Part of the Bargain & a Wife for a Westmoreland by Linda Lael Miller

Author:Linda Lael Miller
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Harlequin
Published: 2017-10-15T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 14

The powwow of the Sioux, Flathead and Blackfoot was a spectacle to remember. Held annually in the same small and otherwise unremarkable town, the meeting of these three tribes was a tradition that reached back to days of mist and shadow, days recorded on no calendar.

Now, on a hot July morning, the erstwhile cow pasture and ramshackle grandstands were churning with activity, and Libby Barlowe’s fingers ached to make use of the sketchbook and pencils she carried.

Craning her neck to see the authentic tepees and their colorfully clad inhabitants, she could hardly stand still long enough for the plump woman at the admission gate to stamp her hand.

There was so much noise—laughter, the tinkle of change in the coin box, the neighing and nickering of horses that would be part of the rodeo. Underlying all this was the steady beat of tom-toms and guttural chants of the singers.

“Enjoy yourself now, honey,” enjoined the woman tending the cashbox, and Libby jumped, realizing that she was holding up the line behind her. After one questioning look at the hat the woman wore, which consisted of panels cut from various beer cans and crocheted together, she hurried through the gate.

Jess chuckled at the absorbed expression on Libby’s face. There was so much to see that a person didn’t know where to look first.

“I think I see a fit of creativity coming on,” he said.

Libby was already gravitating toward the tepees, plotting light angles and shading techniques as she went. In her heart was a dream, growing bigger with every beat of the tom-toms. “I want to see, Jess,” she answered distractedly. “I’ve got to see.”

There was love in the sound of Jess’s laughter, but no disdain. “All right, all right—but at least let me get you a hat. This sun is too hot for you to go around bareheaded.”

“Get me a hat, get me a hat,” babbled Libby, zeroing in on a group of small children as they sat watching fathers, uncles and elder brothers perform the ancient rites for rain or success in warfare or hunting.

Libby was taken with the flash of their coppery skin, the midnight black of their hair, the solemn, stalwart expressions in their dark eyes. Flipping open her sketchbook, she squatted in the lush summer grass and began to rough in the image of one particular little boy.

Her pencil flew, as did her mind. She was thinking in terms of oil paints—vivid shades that would do justice to the child’s coloring and the peacock splendor of his headdress.

“Hello,” she said when the dark eyes turned to her in dour question. “My name is Libby, what’s yours?”

“Jimmy,” the little boy responded, but then he must have remembered the majesty of his ancestry, for he squared his small shoulders and amended, “Jim Little Eagle.”

Libby made a hasty note in the corner of his sketch. “I wish I had a name like that,” she said.

“You’ll have to settle for ‘Barlowe,’” put in a familiar voice from behind her, and a lightweight hat landed on the top of her head.

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