Badlands Bride

Finally comprehending, Hallie muttered, “Go get more.” She carried the buckets and headed in the direction indicated, discovering she was upstream on the river she’d washed in and drunk from the night before. She staggered back into the clearing. “These are a lot heavier on the way back.”

Chumani’s innocent smile gave her a moment’s wonder, but she shrugged it off. She’d made five more trips up and down the riverbank before the corn was rinsed. Chumani’s job was looking better and better all the time.

Hallie assisted her in moving the heavy kettle from the fire. Chumani ran green sticks through several sickly pale headless blobs of flesh with flopping appendages and hung them over the fire.

Hallie’s stomach turned. “What are those?”

“Gu-Que,” Chumani replied. At Hallie’s lack of comprehension, she tucked her arms in and flapped her elbows.

“Some kind of bird,” Hallie said with an uncharacteristic lack of appetite.

Yellow Eagle brought several pieces of bark and placed them beside the fire. Chumani stirred together a batter using the cornmeal and poured it into the concave bark strips. She placed them before the fire.

The birds turned a golden brown and the smells actually resembled an appealing dinner cooking. The batter in the bark bowls gradually turned into crusty cornbread.

Chumani spoke to Yellow Eagle and he ran toward the freight building. Several minutes later DeWitt and the two men—all properly clothed, thank heavens—appeared, and everyone traipsed into the sod house. DeWitt stood aside and allowed Hallie to enter ahead of him. Their eyes met briefly.

“Mr. Clark,” DeWitt said, indicating the middle-aged man with lank brown hair that hung to his shoulders. “And Mr. Gilman. They’re freighters from up north.”

The second man was younger, with shoulders as wide as DeWitt’s, and gray eyes that roamed her face and hair before she lowered her gaze, unwilling to witness the rest of his perusal.

None of them pulled out a chair for her; she did it herself, pretending she hadn’t noticed.

“Unusual to see a young gal like you in these parts,” Mr. Clark said. “How’d you come to be here?”

“Well, I—”

“She’s meeting her husband here,” DeWitt interrupted from the seat he’d taken beside Chumani. Hallie noticed he’d recently washed and the hair at his temples was damp. “They’ll be moving on to Colorado.”

Hallie glared at him, but he ate his food placidly. She kept silent through the rest of the meal, except to ask Yellow Eagle what kind of bird they were eating.

“Pheasant,” he replied curtly.

She’d eaten pheasant before, but their preparation gave the meal a whole new perspective.

The freighters thanked Chumani and headed out.

“Are you going to keep your word and speak with me?” Hallie asked DeWitt as he finished his coffee.

His blue gaze bored into her. “Go ahead.”

She glanced at Chumani. “May we go outside?”

He stood and ushered her ahead of him.

Hallie stopped behind his log house and turned. “First, why did you tell those men a he about me meeting a husband?”

“For your safety.”

“What do you think you’re protecting me from?”

“Men out here don’t live by the civilized rules you’re used to,” he said. “You should’ve learned that from your stage trip.”

The reminder of what could have happened to Olivia and the rest of them at the hands of those stage robbers squelched any other objections she may have had. Hallie rushed on to the real problem. “I’m disappointed in you.”

His expression didn’t change. He waited.

“I think it’s deplorable that you sent for a bride when you already have a wife!”

He frowned. “Chumani?” he asked.

“You know very well that I mean Chumani. Perhaps she doesn’t mind sharing a husband with another wife, but I can assure you that any wife you get from back East will have plenty of objections.”

His fair brows rose, wrinkling his forehead.

“What were you thinking of?” Hallie asked, waving her hand, inspired by her topic. “If the men out here expect women to endure the hardships of the travels and this land, then they’d better start living by more civilized rules.”

His expression didn’t flicker.

“The first rule being one wife per man.”

“She’s my brother’s wife, not mine.”

“I really thought you were serious about wanting a wife, the way you fixed up the house and all, but—what?”

“It’s the duty of a dead warrior’s brother to take his wife as his own.”

Hallie frowned, mulling over his words. His brother was an Indian? How could that be when he was as white as she was? The possibilities intrigued her. There was a story here, somewhere, and a fascinating one at that!

“Chumani agrees I should have a white wife. I provide for her, but she’s not my wife. Not in the way that you’re thinking.”

Hallie’s neck and cheeks grew warm. “I see.”

“May I work now?” he asked.

She nodded and he walked away. She would have to break through his reticence to get to the story inside.

She helped Chumani wash the dishes in a tub outdoors, more at ease beside the woman now that she knew she and Cooper weren’t...involved.

Returning to the afternoon’s work, she felt a calm sense of relief seeping into her pores along with the afternoon sun. Cooper didn’t have an Indian wife after all. The odd reassurance puzzled her. Why should she care?

She made it clear that she’d like to try her hand at pounding the corn. Chumani cooked more kernels in the kettle, throwing ashes into the water to give it that black color. She cooked and rinsed and carried water, and Hallie’s arms and shoulders grew numb from the repetitive and painful task of grinding. By supper she could barely raise her arm to lift the bone eating utensil.

“Miss Wainwright?”

Hallie jerked her head up, realizing she’d been drifting off to sleep sitting at the table. “Yes.”

“You can start earning your way,” DeWitt said.