of her eye she saw him slowly reach out toward her. She thought to move, but couldn't, mesmerized by his hand and his slow, methodical movement. Her eyelids fluttered as his fingers brushed her cheek. Her heart beat too fast; she couldn't breathe evenly. She felt different inside.
"You say you feel no pre-ju-dice against this man or any other redman?" His words were like a whisper on the wind, so soft that she wondered if she only heard him in her head.
She concentrated on his words as his fingers stroked her cheek. "No. I do not."
"Then you would take a redman for your lover . . . your husband, for all of the eternity of the skies?"
His words evoked an image in her mind. She imagined herself locked in an embrace with Fire Dancer, their naked limbs tangled in bedlinens. She turned to face him head-on, hoping she wasn't blushing. "Of course not!"
He lowered his hand, a look of bemusement on his face. "Why not?"
"Well, because . . . because . . ." She grabbed her water cup off the camp stool, desperate to have something to do with her hands. Her father and the major had warned her that the Indians could be frank like this, not knowing which topics were proper to discuss and which weren't. "For . . . for the same reason I would not marry an Arab or . . . or a Chinaman. We are too dissimilar in our cultures. Our religions."
"You know of my re-li-gi-on?"
Mackenzie swished her brush in a tin cup of linseed oil. "A little. You worship trees and rocks and such. My father told me."
"Your father is good for colonist manake , but he is wrong."
She glanced up. "It wouldn't be the first time." She let out an exasperated sigh. "Why are you asking me these questions, anyway? In my culture, a man doesn't ask a woman he is unfamiliar with such personal questions."
"Then this man should become more fa-mil-i-ar with this woman?"
Was he flirting with her? She couldn't help but be flattered. Even if he was an Indian.
"Why don't you have a seat, and we can start your portrait?" She indicated the stool where Major Albertson had sat earlier in the week. "The morning sun won't last much longer, and then I'll have to change my position entirely."
He glanced at the stool with disdain. "This man did not come for the manake por-trait."
She dropped the cup and brush onto the stool, and turned to face him. "Then why did you come, sir?"
"To bring Mack-en-zie a gift."
She lowered her gaze, feeling badly that she'd snapped at him like that. "A gift? For me? I don't need a gift."
He drew a knife from a leather sheath on the waistband of his loincloth and turned the weapon so that the blade glistened in the hot sun. "A gift so that next time Hurons come, this man can save his arrow."
Mackenzie stepped forward, fascinated by the beauty of the simple fringed sheath and by the bone handle of the knife. "It's beautiful," she whispered. Her fingers glanced over his hands and lingered just a moment too long as she took the knife from him.
"Beautiful and deadly." He looked up. "Like Mack-en-zie, no?"
She smiled at him. "From you I would take that as a compliment."
"Because this man meant it as one. Wear the knife. It has been blessed. This man will sleep at night knowing you are safe, protected by the keen steel and the keen eyes of ancestors." As suddenly as he'd appeared, he walked away.
"Wait! Fire Dancer. The portrait." She ran after him as he descended the ladder. "I must know when you will sit for it."
He paused and looked up at her. "This man invites you and your father to his hearth to eat tomorrow night. The major and his officers will come. You will come?"
She didn't hesitate. "I suppose. Your hearth? What do you mean?"
"Outside the fort gates."
"Well, if Father's coming, yes. I accept."
He nodded as he reached the ground.
"I want to talk about this portrait with you!" she called as he disappeared around a rough hewn corner. "You can't just keep ignoring me, Fire Dancer. Do you hear me? I'll have this portrait!"
Mackenzie turned away, fingering the fringe of her new sheath. Something told her that talking to that man's back was like talking to a stump.
Mackenzie listened to the rhythmic beat of an Indian drum and the sweet notes of a flute as she washed up for supper in her room. She glanced outside her window to see fires blazing beyond the fort walls. So, that was where Fire Dancer and his men slept. Major Albertson had told her he refused the protection of the fort's mighty walls, but she hadn't realized his camp was so close.
The major was obviously annoyed by Fire Dancer's choice, but Mackenzie found it rather interesting. She understood the Shawnee's need for independence from the fort and all it stood for. She also understood his practicality. As hot as it was in her room, she'd prefer to sleep outside, too.
Mackenzie returned to her wash bowl, splashed water on her face and smoothed her hair back with her damp hands. Glancing in the hand mirror she'd hung on a nail on the wall, she wondered if Fire Dancer thought her attractive. She certainly looked nothing like the exotic Mary. Wouldn't Indian men only find Indian women handsome? "Why do you care?" she muttered to her reflection.
Checking the knife sheath she wore tied around her hips, she walked to the door, ready to go. She liked the feel of the weapon at her hip. It made her feel safe . . . confident.
She wore her leather skirt and her father's white shirt and over it, a tight blue waistcoat with embroidered flap pockets. Because of the heat, she had rolled up her sleeves. At home on the river, she'd never have dared show her elbows, but they were in the middle of the wilderness for heaven's sake. Surely propriety took a second seat to one's comfort.
Just as she was about to open her door, she heard light footsteps, then a hesitant knock.
"Yes?"
"It is Mary. Ne-hee . Mary!"
Mackenzie swung the door open with a smile. "What are you doing here? Aren't you going to the supper?"
Mary held out a small object wrapped in a square of red cloth. "This woman must go. I want to give gift to . . . to friend Mack-en-zie."
Mackenzie smiled. "Oh, you don't have to give me anything. I gave you the earrings because I wanted to, not because—"
"Take gift. You would shame Mary's face if you don't take gift."
Reluctantly, Mackenzie accepted the gift. "Well, thank you."
"This girl go now. Good night, friend."
Before Mackenzie could say another word, Mary retreated down the dark hallway, her footsteps echoing on the stairs.
Curious as to what the girl had brought her. Mackenzie lifted the red cloth, revealing a silver snuff box. It was old and battered, but very beautiful with curlicues and scroll work inscribed on the polished metal. What an odd gift . . .
The scent of tobacco was strong as she opened it, yet, it was empty inside, but for a tiny feather. Mackenzie smiled. It was a strange gift, but obviously heartfelt. She would have to make a point to thank Mary later.
Leaving the snuff box on the stool near the door, she blew out her candle and hurried from her room. She was anxious to see Fire Dancer, too anxious to contemplate Mary's strange gift.
Her father and Joshua were waiting for her at the bottom of the steps. Josh held a sputtering lamp to light the way. "Mary just pass through here?" she asked.
"That Indian girl? Aye," her father answered. "In quite a hurry. Never spoke."
Joshua snatched off his leather cocked hat. "G . . . good evenin', Mackenzie. You . . . you look very pretty tonight." Blushing, he looked away.
"Thank you. And you . . ." She peered at him more closely. "Heavens, did you bathe, Josh?" She sniffed the air, and her nose wasn't offended by his usual body odor. "Christmas coming early this year?"
"Oh, leave the boy be." Franklin dropped his arm over his daughter's shoulder. "A man has a right to pretty himself up occasionally, same as a woman."
"But God's teeth, Father, his hair is combed, too," she argued good-naturedly. "Do you think he means to find himself a bride out here? Maybe an Indian bride?" She gave a jump and a squeak as her father playfully slapped her on the hip.
"You're too hard on the boy." He glanced over his shoulder at Josh. "And you, son, are too easy on her. You know she says these things to goad you."
Mackenzie chuckled. "I'm sorry, Josh. You do look handsome tonight. You just overwhelmed me."
"You know, daughter, these redskins bathe day and night. I've seen that Fire Dancer half a dozen times bathing in broad daylight at the stream."
She ducked as they stepped out onto the wooden walk. "He doesn't fear illness?"
"He tells me it keeps sickness away." Franklin chuckled. "As I've pointed out before, a little education could go a long way with these people. They don't seem to be stupid—just unknowing."
Mackenzie didn't say anything as she crossed the yard between her father and Joshua, circumnavigating the pigs and assorted garbage. She saw Fire Dancer's nephew, Tall Moccasin, seated on one of the water barrels, feeding some scraps to the sow and her piglets. Mackenzie waved and he returned the gesture.
As she crossed the compound, she realized that the sound of the flute still lingered in the air like the evening mist. She could feel the beat of the drum as readily as she could hear it. Her blood seemed to flow faster, her heart matching the rhythm.
The fort's gate was open, but the entrance was heavily guarded, as were the palisades. As she passed under the wall, she eyed the redcoat soldiers that fanned out in every direction. They looked to be prepared for Indian attack at any moment. It appeared no enlisted man would rest until the major and other officers were back inside the fort.
Major Albertson met them on the other side of the gates. "Franklin! Mackenzie! Watkins!" he called jovially.
Mackenzie could tell by the sound of his voice that he'd already partaken of the whiskey her father had brought with him. "Good evening, sir."
"Sir? Sir, is it, now?"
She smiled. "I was afraid you were still angry with me after the other day."
"Nonsense." He waved a meaty hand. "All forgotten. How could I be angry with you? You're one of the few women I know—or men for that matter—who has the guts to stand up to me."
She smiled at him slyly. "Just as long as you weren't expecting an apology or worse yet, agreement."
Harry threw his head back and roared with laughter. "You certain you won't give me your daughter's hand in marriage, Franklin? I vow I'd not grow bored in my dotage with her for my bride."
Franklin glanced at Mackenzie, his face lit by the torches set in the ground by the Indians. "You know her well enough, Harry, to know I'll not be giving her hand to anyone. Who she weds will be up to her. Poor Josh is witness to that."
"Did you check the oxen tonight, Mr. Daniels?" Josh, interrupted, as he nervously looked toward the fort. "I forgot to check the animals."
"They'll be fine, Josh. We're suppose to be the guests of honor tonight."
"Nope. Nope." Joshua shook his head. "I might as well go back because I won't be able to think of anything else until I check them."
Franklin lifted his hand. "Whatever, boy."
"I'll be right back." He doffed his hat to Mackenzie and then hurried back toward the gate.
Mackenzie walked between her father and the major. "Expecting trouble tonight, Harry?" She indicated the soldiers pacing on the palisade high above them.
"Indeed not. But I thought I ought make a show to prevent it. I tried to convince that damned redskin Fire Dancer that we could be his guests inside the gates just as well as outside, but he'd not hear of it. Something about pigs and mud." He threw up his hand in exasperation. "Hell, I don't know what he was talking about."
Fire Dancer appeared magically before them as they walked into the broad circle of light cast from a huge central fire. He was dressed tonight in buckskin leggings and a sleeveless leather tunic decorated with elaborate quilling. From his left ear dangled a blue-green stone teardrop.
"This man thanks you for coming," he said formally. "Please come. Sit. Eat. Drink. Later we dance for you, honored guests."
Mackenzie watched the way the firelight played off his earring as her father and the major walked ahead of her.
"You like?" Fire Dancer asked as he touched his earlobe.
"It's beautiful. Where did you get it?"
"It comes from a place far from here, many moons walk into the setting sun. Over mountains and great streams."
"You've been there?"
"No. But others have. It was a gift from a friend many winters ago." He opened his arms to a place where deerhide mats had been spread out. "Sit and my men will serve."
Mackenzie sat beside her father on a deerhide on the ground, excited by all the strange sights, and sounds, and smells. To one side of the fire hung a deer carcass on a spit, sizzling as it roasted, filling the air with the heavenly scent of venison. Men milled about, carrying trenchers of food.
Though the musicians could not be seen, she could still hear their haunting tune. It was a party-like atmosphere, with everyone seeming to be in good spirits. For once, there seemed to be no distrust between the redmen and the king's soldiers.
Mackenzie accepted a bark trencher pressed into her hands and it was quickly filled with roasted red tubers sprinkled with raw sugar, steamed green beans, stewed squash, and baked mushrooms stuffed with tender bits of fish. She had grown so bored with the fort's typical fare of salted pork and beans that she enjoyed the meal immensely. The venison was hot and succulent and tasted so good that she had two portions. She was so full that she was certain she could eat no more, yet when she was brought shelled nuts and crunchy dried berries, she ate handfuls of those, too.
One of the officers rolled a keg of ale from the fort and tapped it and there were tin cups of ale for everyone. Whiskey bottles, purchased from her father, no doubt, were passed around between the redmen and the white. Some drank too much too quickly and the voices grew louder, the confusion more animated.
Mackenzie spotted Mary. The young Indian woman was with Lieutenant Allen. She was wearing his uniform cap and laughing with him. He touched her with a familiarity that made Mackenzie think they knew each other well.
"Harry?"
The Major leaned in front of Franklin, laughing at one of his officer's comments. "Dear?"
She kept her voice low. Her father rose and walked off into the darkness, perhaps in search of Joshua. "I see Allen is friendly with Mary."
Harry looked up, taking a swig of his ale. "Aye. Friendly enough it seems."
"And you allow that? Fraternizing, I mean."
He shrugged and grabbed a hunk of venison from an Indian holding a stick strung with meat. "The word passed to me by my superiors is that it's forbidden, but my superiors have comfortable quarters, plenty of food and white women to warm their beds back in London. They don't know what it's like here. We don't like it much, but the fact is that some of these men are going to take red wives. All through history, colonizing nations have done it."
"And what about them? Her?"
He looked at her blankly for a moment. "Oh, Mary. Hell, best thing that could happen to her, would be my guess. If she's smart, she'll hold out for a wedding ceremony with the circuit rider next time he passes through." He tipped his tin cup and nothing came out. "Hell, I need a refill. You?"
She shook her head, not caring for his insensitivity. "No, thank you." She watched as he trudged off, calling to one of his men in jest.
Mackenzie rose to her feet to stretch after her heavy meal. As she watched the soldiers and Indians, she lifted her hands over her head, arching her back. She tried not to look for him as she surveyed the crowd of rowdy men. Of course, he was busy as host, she told herself, and she had no idea as to the customs attached to such affairs. She searched the crowd, hoping to find an excuse to seek him out, or at least get closer to him. Maybe she could go over and thank Mary for the silver snuff box.
She sighed in frustration as the Indian brave with the nose ring grabbed Mary's hand to lead her away from the English officer and into the darkness.
The steady sound of the drum that had beat all night without pause suddenly grew louder and faster. Out of the darkness burst a dozen men dancing in a line that snaked into the circle of light and around the campfire. Mackenzie immediately recognized Fire Dancer, the tallest of the Shawnee, and the most impressive. He had removed his tunic to dance bare-chested like the other man, his body moving like hardened silk to the tattoo of the hollow drums.
The other Indians in the party began to gather around, singing in their native tongue, clapping their bronze hands, and stomping their feet. The redcoat soldiers joined in.
Mackenzie couldn't help but tap her boot under her skirt. She had never heard such tantalizing sounds nor seen men or women dance with such grace. Fire Dancer executed the same moves as his fellow dancers, but he stood out among them as a rose petal in a bowl of thorns. Every swing of his arms, every tap of his moccasined feet was smooth and fluid.
There was something about the music that made her heart pound to the same beat. Watching the half-naked men, watching Fire Dancer, made her breath ragged. She had never seen anything in her life so beautiful . . . so sexual . . . so masculine.
The drums pulsed louder, the beat more urgent as the men danced in a circle, drawing closer and closer to the fire then radiating outward. They swayed their arms and nodded their heads to the rhythm that seemed to come from them rather than the invisible drums. One of the braves danced so closely past her that he brushed her bare arm as he leapt by. Only then did she realize that she recognized him. It was the man with the nose ring who had been so harsh with Mary two days ago and had taken her into the trees only a few moments ago.
His gaze met hers as he danced by again and she remembered his lewd gesture. The next time he danced past her, she averted her gaze, fixing it instead on Fire Dancer. There was something about the one with the nose ring that made her wary. Something in her bones that told her she should steer clear of him.
The dance came to an end with the dancers on their knees, facing the fire, their bronze backs presented to their guests. The soldiers clapped with approval, shouting and passing more ale and whiskey.
Someone began to play a hornpipe and the men, both red and white, began to clap to the lively tune. Instinctively, Mackenzie lifted her leather skirt to tap her boots in the dust. When she realized the men were watching her, clapping and encouraging her, she danced toward the circle, her hands clasped tightly at her sides, her feet moving to the beat.
The Indians hooted and cried out in their strange language, seeming drunker than the soldiers. She whirled and twirled, counting her steps, pounding her feet to the jig. Out of no where, Fire Dancer appeared before her, also dancing. He imitated her steps, whirling and turning in the opposite direction that she did. His body was so close to hers that her boots touched his moccasins in the dirt, and yet he made no attempt to touch her. She wanted him to touch her.
The horn blower played faster and Mackenzie danced faster, caught up in the gaiety of the evening and the closeness of her dance partner. She couldn't take her eyes off him. There was something about him, about the forbidden that made her bold. As Mackenzie turned, drawing up her knees, dancing in a circle, she lifted her gaze to meet his.
"Mack-en-zie . . ." The men were too loud for her to hear his voice, but she saw his lips move, speaking her name.
"Fire Dancer," she whispered as his movements so matched hers that they seemed to move as one dancer joined by an invisible thread.
A musket shot sounded above the din of the soldiers. The hooting Indians hushed and the music stopped. Mackenzie spun around. "What's happening?" She stood on her tiptoes looking over Fire Dancer's shoulder at the clump of men blocking her view.
An Indian and a soldier burst through the crowd of men, falling to the ground near the fire, locked in a fist fight. One of the other soldiers shouted an obscenity and the Indian with the whiskey bottle hit him over the head with the flask.
Glass shattered everywhere and suddenly they were fighting, too. Mackenzie took a step back as an Indian wearing a soldier's coat drew a knife and one of the soldiers tried to knock it from his hand. The Indian nicked the soldier in the arm, bloodying his white sleeve. Another soldier tried to get between them and struck the knife from his hand with the barrel of a musket. Before Mackenzie knew what was happening, all the soldiers and Indians were fighting.
The merriment of laughing and clapping and dancing had suddenly turned into a brawl.
Fire Dancer grabbed her arm firmly. "No place for you here, Mack-en-zie. Come."
He was obviously angry, but his anger wasn't directed to her. She allowed him to lead her away from the fire and fighting men and toward the fort. "Where's my father? Do you see my father? He'll want to know I'm all right," she shouted above the din.
"Go to your room, Mackenzie. Lock the door. Too much whiskey. Too much ale," he said harshly. "This man should not have let his men drink the fire. Bad medicine for Shawnee. Bad for all redmen! In our village it is not allowed."
He stopped at the gate, calling to his nephew, sleeping in the middle of the yard against a water barrel. "Niipoy! Buumska! Come, Tall Moccasin! Take this woman into the fort. Keep her safe."
Tall Moccasin leaped up and ran across the muddy yard. "Ah , Uncle."
Fire Dancer grabbed her arm as Mackenzie started to walk away. He leaned against her, pressing his lips to her ear. "Leave your window open tonight," he breathed.
She stared into his black eyes. "Why? What do you want?"
"I would not harm you, Mack-en-zie. I would not take advantage of you as any man in this fort would."
For some reason she believed him. "Just talk?" she whispered. He was so close that she could feel the warmth of his skin. The thought of being alone with him tempted her, but she didn't want to make a mistake she would regret. She didn't want to put herself into a dangerous situation, not the way she was feeling tonight . . . about him. Harry had been right. Fire Dancer was dangerous, but not in the way he had meant. "Only talk, you promise?"
"This man swear by his mother's name." He touched his chest with a closed hand. "Only talk."
Before she could say another word, he was gone.
Slowly Mackenzie crossed the yard at Tall Moccasin's side. Leave her window open? Did she dare?