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Way into the night she awoke seeing him stirring the fire.
"You are better?" she asked as she sat up.
"I am." He smiled from the distance, a warm and friendly smile.
She sighed, "Good, the fever must have broken."
"You are a good healer"
"I didn't do much, your arm is probably infected. It is swollen."
"We'll let Jack fix it up when we get there," he told her.
His mood had changed, he was happy it seemed.
"What do we need to do."
"Never mind, he can tend it."
"You don't like me tending to you, do you?" she questioned with a pout.
"It is not that. But there are some things a woman should not have to do." He told her.
"Fine." She huffed and crossed her arms over her chest. "Have it your way."
He came closer now and bent down to sit beside her. "I appreciate what you did for me. You must know this, but some things are difficult for a woman. Especially white women."
"Especially white women… " She frowned, and he stared.
"You are angry?" He asked.
"Yes, I am." Her heart was filled with frustration. She glanced at him, her eyes full of something he couldn't define. "When I look at you, I see a man, not an Indian, but a man. It's the way I was raised. I fully realize that others do not believe this way. That I'm different in my thinking. When you look at me, you see a white woman. I guess that is the way you should see me. But you find white women so different, don't you?" She huffed. She whipped about to stare into his face, "It is not fair. And you think white women are so different from Indian women. We do the same, we wash, cook, scrub, mend, and tend to our menfolk. We shoot, and load guns for them when they are attacked. We resist, we fight too, so what is so different with your women. So, because I am white, I am unable to handle things, is that it?"
"I didn't mean that… " his face contorted. "I meant no insult." He frowned and stared into her eyes.
"I bet this Little Dove could handle anything."
His face screwed up in a frown, "How did you know about her?"
"You called her name in the fever." She told him.
"You think she meant something to me, do you not?"
"Well, of course, she did." she shrugged. "It's been my experience that when men are sick or dying, they call the woman's name they love. So, tell me, do you love her. You can tell me."
"Well, I am not dying." he smiled as he stared at the dirt in front of him. "But you are right. I loved her dearly."
"I thought so. You mentioned her before, but I didn't know her name until you said it in your sleep. She must have been very beautiful. I am sad for you that things did not work out."
His glance was sexually aware, she saw it, only a glimmer but it was there.
"Well don't be, I’m not." He looked at her again, smiling warmly once more. "Yes, she was beautiful. But you are wrong, in your thinking." He stood up and sighed, "She was my mother."
Lissa stood up too. "Your mother?" she chided with disbelief.
"You do not believe me?"
"Well, I don't know. But a man doesn't usually call for his mother when he's sick or dying." She replied sharply.
