Free The Angel and the Outlaw by Madeline Baker

harbored a secret longing to spend a summer with the Sioux, to hunt the buffalo, to seek out his maternal grandparents, though he doubted if they were still alive.
    Time and again he had begged his mother to take him to the land of her birth, but she had steadfastly refused, too ashamed of what she had become to go back home, too proud to admit she had made a mistake.
    At his urging, she had taught him to speak Lakota. He’d had little opportunity to use it since her death, but he had never forgotten it. Occasionally, when his mother had been drunk and feeling blue, she had reminisced, telling him of her childhood, of the white man who had married her mother, of the love they had shared. Though Sisoka never mentioned her grandfather’s name, J.T. knew his mother had hoped to find that same kind of love with Frank Cutter.
    His mother had told him tales of Coyote, of Iktomi , the spider, of Ptesan-Wi , the White Buffalo Woman, of We-ota-wichasha , the rabbit boy. She had entranced him with stores of Wakinyan , the sacred Thunderbird. She had warned him to behave else Waziya , the Old Man, or his wife, Wakanaka , the Witch, would get him.
    But she had never taken him home, and he realized now that they had never had a home. They had lived over saloons and in rented rooms, but none of them had felt like home.
    Lost in thought, J.T. was unaware of Brandy’s presence until she laid a hand on his arm.
    “J.T.?”
    Bleary-eyed, he turned his head to face her.
    “You’re burning up!” Brandy exclaimed. Grabbing the waterskin, she held it to his lips. “Here, drink this.”
    The water was cool, so cool, easing the dryness of his throat. He drank deeply, thinking nothing in all the world had ever tasted so good, or been so welcome.
    Setting the waterskin aside, she peeled the dressing from his side, gasping when she saw the wound. Though she knew little about such things, it was obvious that the wound was festering.
    Rising, she ran out of the lodge, returning moments later with a man J.T. recognized as the tribal shaman.
    The next half-hour passed in a bright haze of pain. Brandy sat beside him, her hand resting lightly on his shoulder, while the medicine man lanced the wound, releasing a thin stream of yellow-green pus and blood so dark it was almost black.
    And then his body went rigid and all thought fled his mind as someone laid the flat edge of a heated blade over the gaping wound. A hoarse cry of pain was ripped from his throat and then he was drowning in a thick red mist, a shifting, churning whirlpool that carried him down, down, toward a fathomless black pit.
    With a low moan, he closed his eyes and let the pain sweep him into the darkness of oblivion…
     
    Crackling flames. The feel of a cool cloth on his brow. Soft hands stroking his hair. A woman’s voice, urging him to drink.
    He tried to open his eyes, but the lids felt heavy, weighted. Someone lifted his head, and he felt a cool trickle of water at his lips. Greedily, he opened his mouth, sucking in the cool liquid, certain there wasn’t enough water in all the world to ease the dryness in his throat.
    His body was on fire and he threw off the blanket that covered him, only vaguely aware that his hands were no longer bound, that he was lying on his back.
    A woman’s voice spoke to him out of the darkness, the words soft, soothing, meaningless.
    With an effort, he opened his eyes. Brandy was sitting beside him, a bowl of broth cradled in her lap. The light from the fire danced in the inky blackness of her hair and painted her cheeks with crimson.
    “Here,” she said, holding a spoon to his lips. “You need to eat something.”
    “Water.” His lips formed the words, but only a dry rasp emerged from his throat.
    “In a minute. Eat this first.”
    He wanted to argue, but he was too weak. She placed a couple of blankets beneath his head, then held a wooden spoon to his lips.
    He stared at her for a moment, his male vanity writhing in humiliation at the