met.”
“I have thought of you too,” Fargo fibbed. The turn of events held unexpected promise. “I have thought of your body without that dress on. You would be twice as beautiful.”
“No man has ever talked to me as you do.”
“Is that so?” Fargo slid down. He deliberately brushed his chest against her bosom and put his hands on her hips. “I have a lot more words to describe you.”
“I should not listen.”
“Go or stay. It is up to you. But if you stay, you know what I will do.” Fargo paused. “Which will it be?”
“I will stay.”
13
Fargo learned long ago that when a woman made up her mind that she wanted to share herself with a man there was nothing a man could do but give in to the inevitable. Not that he ever refused a pretty face and an enticing body. He was eager to explore her delights, but there were a few things he wanted to know first. “Why were you following those two white men?”
“It is said they are with other whites. That a white woman and a white girl are with them.” Sweet Flower gazed in the direction the pair had gone. “I have never seen a white woman. I would very much like to.”
Fargo remembered a tale he once heard about how the first white woman to venture west attended a rendezvous during the fur trapping days and was a sensation with the Indians. Curiosity was as common a trait as skin. He asked his other question. “I thought you were an Oglala?”
“I am.”
“The village back there is Miniconjou.”
“I am visiting my sister. She is the wife of a Miniconjou warrior and I have not seen her in several winters.”
Taking the Ovaro’s reins in one hand and Sweet Flower’s hand in the other, Fargo went deeper into the trees. She didn’t resist. She was looking up at him with a strange look on her face.
“What?”
“I am wondering how it will be. I have never been with a white man before.”
“You honor me.”
“I want to because of your hair.”
About to reach for her, Fargo stopped. “What?”
“She touched his jaw, and grinned. “I would like to kiss and rub a face that is not smooth.”
“You sure are female.”
Sweet Flower looked down at herself. “What else would I be? If I were male I would not have this body.”
Fargo kept on walking. They needed a nice secluded spot for their tryst. It wouldn’t do to have Lakota warriors stumble on them in the midst of their passion.
“I have a question.”
“I have ears.”
“Have you laid with many Indian women?”
“One or two,” Fargo answered. The total was more like thirty or forty. He lost count long ago.
“Have you been with an Oglala woman before?”
Fargo tried to recollect. He was sure he had but she might take exception so he hedged by saying, “I have heard that Oglala women please their men better than any other.”
Sweet Flower smiled. “My mother taught me that a woman must always excite the man. The more excited he is, the more he pleases the woman.”
“Your mother was wise. You can excite me all you want.”
“It will be strange. You are different from anyone I have ever touched.” Sweet Flower ran her hand over his beard. “I hope all your hair does not blunt my desire.”
“I have met many women who like it.”
“I thought about you last night and I think making love to you will be like making love to a bear. My grandmother told me once that she thought white men must be part bear because they are so hairy.”
“We can stop talking about hair now.”
“Do you like mine?”
Fargo was no fool. If she were bald he would say what he now said. “You are beautiful.”
“Thank you. You are beautiful too.”
“Whites say men are handsome.”
“Handsome or beautiful, I like men most when their clothes are off. I have sometimes thought that it would be better if we all went without clothes.”
Fargo almost asked if she had been kicked in the head by a horse when she was little but he doubted she would appreciate the joke. “There are whites who think like that. They go around bare-assed naked.” He used the English words.
“Bare-assed naked?” Sweet Flower slowly repeated it. “I will remember that, and when I meet whites from now on, I will let them know I like to be bare-assed naked. Would that be nice to do?”
“They will think you are the friendliest female alive.”
“Good. Thank you for your advice.”
By then they were far enough in and hemmed by so many trees and the undergrowth that Fargo felt safe in tying the Ovaro and leading Sweet Flower to a patch of grass. He stopped and faced her. Admiring the twin peaks that poked at her doeskin dress and the swell of her shapely thighs, he remarked, “You really are beautiful.”
She ran her fingers through his beard. “And you really are very hairy.”
“You hair a man to death, do you know that?”
“And you say strange thing but I like you anyway.” Sweet Flower rose on the tips of her toes and lightly kissed him on the lips. “Kissing you is no different from kissing a man without hair.”
“One more word about hair . . .”
“Which word do you want? I have many words.”
“I want your body instead.” Fargo pulled her close and fused his mouth to hers. For all her talk about wanting him, she was tense and unsure of herself. Gradually, though, she relaxed. When he ran his hands down her back and cupped her bottom, she uttered a tiny moan.
Fargo kissed her ear, the side of her neck, her throat. He slid a hand over her hip to her breast and cupped it. At the contact she trembled slightly, and moaned louder.
Suddenly her hand groped him, low down. Caught by surprise, Fargo stiffened in more ways than one. She cupped him and stroked him and soon had him as hard as iron. Not to be outdone, Fargo pressed his hand against the junction of her thighs. She gave off heat like a stove.
It reached the point where Fargo eased her to the grass and stretched out beside her. He managed to do it without breaking their kiss. Cupping her other breast, he squeezed it through her dress. Her hands rose and removed his hat so she could run her fingers through his hair.
Fargo hiked at her doeskin. It fit so tight that getting it high enough took some doing.
Sweet Flower grew impatient. She pushed him back, sat up, and quickly shed the dress over her head. Carefully placing it next to them, she laid back down and spread her arms.
“I am bare-assed naked,” she said proudly.
“You are still wearing moccasins,” Fargo teased, and damned if she didn’t sit back up and take them off.
“There. Now I am bare-assed naked, yes?”
“As bare-assed as bare-assed can be.”
Sweet Flower grinned and plucked at his buckskins. “Now it is your turn. You must be bare-assed naked too.”
Fargo envisioned being caught with his britches off by some unfriendly warriors. “How about if I just take off my shirt?”
