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The only person who did not ignore her was Lone Wing, who frequently took time from his games to look over at her and smile.
After a while she realized that his occasional smiles were not only to make her feel less alone, but also to seek her approval of how he was doing in the games.
This meant a lot to Jessie. She was feeling a strong bond between herself and Lone Wing and she truly cared for the young man.
She watched the boys get ready to play what was called a mud and willow fight game. The moment it began, Jessie stiffened, for she saw that it could be a dangerous sport.
The boys had formed two lines facing each other. A lump of soft clay was stuck on the end of a springy willow wand and thrown at the boys on the other side. Simultaneously, those on that side threw apples from sticks as they shouted, “I, the brave, today do kill the only fierce enemy!”
Scarcely were those words uttered for the first time than Lone Wing let out a shriek of pain as one of the clumps of clay hit his head.
All activity stopped and everyone went quiet as Lone Wing crumpled to the ground. Blood was oozing from an open wound.
The boys hurriedly circled around Lone Wing, staring down at him. But one boy backed away from them after retrieving the lump of clay that he had thrown at Lone Wing.
Jessie saw him tear the lump of clay and remove a sharp rock from it. He quickly discarded the rock, then nonchalantly dropped the lump back down to the ground and joined the boys again, a look of mischief in his coal-black eyes.
Jessie gasped. The boy had purposely wanted to hurt Lone Wing. She wondered why. Surely it was because Lone Wing was so special and was treated with respect by both children and adults.
Jealousy.
Yes, that was the answer. She wanted to go right away and scold the boy and make it known that he had purposely hurt the chief’s nephew.
But she didn’t. She knew that it was not her place to do such a thing.
So she did the next-best thing. She hurried to Lone Wing and knelt down beside him just as the shaman reached him with his bag of medicines.
Jessie reached for Lone Wing’s hand and held it as the shaman doctored the boy’s wound, but she could tell by Lone Wing’s expression that she shouldn’t be there. The way she was holding his hand was surely embarrassing him.
Understanding his look, Jessie slipped her hand from his and stood up. She backed away slowly.
Lone Wing didn’t want to look like a child when he was trying so hard to prove that he was a man. She hoped her gesture of caring hadn’t diminished in the eyes of those he so badly wanted to impress.
Fortunately, something else quickly drew everyone’s attention.
Jessie turned and gasped when she saw Thunder Horse walking into the village, bent over by his burden—a large deer that he carried over his shoulders. His fringed buckskin shirt was sprinkled with blood and his eyes were filled with pride as the warriors began following him, shouting in unison, “Woocoo-hoo!” at the top of their lungs.
Jessie stood quietly by as the man she loved with all her heart stopped at his father’s tepee and threw the deer down at the entrance.
And then all went quiet as Thunder Horse turned to the people, his eyes brimming with emotion, and said, “My father has his own deer today!”
Thunderous applause filled the air, and tears came to Jessie’s eyes, for all understood his reason for bringing this deer: It would be the old chief’s last participation in the deer hunt.
Jessie stifled a sob behind her hand as Thunder Horse went inside his father’s lodge, stayed a moment, then came out again and gave instructions to two of his warriors, who nodded and took the deer away for preparation.
Thunder Horse went to Jessie. His hands were too bloody to touch her, but his eyes said it all . . . that he adored her.
“I will go and bathe in the river, then return to join the celebration,” he told her.
“What you just did was so beautiful,” she said, smiling into his eyes. “I hope to one day have a son who is as respectful to his father as you are to yours.”
“We will together teach our son the way it all should be done,” Thunder Horse said, emphasizing “our” to let her know that any son of hers would also be his, whether or not that son might have been fathered by another man.
“Yes, our son,” she murmured, then watched him quickly strip to his breechclout, run to the river, and dive in.
He was soon back with her, dressed in clean clothes, ready to take part in the fun and merriment.
“Your father?” Jessie asked as she sat with Thunder Horse beside the large fire, where everyone was now sitting.
