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Truly mesmerized by the Indian, Jessie Pilson stared back at him in utter fascination. She was held silent not so much by fear as by surprise. Never had she imagined being so close to an Indian. And this Indian, with his bronze and noble face, his flowing black and glossy hair, was perhaps the most handsome man she had ever encountered in her life!
He was a man of regular, yet striking features. His cheekbones were high.
His midnight-dark eyes spoke of a free and open life on the plains and in the mountains.
Although he was dressed in fringed buckskin that covered most of his body, she could tell that he had a powerful build; that he was a physically perfect man.
Afraid that the Indian’s patience might be wearing thin, and feeling more at ease as she saw the concern in his eyes and heard the kindness in his voice, Jessie finally found the courage to speak.
“I was on my way to Tombstone. The stagecoach was ambushed a short while ago by outlaws,” she blurted out. “The outlaws shot and killed the driver and threw him from the stagecoach. They . . . they . . . took my bag from the top of the stagecoach and ransacked it. They became angry when they only found my personal things, which were of no value to them.”
Seeing that she still had more to say, and glad that she did not seem afraid of him any longer, Thunder Horse said nothing, but instead listened.
“For a moment I was afraid that the outlaws would kill me,” Jessie said, her voice breaking as she recalled the vile, filthy men, whose features were hidden behind neckerchiefs tied around their faces.
“Go on,” Thunder Horse softly urged when he saw that it was hard for her to continue telling him all that had happened. “Tell me. Then the fear will be lifted from your heart and you can live better with it.”
Stunned that this Indian could be so gentle with her, so patient and caring, Jessie gazed more intently into his dark eyes.
She was shaken by how his eyes affected her. There seemed so much in their depths, unspoken words that might show her a world so different from any she had known before.
Jessie made herself focus on what she should be saying, instead of what she had been thinking. Today’s meeting with this Indian was just a chance encounter, and would soon be relegated to the past, like so many other things that had brought a moment of sunshine into her life.
“When the outlaws found nothing of value in my bag, or in the stagecoach, they grew so angry, they purposely spooked the horses,” she said, her voice breaking again. “I was left stranded inside the stagecoach.”
She looked to her right, toward the window at the other side of the coach, and saw the steep drop-off.
She shivered at the realization of how close she had come to dying there.
Feeling truly blessed that the Indian had come when he did, and had cared enough to save her, she glanced up again at him and smiled. “Thank you for rescuing me,” she murmured.
Then without even thinking about the fact that he was an Indian, not a white man, she said, “What . . . am . . . I to do now?”
Thunder Horse was so taken aback by the question, for a moment he could not respond. Instead, he searched her eyes, shaken to the core by what he saw.
Was it possible this woman had been brought to this place, at this moment in time, just for him to meet her? Had destiny brought them together?
Up until now, his life’s purpose had been to keep his people safe. Unwilling to allow anything to distract him from that purpose, Thunder Horse straightened his spine.
“I cannot take you into town on the stagecoach,” he said tightly. “The white eyes in Tombstone would not understand my reason for being with you, a white woman, on a white man’s stagecoach. They would shoot first, ask questions second.”
Jessie nodded. “I understand,” she murmured. “I am skilled with horses. I’ll drive the stagecoach into town myself.”
Quickly forgetting that only moments ago he had decided to ignore his feelings for this woman, Thunder Horse marveled at her strength and courage.
“Your name . . .” he asked, gazing into her green eyes.
“Jessie. Jessie Pilson,” she murmured. “And yours?” she blurted out. “Would you mind telling me your name?”
Thunder Horse’s shoulders squared proudly. His chin lifted. “Chief Thunder Horse,” he said. He noticed a new look of respect in her eyes as she realized that he was no mere warrior, but a chief.
“I am Chief Thunder Horse of the Fox band of Sioux,” he added.
Jessie was speechless again for a moment. She was in the presence of a powerful chief, someone whose main purpose in life was to protect his people. Yet he had gone out of his way to save her.
“Hiyu-wo, come, and I will help you up to the driver’s seat,” Thunder Horse said, reaching a hand out for Jessie and helping her as she stepped from the stagecoach to the ground.
“Thank you,” Jessie said, her heart pounding when she found herself standing close to him. She was so close she could smell the fresh mountain scent that seemed to come from his skin.
