When at last she scooted over to him, Hunter experienced a feeling like none he had ever felt. It went beyond satisfaction, beyond contentment. Having her fair head on his shoulder felt perfectly right, as if the Great Ones had hollowed the spot for her long ago, and he had been waiting all his life for her to fill it. He curled his arm around her, his hand on her back.
"It is good, eh?"
She placed a palm lightly on his chest. In a dubious tone she replied, "Yes, it is good."
Another silence settled over them. He measured the thrums of her heart beneath his hand, pleased that the rhythm no longer reminded him of the frantic wing beats of a trapped bird. Staring at the conical roof, he longed for the weariness he had pretended. It didn't come. He was relieved when she broke the silence.
"Hunter, what did you mean when you said you had made no talk of marriage because I'm a White Eyes?"
He brushed his lips across the top of her head, loving the flower smell that still clung to her hair. He would never again smell springtime and not think of her. "My chief wife will be a woman of my own blood." He felt her stiffen and, seeking to mollify her, added, "You can be second wife, eh? Or third?"
To his surprise she bolted upright, shaking again, this time in anger. With an indignant lift of her small chin, she flung herself away from him.
"You are angry?"
Her reply was frigid silence.
"Blue Eyes, what wrong words have I said?"
"What have you said?"
Hunter frowned. "It would not please you to marry with me? Better a wife than a slave, yes?"
"I will play second fiddle, !"
Hunter studied her, trying to figure out why she had switched the topic of conversation from marriage to making music.
"How you!" she cried. "Of all the-- You arrogant, simple-- Oh, never mind! Just you understand ! Amongst people, a man has wife, one, and he looks at no other, thinks of no other, no other, until death do they part. I wouldn't marry you if you got on your knees and me!
"It is good, eh?"
She placed a palm lightly on his chest. In a dubious tone she replied, "Yes, it is good."
Another silence settled over them. He measured the thrums of her heart beneath his hand, pleased that the rhythm no longer reminded him of the frantic wing beats of a trapped bird. Staring at the conical roof, he longed for the weariness he had pretended. It didn't come. He was relieved when she broke the silence.
"Hunter, what did you mean when you said you had made no talk of marriage because I'm a White Eyes?"
He brushed his lips across the top of her head, loving the flower smell that still clung to her hair. He would never again smell springtime and not think of her. "My chief wife will be a woman of my own blood." He felt her stiffen and, seeking to mollify her, added, "You can be second wife, eh? Or third?"
To his surprise she bolted upright, shaking again, this time in anger. With an indignant lift of her small chin, she flung herself away from him.
"You are angry?"
Her reply was frigid silence.
"Blue Eyes, what wrong words have I said?"
"What have you said?"
Hunter frowned. "It would not please you to marry with me? Better a wife than a slave, yes?"
"I will play second fiddle, !"
Hunter studied her, trying to figure out why she had switched the topic of conversation from marriage to making music.
"How you!" she cried. "Of all the-- You arrogant, simple-- Oh, never mind! Just you understand ! Amongst people, a man has wife, one, and he looks at no other, thinks of no other, no other, until death do they part. I wouldn't marry you if you got on your knees and me!
( Catherine Anderson )
[ Comanche Moon ]
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