She gulped. She hesitated. At last, however, she asked, "What does thou mean 'throw him away'?"
"Pick up stick…or…this." He gathered up a quill lying on the table next to her bed. Then he said, "You pretend…say this…be husband. Throw away." He tossed the quill into a corner of the room. "Marriage…over. Tribe of my…my mother and father's blood…the Crow, can end…marriage…this way. Woman free. Man free."
"I am not a part of thy Crow tribe or the Pikuni. Me own self…cannot do as thou say." Her voice was soft, barely over a whisper.
He was silent for several moments, though he gazed at her directly. Then he asked, "God of white man…not allow? Can only marry…once? For all…your life?"
"Aye" was all she said.
He didn't answer, and he was silent for what seemed like an eternity. Alas, how long they sat there—she on the edge of her bed and he on one knee before her—she would never know. His gaze at her was one of yearning and despair, and she wondered if her eyes mirrored his. It could never be. They both knew it.
However, at great length he said, "Need look at wound on…your chest. I not…undress you."
She asked, "Does thou understand why I be not allowed to take thee as my husband?"
"Áa,I do," he replied, then he said in sign, "Know this: I want you as my woman, my wife. I wish to care for you, comfort you, protect you. I wish you to never have a man do this to you again. But, do I understand?Áa, I do. I will honor your God and you. Still, if you were to say yes to me, I would close this door to your room and make love to you now, binding you to me as my woman always—if you and your God would allow it."
Oh my! His words and the images they provoked within her caused a heated sexual blaze to rush over her, and she almost swooned in toward him. Indeed, the idea of making love to this man caused her body to feel as if it might be running a fever, so warm did she feel inside.
She gulped, opened her mouth to speak, but having no idea of how to respond to him, she did no more than continue to stare at him.
But, then he leaned in toward her, taking advantage of her open lips, and he kissed her again, only this time her worldliterally shook. Every nerve ending within her was screaming at her to let him love her. She placed her arms around his neck and drew him in toward her as he gently leaned her back onto the bed, his lips never leaving her own until he lifted his head, and, with his lips against hers, he whispered, "I get…quill. You throw husband…away. We make love. We then man and his woman…wife. We live…my village…never see…man who…husband again. I make…love to you, honor you. Never hit; not…raise voice. You say…yes…I make you my woman…all time."
His lips against hers as he spoke awakened needs within her she hadn't really known were a part of her. Certainly her husband, Ernest, had never affected her in this dizzying way.
Because every bit of her was responding to First Rider, she wondered how she might be able to make love to him despite the injuries to her body. She tried to move. Ouch! It seemed as if every part of her body was painful.
Gulping down and suppressing her quickened heartbeat, she said, "I cannot."
"I know" was all he replied as he pushed himself away from her and sat up. But then, as if remembering why their kiss had been earlier cut short, he said, "Need…see…wound. No…undress. Not…try…persuade you."
"Do I have thy promise, then?"
"You do," he replied. "I promise."
She nodded, and, accepting his hand, she sat up. He had risen up to his feet and had taken a position beside the bed, standing before her. Looking up at him, she said, "It hurts, bad. Me own self tried to wrap a bandage around it, right enough. But, it be bloody."
Again he came down onto one knee in front of her, and as he did so, he said, "This one has seen…blood before. Show…me…wound."
With a sigh, she threw off her shawl and then unbuttoned the first two buttons of her nightgown, sliding her left sleeve down so he could look at the wound. It was bloody, red and ugly, with blood seeping through and staining the cotton she had tied around it.
Gently, he unraveled the bandage, and when he at last saw the wound, she heard him gasp and felt his body stiffen. Worse, the look on his countenance would have killed, had she been the object of his thoughts.
"He try…kill you. This…knife wound."
She couldn't help the sudden explosion of the same kind of fear she had experienced when Ernest had threatened her with a knife. The terror…the panic she had undergone, knowing he would have killed her if he had gotten his hands on her; it had almost been enough to make her faint. But, she had managed to flee instead; she had survived. Still, she couldn't help the flood of tears which were running down her face.
At last, she said, "I know. But, I was able to escape, and I ran to me own father. Tha' husband of mine would not be darin' to confront me own father."
"I…glad your father…here…help you. But, your…husband…will get…what he deserves…scout's revenge. Now, lie…back. I clean wound, put on….healing mud, herbs. Then I go…look for right plants…heal you. My friends already gone…on man's…trail."
"Whose trail?" she asked.
"Husband…yours," he answered. "Lay back….you. Rest while I clean wound, then leave…get right plants."
She did as he suggested. In truth, it felt good to lie down and allow him to cleanse the wound. She had tried her best to bathe the injury with water and soap, but it had bled so much, she feared she hadn't done a proper job of it. Ah, yes. She would let someone else worry about properly disinfecting it now.
She inhaled and closed her eyes. His touch, so gentle on the wound, caused an explosive shockwave of desire to run through her regardless of how softly he tried to wash it and apply a new bandage on it. For a moment she wondered what it would feel like were he to touch her privately…passionately.
