Page 15 of The Spirit of the Wolf

This was not simply an Indian. This was the man from the Minnetaree village, the same one who had been gambling with Jacques LaCroix, the man she had dared to think might be handsome.

And he had stolen her.

Glaring at him, she murmured, “I remember you.”

She witnessed his brief nod before he gave her a considering glance. “I am surprised.”

“Surprised?” She waited in vain for an explanation.

After several moments he said, “Perhaps your husband did not make his meaning understood.”

Marietta opened her mouth to refute that word, husband, but the Indian was continuing. “I won the game of Cos-soo. You were part of the winnings, and⁠—”

“I was what?”

The man behind her drew in yet another long breath, as though he were weary of the whole affair. In a voice he might have used to address a five-year-old, he said slowly, “Your husband told me that he…informed you of the outcome of our game before he gave you too much corn liquor.”

“Before he…?” She gulped. “Pardon me, Mister… Ah, I don’t know your name.”

The Indian didn’t answer the indirect question.

Marietta tried once more. “Mister…? You do have a name, don’t you?”

The man still didn’t reply, and Marietta attempted again to scoot forward.

At length, the man sat up, appearing as thouogh he were about to say something of importance, but he hesitated, while Marietta held her breath. “A warrior does not speak his own name.”

“Oh.” Marietta shot a glance over her shoulder. “Then what am I to call you?”

He shrugged but didn’t enlighten her.

Marietta closed her eyes and shook her very wet head. “Oh, this is perfect. Well, Mr…” she hesitated, “…Rainmaker-who-steals-women…”

She thought she saw him smile, but the gesture was so swiftly gone, she was not certain of it.

Another silence ensued. However, after a moment or two, she squared back her shoulders and began, “Well, Mr. Rainmaker, as I was saying, this may come as a shock to you, but I am not married. I have no husband.”

Again, she chanced a quick glance behind her, but perhaps her look was too swift. She could discern no reaction from the man at all. When he spoke, all he said was, “I am talking about the man who brought you to the Minnetaree village, the scout, LaCroix.”

“Scout LaCroix? Oh, you must mean Jacques LaCroix, of course. He is not my husband.”

“Yet you travel with him.”

“Yes.” Her ire rose. “Good Lord, is it a crime for a woman to travel with a man in this country? I did hire a maid to accompany me. I employed Jacques LaCroix to take me to a particular village. He is not my husband.”

“But he is.”

“No, he is not.”

The man paused. “You do not understand. In this country, when a woman travels, she goes alone, with her husband, or with other women. To be with a man who is not her husband…alone… Her reputation will be marred.”

“Yes, well, perhaps it is good then that my birth does not originate from this country, and also that I don’t care about my reputation.”

The man didn’t utter a word, but by his silence, Marietta felt that he must certainly disapprove. It compelled her to say, “Mr. Rainmaker…”

“Grey Coyote,” he finally supplied. “My name is Grey Coyote.”

“Very good. Thank you.” She nodded, her demeanor sweet and one that might have spoken well for her had they been discussing a harmless subject over a cup of tea and a tray of biscuits. “Now, Mr. Coyote, understand, I was not alone. Yellow Swan, my maid, accompanied me. Also, where I come from, a woman may travel anywhere she pleases, and she may even hire a guide to take her to places, particularly if she does not know the lay of the land. And this is what I did. I engaged Jacques LaCroix, paid him money—gold—to bring me to St. Louis…a town farther south of here. That is all there is to it. Jacques LaCroix is no more my husband than you are.” She paused for emphasis. “And yet I am traveling with you.”