Zac, born to zealous missionary parents who’d baptized him Zacarias Cristobal Chavez, looked old as the hills in his well-worn deerskin breeches and shirt. His unkempt gray beard hung in tatters down to his chest and nearly obscured the four-inch silver cross hanging around his neck. But his movements were agile and sure-footed, his gaze clear and intelligent. He held up a fistful of arrows and pointed to the nocked ends. “These belong to them Arikara savages, Kern’l.”
Grady pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. His ears rang with the rhythmic clunks and clangs of shovels striking the hard-packed earth. “Are you sure?”
“Yep.” He pointed to the bodies of three Indians. “They’s Arikaras.”
Grady thought of Captain Sanders, the only survivor of the massacre. The search party had come upon him near the river, unconscious and injured. After reviving him, he’d told his story of how Yellow Dog had ambushed him and his men. With pain weakening his voice, he’d begged the colonel to forgive him for failing to save Emma. Out scouting the way, he’d returned but been outnumbered, so he’d ridden for the fort to get help. According to the captain, one of the savages had spotted him and had followed, resulting in the loss of Derek’s horse and his injuries.
Sanders had nearly passed out during his recounting of the attack until Doc Gil had stepped forward, insisting on taking the injured man back to the fort. Reluctantly, Grady had no choice but to halt his questions.
Zac, who had gone back to his study of the arrows, cleared his throat. “Kern’l? Sanders was right. See here?” Zac pointed to several crude marks along the shaft of three arrows, near the feathered end. Anger hardened his gruff voice. “These are Yella Dog’s marks. Them others, I don’t recognize.”
Yellow Dog had given Grady and his men at the fort nothing but trouble for the past few months. When they’d first taken over the fort, the Indian had offered his services as a hunter and scout in return for goods, but he’d been banished after they’d caught him stealing guns and liquor. Now he harassed the soldiers.
Staring into Zac’s worried eyes, Grady knew true fear. The outlook for his daughters was grim—even if he found them alive. Fury mingled with apprehension and guilt. He strode away, filled with determination. No matter how long it took or where his search led, he would find his daughters.
Emma received her first glimpse of Striking Thunder’s village two days after her attempted escape. Cone-shaped tipis sprouted from the golden prairie, stretching upward to lend the flat, rolling land a bit of color and depth. From the tips of the tipis, plumes of smoke drifted toward the sky to merge with the dark roiling storm clouds gathering overhead. The scene was so dramatic, it had her fingers itching for a paintbrush and canvas, or even a piece of charcoal so she could capture the wild beauty on paper.
But though the Indian village appeared peaceful, not at all frightening, it brought home just how precarious her existence truly was. This was not a civilized settlement where basic laws of society governed. Life as she knew it existed no more. Raw fear crept up her spine and invaded the calm acceptance she’d adopted over the last few days. It all seemed so unreal. She, the daughter of a respected colonel, now faced captivity. Her mouth went dry and her stomach twisted into tight knots as she fought the bleak despair threatening to break like the storm brewing overhead.
Her feet dragged, resisted each step that brought her closer to the unknown. She faltered and came to a stop. Hugging herself tightly, she panned her gaze around, desperately looking for any means of escape. Overhead, the raven circled, following their progress. Around her, open prairie with an occasional deep river valley or flat-topped mesa with steep slopes, stretched into forever. Ahead, behind the grouped-together tipis, towering rocks and forests rose high. There she might find places to hide, but they were still too far away to be of use. Even the river they had followed didn’t offer much in the way of concealment.
“Inanhni yo!” Striking Thunder ordered, motioning for her to catch up.
A sudden gust of wind whipped her shortened skirts around her legs and several drops of rain hit her face. The impending storm echoed the emotions churning deep within. Emma tried to quell the rising panic, but with each plodding, exhausted step toward the unknown, a sense of doom grew. Beside her, Striking Thunder led his exhausted horse and as much as she longed to ask him what would happen to her, she remained silent, unwilling to risk angering him. Suddenly and shockingly, came the awareness that the warrior who’d saved her from Yellow Dog now represented some small measure of security.
Unbelievably, she felt safe with Striking Thunder. He had kept his promise not to harm her, even if he had taken advantage of her to kiss her. Touching her lips, she recalled that brief, shared moment, welcomed that brief distraction from her fear of what she would soon encounter. But the sound of strange, high-pitched wails threw her back into the harsh, cold reality of her situation. Pinpoints of gooseflesh rose on her arms and chills that had nothing to do with the icy wind raced down her back. The beat of drums joined the wailing, lending a frightening undertone to the atmosphere of gloom. The sound cloaked the land, thick and suffocating in its intensity.
Even Striking Thunder seemed affected by the sound. Emma felt the tension radiating from the tightly coiled muscles of his upper, arms, the bunched sinews of his thighs and the rigid line of his shoulders. Stopping, Emma pressed her hands to her belly. “What is it?”
Striking Thunder glanced at her over his shoulder. Eyes of black ice bore into hers. “My people mourn.”
Emma tried swallowing past the tight lump in her throat. “Y-your wife?”
Striking Thunder stopped abruptly. “My people mourn the loss of many.” His eyes went bleak with pain as he listened to the drums. “A great warrior died while avenging the deaths of our people. He died avenging the wrongs of your father.”
Fury filled those dark eyes, causing Emma to stumble back a step. She pressed her fingers to her mouth to still the trembling. He’d again accused her father of murder. She shook her head, denying what he said.
Striking Thunder closed the distance between them. His voice simmered with repressed violence. “For your own good, I give this warning. Be silent. Speak when spoken to and do as told.” He stalked away but Emma’s feet refused to budge. She trembled with the force of her denial. She had to convince him he was wrong about her father. With a spurt of courage, she ran after him and grabbed his arm.
“Wait!” A ripple of warmth traveled up her arm and lodged in her cheeks at the feel of those hardened muscles beneath her icy fingers. At his contemptuous glare, she clasped her shaking hands tightly behind her back. “My father wouldn’t—”
Faster than a striking snake, Striking Thunder’s hand shot out to grip her chin. The hard bite of his fingers silenced her protest. “Many will hold you responsible for the actions of your father. Do you wish to be stoned or tortured?”
A wave of terror, stark and vivid, chilled Emma. The trembling she’d fought spread to her legs and threatened to bring her to her knees.
Striking Thunder eased his grip and stepped back a pace. “I promised no harm would befall you and I will keep my word. But hear me well, white woman. These are my people, I, their chief. They will do as I ask, but how you are treated during your stay will be determined by your own actions. Do you understand this?”
Emma nodded then followed after him, slowly, fearing even more so the reception of those who would blame her for crimes her father had supposedly committed. She pressed a fist into her stomach to fight the churning nausea.
“Oh, Papa, what is going on?” she whispered, and for the first time, she admitted to herself that she didn’t really know the man she called “Papa” or of what he was capable.
Chapter Nine
Refreshed by a bath in the cold stream and dressed in his finest loincloth, leggings and moccasins, Striking Thunder strode through the circles of tipis. On his head, he wore a short headdress made from the feathers of a golden eagle. The wind ruffle
d those feathers and fanned his long, black hair out behind him.
Tonight, around the fire, his warriors would gather to count coup and extol the virtues of the deceased and celebrate the death of Yellow Dog. But in his heart, Striking Thunder didn’t feel victorious. He couldn’t celebrate until he had killed the colonel and captain for their parts in the death of his people. And he would. It was only a matter of time, patience and careful planning. He’d have his vengeance.
Thinking about the forthcoming meeting and his news brought the white woman to mind. Upon his return, he’d taken her to his tipi and left her. He wasn’t worried she’d try to escape—at least not yet—for there was no way she’d get more than a few steps with his people closely observing her.
When he came to the council lodge erected near the center of the inner circle of tipis, he ducked inside where the men of his village, ranging from the youngest brave to the eldest warrior, gathered to await word from their chief. Solemn-faced, they sat cross-legged on either side of the fire, forming two half circles, with another row of warriors squatting behind.
Silence reigned, all eyes focused on him as he took up his position at the back of the lodge. Sitting, he rested the back of his hands on his crossed thighs, palms open and face up. Once he’d cleared his mind of all thought and emotion, he lit a long wooden pipe.
His voice filled the room as with great ceremony, he lifted the lighted pipe first toward the heavens, then pointed it toward the earth. He then offered it to each of the four winds: South, West, North, East.
Done, he closed his eyes and drew in the smoke from the sacred mixture of herbs. He released it slowly, reverently. Silently, he passed the pipe to his left—with the passing sun. No one spoke, though each was curious to hear what their chief had to say. News of the white woman’s presence had spread from one tipi to the next until all had heard.
Sadness filled Striking Thunder’s heart. The women outside continued to wail and weep over the death of a brave warrior, echoing his own wail of grief. It would be a long time before he’d be free to deal with the pain of his loss. Deliberately, he shoved the sorrow aside. Across from him, his father, Golden Eagle, who’d once been their chief, sent him a questioning look.
Striking Thunder saw the shadows in his father’s eyes and knew he worried over the presence of a white captive in their village. There had been none since Golden Eagle had brought a young girl known as Sarah Cartier into their midst, determined to marry her, even against his father’s wishes.
Unease slithered through him at the realization that like his father, the son had returned from a war party with a captive woman in tow. But unlike his father, Striking Thunder wasn’t trying to protect Emma from a villainous relative. These circumstances were different. The white woman’s presence was necessary to secure revenge. So why was he suddenly trying to justify his actions? He knew the answer. He dreaded his mother’s displeasure.
Before he could contemplate the difficult scene that would follow this meeting, the pipe returned to him. Setting it down before him, he stood and, in a voice vibrating with emotion, told in great detail of his days hunting down Yellow Dog and of his victory over their enemy. Cheers filled the tipi.
The mood shifted, quieted, when he spoke of Two-Ree’s bravery. Shoulders rounded as grief settled over the gathered warriors. He made sure that all learned it had been Two-Ree who’d known—through his wife’s visions—of Emma and the role she would play in their pursuit of revenge. He held out the belt buckle. “This belongs to the soldier in charge of the fort and is proof he lies when he speaks of peace.” He allowed each warrior time to absorb his news.
Voices broke out as each man made comment to his neighbor. One loud voice drowned out all others. “Are we to let the white soldiers kill our women and elders? We must prove the Sioux are mighty. I say we call together all our great chiefs, band together and drive the white soldiers from land that doesn’t belong to them.”
Murmurs of agreement rose. Striking Thunder held up his hand. All fell silent “There are too many soldiers and the risk to our people great.” He waited a beat. “My brothers, I have a plan. This woman’s father will search for her, first among our enemy, the Arikara, but he will not find her there. We will use the white woman to lure him to us when the time is right.” He raised a fist high. “Revenge will be ours.” Loud whoops greeted his announcement.
An aging warrior named Singing Crow stood. In a soft, singsong voice, he trilled, “What is to become of the woman with hair the color of fire and eyes as green as new grass?”
All eyes returned to Striking Thunder. He glanced around at the men sitting before him. “Before I knew of her identity, I gave my word not to harm her and to return her to the fort—to show the soldiers that the Sioux want only peace, unlike our enemy, the Arikara.” A rumble of protest arose. Again, he held up one palm.
“It is the will of Wakan Tanka. The spirits revealed the truth only after I made my promise. We must release the woman, but not until we have our revenge on her father and the captain.”
Though some voices had quieted, others still rose in protest One, louder than the others, belonged to a young warrior named Waho. He stood, his face flushed with anger. “Hun, hun, hay! Yellow Dog killed my sister. Never again will her sweet young voice fill the air. I say this woman should be given to me.” His dark eyes shone with lust.
Striking Thunder narrowed his eyes. Waho was a troublemaker. His name, which meant howler, fit well; he was always protesting and stirring up trouble.
Standing, Golden Eagle defended his son’s decision. “You question our chief? Have you forgotten that your sister was his wife, murdered by Yellow Dog? It is his choice what is to become of this woman.” Murmurs of agreement rose.
Waho flushed a dull, angry red but didn’t back down. His glare challenged Striking Thunder’s decision. “Have you forgotten my sister so soon that you wish to take a white woman to your mat?”
Furious, Striking Thunder let his silence speak more loudly than any harsh words. Only when Waho finally sat back down, did he address his people. “I have told you of my promise to this woman. It is the will of the spirits or they would have revealed her connection with the white soldier first. The Sioux are honorable. Would you have me break my word, bring dishonor to our tribe of Miniconjou Sioux?” He waited a heartbeat.
“I will return her when we no longer have use for her. Until then, she will lodge with my sister. Star Dreamer.”
Waho once more protested. “I say the council should decide where the white woman stays.” He glanced around, seeking support. Low murmurs wound their way from one end of the lodge to the other.
Golden Eagle speared Waho with a forbidding glare. “Was not my daughter’s husband the one responsible for convincing our chief to go after this woman? Did she not see this woman in a vision and share this with her husband? Did my daughter not see her own husband’s death and start mourning long before his body returned to us? Star Dreamer has no husband. With two young children to care for, my son is thoughtful to consider her needs.”
Grateful for his father’s support, Striking Thunder’s voice rang out strong with conviction as he summed up their course of action. “The spirits led us to the daughter of our enemy. They demand she remain unharmed and be released when we have no further use for her. If we do not honor their wishes, we risk angering them.” The last was spoken quietly. No one protested, not even Waho.
Inside Striking Thunder’s tipi, Emma turned in a slow circle surprised to find the inside of the cone-shaped dwelling was roomy, bright and airy. Though the top was open, it was pleasantly warm inside. Hides sewn together then stretched over tall poles sheltered her from the gusting wind outside.
From the poles, both beautifully decorated and plain-leather pouches hung. Carefully, she lifted one down. It was covered with exquisite beadwork in yellows, blacks and reds on both sides. Inside, she found sewing supplies: long, colored needlelike sticks, beads and what she assumed was some sort of threa
d, though it was quite thick. There was also a smaller pouch with downy-soft feathers inside. She chewed on the inside of her cheek. These had obviously belonged to Striking Thunder’s deceased wife.
Setting it back where she found it, she glanced inside the other ones. Each held various food supplies and strange implements. As she handled the strange items, she wished circumstances were different. How many times in the past had she bemoaned her dreary life, wanting nothing more than to leave it behind to explore the world, learn about other people and places? But always, her number one priority had been the duty thrust upon her first by her father, then later, her aunt.
Reminded of her failure to protect her sister, the urge to explore left her. Harsh reality set in. This wasn’t some pleasure trip or exploration. She was here against her will and Heaven only knew what had become of Renny—if she was even still alive.
Sinking onto one of the fur-piled pallets, Emma dropped her head into her hands, unable to blot out the sound of her sister’s screams echoing in her head. She’d never forget the sight of Renny’s face, stark-white with terror as she was torn from her.
“Oh, God.” She rocked back and forth. How could she live with the consequences of her error in judgment? “Don’t fall apart, not now,” she whispered. With effort, she forced the nightmarish vision from her and shoved her tangled hair from her eyes. Exhaustion, fear and worry swept through her. She longed to close her eyes and lose herself in a deep, dreamless sleep. The softness of the thick fur beneath her lured her tired, aching body. She fought it and jumped to her feet.
She had to stay alert. Shoving aside the flap covering the round entrance to the tipi, Emma peered outside. A short distance away, she spotted the river, wide and fast-flowing. The wind from the approaching storm whipped the surface into a white froth. Once again, her gaze shifted beyond the tipis to the dark mountain to the west. It towered like some black, shadowy wall. She bit her lip in anticipation.
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