Wind Song by Margaret Brownley Page B

poles.
    She pointed to the flap of the door, which she wanted to face in the direction of the soddy for maximum security. But the Indian shook his head and waved his hand sideways. He pointed to the door, then extended his finger toward the east.
    Using his same motions, she pointed to the flap, then to the soddy. If she was able to understand his intent to make the door face east, then certainly she should be able to make him understand that she wanted the door to open toward the soddy.
    It was obvious that he understood what she was saying, but he wasn't in any mooed to give in to her wishes.
    He shook his head and spoke in a harsh voice that left no doubt as to which one of them held the upper hand. The flap would face the direction he said it would face!
    She stepped back. Why he cared which direction her door faced, she couldn't imagine. Still, she wasn't about to argue with him. She decided it might be wise to allow the three men to continue their work unimpeded.
    The tipi, outlined against the flat prairie and the clear blue sky, was an impressive sight. When the Indians had completed the task, Maddie did her best with gestures and smiles to convey her appreciation.
    Laughing among themselves, the Indians mounted their ponies and rode off.
    Maddie watched them until they were out of sight, then walked inside her tipi. It was light inside and surprisingly spacious. At least she didn't have to worry about the ceiling falling down every time she raised her voice above a whisper.
    It wasn't the sort of home she'd imagined when she accepted the teaching post in Kansas. But it would do until she was able to obtain more suitable accommodations.
    She set to work making the tipi more homelike. She found an empty wooden crate in the barn that would serve double duty as a cupboard and table. She drove the wagon as close to the tipi as she could manage, so she wouldn't have far to drag her trunk.
    It was wile she was searching the barn for more empty crates and other discarded items that might be useful that the baby cradle once again caught her attention. The polished wood of the headboard felt smooth beneath her fingers. She knelt down to examine the intricate designs carved into each rung.
    On impulse, she reached for a rag on the workbench and dusted off the sides. The mattress was covered by a quilted baby blanket. She gathered it up and shook it outside until it was free of dust.
    Tiny water marks like raindrops marred the blanket. She glanced upward and searched the ceiling for holes in the roof. But not a single speck of sunlight filtered through the sod-covered roof.
    Tears, she wondered? Is that what had caused the pearl-sized watermarks? But whose tears? Luke Tyler's? It was hard to imagine. The man seemed so rugged and strong, his broad shoulders capable of supporting weight that would break most men's backs. But he did have an air of sadness, despite his strength. Could these really be Luke's tears?
    Feeling that she was intruding on something personal, she drew away from the cradle and, as she did, backed into the table.
    She ran her finger across its edge, exposing a small area. Noting the lovely grain, she wiped her rag across the wood until the layer of fine dirt had been brushed away. What a beautiful table. It seemed like such a waste for a sturdy piece of furniture like this not to be put into service.
    Her hand still throbbing from the splinter, she set to work rubbing the cloth over the table and chairs.
    It took a lot of energy and much persistence to drag the old table out of the house and replace it with the new one. By the time she'd carried each chair and set it in place, rivers of perspiration rolled down her face and back.
    She felt hot and irritable, but no less pleased with the results of her efforts. She could hardly wait to see the surprise on Mr. Tyler's face when he saw the difference the table made to the otherwise dreary room. If only there was a way to prevent the dirt from falling onto the