“And my father?” she asked softly, as Tristan watched her face, guessing what she had asked from the look of pain and hope in her eyes. He feared what she would hear, and so did she. She always said her father had been very old and frail and she was born late in his life.

Chief White Eagle spoke for several minutes with a stern look on his face. Wachiwi nodded and a few minutes later, the chief was whisked away to meet other people at the court. He made a sign of peace to her and the marquis, and Tristan looked at his wife with a puzzled expression. It had been startling listening to them speak Dakota here.

“What did he say?” Tristan asked softly, and there were tears swimming in Wachiwi’s eyes when she looked at him and answered.

“The Great Spirit took my father before the winter came, before they even got to winter camp.” She had known it in her heart for months. It had been a year since she was kidnapped by the Crow, and her father had been gone for most of it. She would never see him again, but at least she knew now that he was at peace, and so was she. Their destinies had led them on different paths to where they were meant to be. And he had died of a broken heart without her, just as she had feared. It made her hate Napayshni all over again and not regret what had happened in the forest. It was retribution for what he’d done to her brothers, and her father.

“I’m sorry,” Tristan said softly as they left the court, and she nodded and held his arm. It made her heart ache to think of her father dying of grief, but at least she knew now. And they were both free. He had led a good life, and hers was ahead of her, with Tristan, his children, and their own. And she knew that, like Jean, her father would live in a peaceful place in her heart forever. She was sad but felt at peace.

She had asked Chief White Eagle to bring news of her to her brothers and tell them that she was well and happy, and married to a good man. He promised to do so, but said he did not know when he would leave France again.

She leaned her head against Tristan in the carriage on the way home. And they made love again that night. She lay in his arms, thinking of the new life that had begun for them. And when she slept, she dreamed of the white buffalo again, and a white dove flying near its head. She saw her father in the dream and when she woke in the morning, she saw Tristan smiling at her and knew her life was perfect as it was.

They went back to Brittany that day, and once back at the château, she moved into his bedroom, and they went for long walks together every day. They walked along the sea. She thought about her father and felt peaceful about him. And she and Tristan went riding for a few weeks, and then one morning in August, he suggested they go for a ride together in the woods, and she shook her head with a small smile as she looked at him.

“I can’t,” she said quietly.

“Why not? Are you ill?” He looked concerned, but she had already understood what was happening, and as he looked at her, he suddenly did too.

“Oh my God, are you sure?” She nodded solemnly. She was certain it had happened on their wedding night, just as it was meant to be. There would be a baby in the spring. They both hoped it would be a boy called Jean, in honor of the man who had brought them together. Jean had brought Wachiwi to Tristan, he had saved her, and brought her home where she belonged, forever, with Tristan and their family. She knew then that the white buffalo in her dream had led her home to him.


Chapter 17


  Brigitte

Marc and Brigitte left Paris on a sunny April morning for Brittany, in his ridiculously tiny car that made her laugh when she saw it. She had never seen anything so small, but it made sense for Paris. She wasn’t quite as amused to be on the highway in it, but he assured her it was safe. It looked like a toy car to her, and her small overnight bag took up most of the backseat. His even smaller one filled the trunk.

They drove at a reasonable speed for several hours while Marc told her about his new book. He was deeply engaged in the intricacies of Napoleon’s relationship with Josephine, and its subtle effects on the politics of France, and it sounded fascinating to her. She smiled as she listened to him. What he said and how he analyzed things were so French. He was passionate about politics, but the love relationship between the two historical figures was crucial to him as well. She loved the combination of the two, the emotional and the analytical, the historical and the political. She was sure it would be a good book. He was a very bright, erudite man.

“So will yours be when you write it, about the little Indian girl,” he said with a knowing smile. He had an intelligent face, and a kind expression, and his eyes lit up when he talked to her. There was so much about him that she liked. She was sorry that geography made anything more than friendship undesirable for both of them, especially for her.

“What makes you think I’ll write it?” she asked him, curious why he seemed so certain that she would.

“How can you not? With all that you know, have discovered, and can deduce between the lines, how could you possibly resist a story like that? It’s action, adventure, mystery, history, and romance. And think of the time they were living in, the days of slavery in America, the last years before the Revolution in France. And what happened to them afterward? Did he lose his château? Was he a Royalist resistant? What happened to their children? The Indian piece makes it even more fascinating. And from a love angle, she came to France with one brother, and married another. How did she escape the Crow? Did she really kill her captor? Was she dangerous or an innocent girl? You have enough for ten books there, not just one.” He said it almost enviously with a wistful look in his eyes.

“Maybe you should write the book,” she said seriously.

He was quick to shake his head. “It’s your story, not mine. Writers don’t respect much, but I do respect that. Honor among thieves,” he said, and laughed as he looked at her, and then grew serious again. “I truly hope you write it, Brigitte.” He always pronounced her name in French, and she liked it. “I think you should come back and do more research, and spend a year or two writing it here.” And then he added with a meaningful look, “I would like that very much. I can help you, if you like.”

“You already have,” she said sincerely. “I would never have found the court diaries without your help. I wouldn’t know as much as I do now if I hadn’t found them. I would never have known that the marquis’s younger brother brought her here and died on the way. I thought she just got lucky and married a marquis. The real story is so much more interesting than that, and more complicated.” She had to agree with him, it would make a wonderful book. It was more than just family history, it was an important record of the times, in both countries, America and France.

“That’s why you have to write it. I’m going to continue annoying you until you do. Besides, I have a vested interest in this.”

“And what’s that?” She was teasing him and enjoying their banter. They hardly knew each other, and yet she felt completely at ease with him. She wondered if Wachiwi had felt that way with her marquis, or if he had been daunting. There was nothing daunting about Marc. On the contrary, she felt relaxed and so at ease with him, and she enjoyed their conversations on a variety of subjects.

“My vested interest,” he confessed, “is that I want you to come to Paris, and stay for a while. Long-distance relationships are too hard, and I don’t like them. In the end, they always fall apart. I like Boston, but I’ve already lived there. I’m too old for the student life, and even the life of an academic, and I’m much too old to be traveling every few weeks. It’s too tiring, and I have to write. So do you. You can’t commute to Paris either. Long distance won’t work.” He spoke as though a relationship were a serious option, for both of them. It seemed premature to her.

“I thought we were just friends,” she said calmly.

“Is that all you want?” he asked her honestly, taking his eyes off the road to look at her, but there was very little traffic.

“I don’t know what I want,” she said truthfully. “Maybe it’s enough for now. And you’re right. Long distance doesn’t work, which is why my boyfriend and I broke up.”

“Do you miss him?” Marc asked, curious about how she felt. He had asked her that before, and she thought about it again now.

“Sometimes. I miss having someone familiar in my life. I’m not sure how much I really miss him. I’ll probably know when I go back to Boston.”

“That’s not missing him then. That’s just missing having a generic boyfriend. If you missed him, as a person, you would miss him here too.” She thought about it and realized he was right. And the odd thing was that after six years of evenings and weekends and dinners and daily phone calls, she didn’t miss Ted that much. She missed being able to tell him things, like what she had discovered about Wachiwi, but she didn’t long for him like a woman who had lost the love of her life. He hadn’t been. It had been easy. And she had been too lazy to want more. She thought that was a terrible statement about herself, and she shared it with Marc. He was less critical of her than she was of herself.

She had thought a lot about the relationship with Ted since it had ended. There hadn’t been enough there to justify keeping it going for six years, with no future plans between them. She had just “assumed.” It was so stupid, and yet it was so easy to do. Easier than facing what wasn’t there. And now she was thirty-eight years old with no man in her life, no future plans, and no kids. Not even a job now. Because she had assumed that that would last forever too. And the worst of it was that she had been passionate about neither, neither the man nor the job. She had settled for “good enough,” mediocrity, and no passion. Worst of all, for the last decade, she realized now, she hadn’t been honest with herself, or demanded much. She had settled. She didn’t want to do that again. Nor did she want to get into something she couldn’t handle, or that didn’t make sense. Like a long-distance relationship between Paris and Boston. And he didn’t seem to want that either. So they would have to be friends.