White Flame

by Susan Edwards

  White Flame

  By Susan Edwards

  Nebraska Territory, 1856

  After waiting years for her estranged father to come home, Emma O’Brien decides to brave the wilderness to fetch him herself. But the journey takes a detour when her party is attacked by Arikara warriors, and Emma is taken captive. Rescue comes in the form of Sioux chief Striking Thunder—but to Emma’s shock, instead of releasing her, he claims her as his slave. Emma is not sure what is more infuriating: the arrogant brave, or the way he awakens her passions…

  Striking Thunder seeks revenge on the men he holds responsible for his wife’s death, and the feisty redhead is the perfect bait. He cannot believe the spirits have destined her to be his bride—but nor can he deny she stirs something within him that no other woman ever has. Though his duty to his people is clear, it is not long before Striking Thunder’s heart is enslaved by his own captive…

  Book 7 of 12.

  Previously published.

  97,000 words

  Dear Readers,

  I am so excited to see my White Series available in digital format and once again available to you, my readers. This series is so close to my heart—each character became my brother, sister, best friend, etc., and to see them republished makes it seem like a long-awaited family reunion. I can’t wait to become reacquainted with each character! Even the villains, for there is nothing like seeing justice served.

  I started the first book, White Wind, way back in the ’80s. These two characters just popped into my head one day. I met them at a stream in the wilderness where my honorable (and very virile) hero, Golden Eagle, was determined to rescue a very stubborn heroine named Sarah. It just seemed as though the action stopped as they turned to me and said, “Well? What now?”

  Huh? Did they think I was a writer? Not me. Never did any writing at all and had never had any desire to do so. Well, Sarah and Golden Eagle just shook their heads and let me know that despite never having written before, it didn’t matter because I was a storyteller! A vivid imagination, a love of romance and the Native American historical genre were all that were required. Okay, not quite but I got the message.

  So I thought, why not? I could write a nice scene or two. Or three. Hey, how about even just a love scene in this wonderful setting that I could see so clearly in my mind? But then I ran into the first problem. What had brought my two willful characters to this stream at the same time? What connected them? Why would this mighty warrior want to claim this white girl? What made him fall in love with her and risk everything for her?

  I found that I couldn’t go on until I had answers and that meant, yep, I had to start at the beginning. I learned who they were, what their problems were, and when we once again met at that stream in the wilderness, I just sat back and gave directions, and this time, my characters knew their lines and away we went!

  And that, dear readers, was how my writing career began. Once I started, I could not stop. I loved writing about this family. Sarah and Golden Eagle had four children and it just seemed natural to continue the series. I had so many letters begging and, yes, even demanding Jeremy and White Dove’s story in White Dove. And honestly, I was right there with each and every reader, for that was one story that just called to me. So from two people, who met by chance, eleven books were born.

  Over the years, I valued each and every reader comment: from the mother who read the books to her dying daughter, to the lonely women who found companionship, and to women who appreciated the bravery and willingness of the heroines and heroes to do whatever it took to overcome adversity.

  Each of the White books has a story that means something to me. Jessie in White Wolf is a lot like I was in my youth. I couldn’t accept “no” back then without a good reason, always looking for a chance to rebel . I could go on and on but then I’d be writing a book instead of a letter!

  Just writing this letter makes me all teary and homesick, but just as these books will be available once more to my readers, I will become reacquainted with each book and each character. Thinking of reunions, I might just have to plan a White reunion! But for now, I am just so grateful to Carina Press and my editor, Angela James, for once again making this series available.

  Sincerely yours,

  Susan Edwards

  In loving memory Of Patrina O’Donnell.

  Grandmother of my heart if not my flesh, we shared a love of birds and kids.

  I pray the song of birds, and the laughter of children, are your companions in that better place to

  which you’ve gone.

  We will always miss you here, Grandma Pat, but whenever I hear the sweet song of a canary, I

  will always think of you.

  Contents

  Copyright

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Author’s Note

  About the Author

  Prologue

  St. Louis, 1847

  U.S. Major Grady O’Brien stared at a portrait of a young woman with misty-green eyes. His fingers gripped the edge of the mantel, his knuckles white as the cool marble. Grief swept through him. “Margaret Mary, don’t hate me for what I must do.” Pain laced his whispered words.

  Footsteps vibrated across the wooden parlor floor, intruding on his private moment of pain. “You’re a fool, Grady.”

  Grady glanced over his shoulder at his sister. “Ida, please. We’ve been through this.” His eyes burned with remorse.

  “Then listen to me. Forget this foolish notion. The army doesn’t need you as much as your children do.” She moved into the room and stood beside him.

  Grady’s gaze strayed back to the portrait of his deceased wife. His vision blurred at the thought of never hearing her sweet laughter or being able to gaze into eyes alight with her love. Somewhere overhead, the wooden floorboards creaked. The sound echoed the breaking of his heart. How could he go on without her? A hand touched his shoulder.

  “Please, Grady. Give yourself more time. It’s only been two weeks since Margaret Mary, bless her sweet soul, passed on. The pain will ease. Don’t leave. Your children need you.”

  Grady leaned his head against the back of his hands for a moment, then straightened. “No,” he whispered, “they don’t need me. They have you.”

  Ida arched her narrow brows. “Emma barely understands her mother is gone. Do you honestly expect her to understand your disappearance as well?” Folding her arms across her ample bosom, she waited.

  Frustrated, wanting only to be left alone, Grady rammed his fingers through thick waves of bright, golden-red hair that fell in waves to his shoulders. “Dammit, I’m not deserting her. I’ll be back.” He turned his back on Ida. Shame ran through him. She was right. He was abandoning his children. But not forever, he promised himself—just until the pain of his loss dulled.

  Ida didn’t understand, but how could she? Nearly ten years his senior, she’d never married, didn’t know the pain of having her heart ripped out from inside of her or the bleak despair of losing
part of her very soul.

  “When?” The woman’s voice was quiet.

  He glanced at her over his shoulder. She waited, back straight, hands loosely clasped in front of her and lips pressed into a tight disapproving line, reminding him of an old spinster schoolmarm. Though he knew she loved him in her own way, had been more mother than sister to him, he couldn’t stay, not even for her. He answered honestly. “I don’t know.”

  Ida turned away. Silence filled the room. Finally, she shook her head. “You’re running again, Grady, using the army as an excuse not to stay and face your grief.” She whirled around. “Just as you did when Father and Mother died. You ran then, joined the army the day after the funeral. Mark my words, if you return to duty, you’ll never come back. You’ll never stop running.”

  Grady wandered to the window and stared out, not seeing the carriages and citizens bustling about their business. “Maybe it’s better this way,” he whispered, his voice low, barely audible.

  “Better for whom? Emma will be devastated.”

  He closed his eyes, his throat burning at the very thought of leaving his little princess, the ray of sunshine in his life, but he couldn’t bear to look into eyes so like her mother’s. “I’ll hurt her far worse if I stay.” He straightened when he heard a carriage stop out front.

  “Grady—”

  He swiveled around, once more the stern major his men knew so well. “No more. It’s time.”

  Ida tipped her chin, her eyes bright but determined. “I’ll fetch Emma. You won’t steal out of her life like a thief in the night.” Her skirts rustled as she left the elegantly appointed parlor.

  Grady donned a travel coat over his military uniform and left the room his wife had loved. After seeing to the loading of his bags, he went into his den to await Ida. Picking up a neatly folded sheaf of papers, he tucked them into the inside pocket of his coat then poured himself a brandy. He dreaded telling his small daughter goodbye. Before his wife’s death, they’d been close, spending every evening together reading or playing games, but the loving and devoted father he’d once been had died the day fever had cruelly snatched his wife from him.

  He leaned against the book-filled shelves behind his desk and closed his eyes. He felt cold and empty inside. There was nothing left that he could give Emma or the infant. No, he was doing the right thing. The girls were better off with Ida. They needed a mother figure. A moan slipped past his lips. If only Margaret Mary had lived to rejoice in the birth of another daughter. If only…

  At the sound of running feet, he downed the remainder of his brandy in one gulp. He turned when a small girl of eight burst into the room, a frilly dressed doll under each arm. She skidded to a stop before his massive oak desk.

  “Papa, ’tis teatime. Will you join me?”

  Grady clenched his fists at his side and stared into eyes sparkling with misty laughter. Waves of pain swelled and crested within him. He slammed his glass down on the desk.

  Emma backed away, her eyes wide and fearful. “I’m sorry for running in the house, Papa. I forgot the rules—again.”

  Her voice, small, full of hurt and fear, twisted the knife in his soul. His thoughtless reaction to her childish exuberance only proved how unfit a father he was without his loving wife at his side. He forced a smile to his lips and knelt in front of his firstborn. “No, child. I’m not angry.”

  Grady drew a deep breath. His gaze roamed over her delicate features as he memorized hair the same shade as his, creamy skin, rose-tinted cheeks and eyes the shade of dew-kissed shamrocks on a misty morning. Those bright eyes shone with the same love of life as her mother’s had until death dimmed them forever.

  Emma clutched her dolls and regarded him solemnly. “Then you’ll have tea with me?”

  Staring into those earnest depths, filled with uncertainty and hope, he knew they would forever haunt his dreams. His fingers trembled as he cupped her face between his large callused palms. “No, my precious, Papa cannot stay.”

  Noting her father’s attire for the first time, Emma’s brows furrowed. “Are you going out, Papa?”

  “Yes, child. Papa must go away.”

  She pouted, then brightened. “But you’ll be back very soon,” she announced with certainty. Then she glanced at him coyly. “And you’ll bring me a surprise?”

  Grady fingered one red curl. His voice cracked. “Papa will be gone for a long time, Emma.” He smoothed her wrinkled brow but before he could reassure her of his love, Ida spoke from the hall.

  “A mistake, if you ask me.” She entered, a tiny blanketed bundle in her arms.

  Standing, Grady picked up his hat. He avoided looking at his sister or the infant. “We’ve said all that’s to be said.”

  “Then it needs saying again. You’re a fool.” She blocked his escape and thrust the wiggling bundle into his resisting arms. “The babe needs a name.”

  His hat fell to the floor as he reluctantly cradled his newborn daughter for the first time. He thought his heart had shattered completely the day he’d buried Margaret Mary. But when those intent blues blinked open without warning to stare at him, he knew he was wrong, so very wrong. Grady fingered the crown of peach-soft, golden-red fuzz. Tears slipped from his eyes, blurring his sight.

  Margaret Mary had chosen Elizabeth for a girl baby, but before he could speak it aloud, another name came to mind. “Ranait,” he whispered. “Her name is Ranait, after our mother.” His breathing quickened when the infant turned toward him as if recognizing her name. Her tiny bow-shaped lips puckered as she rooted, searching for nourishment. A tiny balled fist caught him on his chin.

  Grady felt his resolve slipping. He had to leave, now. He swallowed past the lump in his throat then knelt to place the baby in Emma’s small arms. “You’re a big girl now, Emma. Promise Papa you’ll be good and always look after your sister.”

  His throat tightened when she nodded uncertainly, her bright gaze clouded with confusion. Grady caressed one lock of long hair then pulled his knife from his belt. He cut the tight red curl clinging to his finger, put the knife away then ran a finger down her soft cheek. She looked frightened by the strained undercurrents surrounding the adults. Bending forward, he kissed her forehead. “Papa loves you, Emma. Remember that always.” With one last caress of the baby’s head, he stood. “Call her Renny,” he choked before fleeing the room.

  “Papa! Don’t leave,” Emma cried, her voice high, tight.

  Grady didn’t reply. He hurried out of the front door to the waiting carriage. As he rode away with the silky-soft curl wound around his finger, he glanced back then wished he hadn’t. The sight of Emma standing on the front steps, the infant cradled in her arms, burned itself indelibly in his memory.

  Chapter One

  Late summer, Nebraska Territory, 1856

  Emma O’Brien stared at her sketch pad in disgust. The tall cottonwoods she’d drawn lining the banks of the Missouri River loomed dark and sinister. Glancing at the bank for comparison, she noted sunlight filtering through the spread boughs, falling across the bank and river in thin, golden streaks. A perfectly peaceful setting. Nothing like what she’d captured on paper. Her own frustrations had colored her work. Crumbling the paper, she stood.

  A cool breeze washed over her as she put away her supplies and drew on her gloves. Too frustrated and restless to sit still any longer, she sent one last disgusted glance over the rail into the shallow murky-brown water of the river then left the rail. The steamboat Annabella was grounded—again. Crossing the deck, she addressed the captain. “How long will we be delayed this time, Captain Billaud?” She waved one pristine, white-gloved hand toward the sandbar and tapped the end of her parasol on the spotless wooden deck.

  The pilot, a small rotund Frenchman with a thick black beard, frowned briefly, then beamed. “No more zan a few hours,” he said, his accent as thick as the muddy bottom of the Missouri. Seeing Emma’s dismay, he added, “We will warp over zis sandbar and be on our way—like zat!” He snapped his stubby fingers
.

  Emma allowed herself an unladylike snort. She’d heard that promise more times than she cared to recall since boarding the Annabella more than two months ago.

  Captain Billaud patted her hand. “You shall see your papa very soon, ma chérie. Be patient. The Missouri, she’s like a female, no? One day she’s right where she should be and ze next? Voilà! Gone. Picks herself up and moves while we sleep.”

  Emma stared at the sluggish river with distaste. Never had she seen or heard of a more contrary river.

  The riverman wiped beads of sweat from his face, then tipped his hat. “I must see to my duties. Miss Emma. Go below, leave zis heat. It is not good for a beautiful young lady to remain in ze sun so long.” He patted her gloved hand in a fatherly fashion then strode away, a white handkerchief sticking out of his back pocket like a flag.

  Emma listened quietly as he shouted orders for a rope to be tied to a tree along the bank. She knew from witnessing this procedure many times that the other end would be wrapped around the capstan on the bow, which allowed the steamboat to pull itself off the sandbar. Biting her lower lip, she swallowed her disappointment at yet another delay. The trip from St. Louis to Fort Pierre should have taken fifty-one days, but one problem after another had slowed the boat’s progress up the Missouri River. They were now three weeks behind schedule.

  Worry churned through her mind like a paddle wheel agitating the water. They had to reach the fort before her father left. In his latest letter, her father had indicated he’d be at the fort until the end of summer, then would head west to Fort Laramie for the winter. By her reckoning, they had a little more than a week, give or take a day or two.