White Flame

by Susan Edwards

  A long-buried rebellion within Emma rose to the surface. She was tired of taking orders, of being told what to do, first by a father who’d destroyed her carefree childhood, and now some savage intent on killing that father. Well, she wouldn’t do it. Emma stood her ground.

  “I won’t bathe in the river.”

  Without taking his eyes off Emma, Striking Thunder said something to his sister. Star Dreamer hurried away.

  Striking Thunder advanced until he stood toe to toe with Emma. With compressed lips, he reached out and turned her around so that she faced the water. Before Emma had a chance to wonder what he was going to do, she heard the rending of cloth seconds before she felt the icy brush of air on her back, from neck to the base of her spine. Screeching in shock, she held the dress to her breasts and rounded on him but he swept an arm around her waist and lifted her off her feet. To her horror, he waded toward the middle of the stream.

  Emma panicked and grabbed on to Striking Thunder’s shoulders, but he dumped her into the water. She gasped at the shock of the cold water, barely having time to close her mouth before the water closed over her head. She flailed her arms and kicked. Strong hands hauled her up. Coughing and choking, she clung to Striking Thunder. He thumped her on the back, then carried her toward the shallows. Releasing her, he stared down at her. “You will also learn to swim.”

  Too furious to consider her words, Emma smacked the surface of the water and shouted, “Go to He—”

  “Careful, Emma. Do not push me.”

  A soft voice from the bank drew their attention. Star Dreamer, along with her daughter, stood behind Striking Thunder. He held out his hand. Star Dreamer tossed him a bar of soap. He handed it to Emma. “You will give me the dress.”

  Seeing no point in further refusal, especially as he’d destroyed the dress completely, and her teeth were starting to clatter, Emma ducked down until the water rose higher than her chest and slid out of her clothing. Hating the look of triumph on his face, she wadded the ruined cloth into a ball then threw it at him. Striking Thunder caught it and left without another word.

  An hour later, Emma had to admit she felt better. Not only was she clean, with her hair in two neat plaits, but she was warmer. The dress Star Dreamer had given her had long sleeves and, beneath the long skirt, she wore a pair of fur-lined leggings. On her feet, she wore lined moccasins. When her new mistress called her, she obeyed. After all, it wasn’t Star Dreamer’s fault her brother was a hateful, arrogant bastard.

  Thus began her first day among a tribe of savages.

  From her place beside the smoldering cook-fire, White Wind stopped grinding pine nuts for their midday meal and watched the white girl follow her daughter across the camp to where several buffalo skins were pegged to the ground. She wasn’t sure how she felt at the sight of a captive woman among them. Their tiyospaye, or clan, never took captives.

  One pale braid fell across her shoulder. She stared at it. More white than yellow, it reminded her that though she’d lived as an Indian for more than twenty-eight years, she, too, was part white and had once been brought to her husband’s tribe against her will as a young woman.

  Fondly recalling her first meeting with the golden warrior she’d married, White Wind chuckled softly. The night she’d run away from her loathsome guardian, Golden Eagle had followed her and refused to allow her to continue on her own, alone in the wilderness. Instead, he’d promised protection against her stepfather, and to help locate her true father if she stayed with him. She had stayed, not knowing he was to wed at the end of that summer to a woman of his father’s choosing.

  Her eyes misted over as she recalled that summer long past. Life had been good, she mused. She had four wonderful children and a new daughter-in-law, her son Wolf’s new bride. And soon, she’d have more grandbabies. But even those happy thoughts couldn’t erase the worry when she caught her elder son, Striking Thunder, watching the white woman he’d brought to their village. She knew the details and didn’t like the situation, not one bit.

  Warm hands closed over her shoulders. “Do not interfere, my wife.”

  White Wind glanced at her husband. “What our son plans is wrong.”

  “Our son is chief. He will do what is right.”

  Tilting her chin in a manner that let him know she wasn’t going to be put off, White Wind stood. “Yes, my husband. Striking Thunder will do what is right—or deal with his mother.” With that, she stalked away.

  Golden Eagle glanced skyward and implored the spirits to watch over his family. For the most part, his wife had adapted to the Indian ways, except with regard to family. She tolerated no distance between her and her sons, nor did she hold to the belief that a son fell to the jurisdiction of the father and other male role models. If he or either of their sons did something to displease or disappoint her, she made it very clear and as a rule, the males in his family quickly conceded to her wishes. It was a vast source of amusement to the rest of the tribe.

  He was joined by their youngest daughter, White Dove, who sat beside him around the warm fire. In her hands, she held a half-dozen dried and straight shafts for making arrows. Arrows. He shook his head. His daughter’s skill in making and shooting them was as good as any of the male warriors in his tribe. Pride filled him. How could she not be, with her aunts instructing her?

  Again, his family had broken tradition. Both his sister Winona, and his wife’s sister Wild-Flower, had been raised in an unorthodox manner—and both had encouraged Dove to master skills boys learned, whenever they visited. He sat a bit straighter. Of course he, too, took pride in Dove’s natural ability. She’d learned from the best—him.

  “Mother is angry.”

  Golden Eagle met his daughter’s sparkling hazel eyes with a lift of his brow. “Angry is not what I’d use to describe your mother’s feelings on this subject.”

  Dove grinned. “I’d hate to be my brother right now.” She pointed at White Wind and Striking Thunder.

  Golden Eagle spotted his wife and son arguing. He stood. “We need meat for the evening meal.”

  Standing as well, Dove lifted a brow in perfect imitation of her father. “Coward.”

  Glancing over his shoulder, Golden Eagle vowed to stay away for the rest of the day. He eyed Dove. “You coming or staying?”

  Grinning, Dove followed him into their tipi and fetched her quiver of arrows and bow. “I’m no fool.”

  Striking Thunder watched Emma. Kneeling on the cold ground, she rubbed the cooked brains of the buffalo into a hide stretched between wooden pegs. He was somewhat surprised to see her dipping her hands into the mixture that would make the hide supple. He’d have expected her to refuse, finding it much too disgusting as most white women would have.

  The white woman worked well and wasn’t giving Star trouble; he had no reason to stand watching her. He had work to do—warrior’s work—yet when he forced his feet into motion, they led him closer to the woman. Near her, Star and Morning Moon removed flesh and hair from another hide. Their last hunt had been successful. He drew in a deep breath, reminded that he’d also lost his wife and others had lost their loved ones during that outing. He put his grief aside to be dealt with later.

  Emma stood and stretched, drawing his gaze to her figure. The buckskin dress, belted around her waist with a strip of leather, revealed a figure with nicely rounded hips, full breasts, long legs and nicely shaped calves. Most Indian women were shorter, but on Emma, the added inches enhanced her feminine form.

  She turned, as if sensing his presence. Their gazes clashed. With a look of dislike, she stepped around to the other side of the hide, pointedly ignoring him. Unable to allow the challenge to go unheeded, he followed and stood close. She worked the white paste into the hide, ignoring him.

  He should have been pleased, but the fact that thoughts of her kept him from his business irritated him. Her hands shook, belying her appearance of calm, and when she clumsily spilled some of the precious mixture, he felt better. She wasn’t unaware of him,
either.

  Finally, she turned to him. “Must you stand there? It’s cold and I wish to finish so I can wash my hands of this…this icky stuff.” She rubbed her fingers together.

  Striking Thunder pointed to the spilled patch of white soaking into the earth. “Each animal has only enough brains to tan itself. Be careful not waste it.”

  Emma’s jaw dropped as she turned her hands over and stared at them. “What did you say?”

  Striking Thunder indicated her grayish-white hands. “Brains. We use the animal’s brains to soften its skin. They are precious and are not to be wasted.”

  Seeing the color fleeing her face, Striking Thunder raised an eyebrow, amused. “My sister did not tell you what it is you are using?”

  “N-no. She didn’t,” she whispered. Lifting her gaze to his, her eyes suddenly rolled back in her head.

  When her body crumpled, he reached out and caught her. All feelings of triumph fled at her reaction. Yes, he’d wanted to shock her, wipe that haughty look from her face, but not make her faint. Now what?

  His mother shoved past him. Her furious bright blue eyes glared at him. “Fetch water.”

  Striking Thunder did as he was bid. In minutes, Emma came to. Her hands had been washed clean of the brain-and-sage mixture. Sitting, she took several deep breaths then burst into tears. In over his head with a weeping female, he took a step back, but at the look White Wind sent him, he stopped. Star Dreamer rushed over, and when she learned what had happened, sent him a look that he knew well. She led Emma away, leaving mother and son alone.

  White Wind stood. “I will speak to you, my son.” She walked away from the gathered crowd.

  Though he was a grown man and chief of their tribe, Striking Thunder felt like an errant boy about to be shamed. But nothing she said would change his mind. Though she wasn’t happy about Emma and the circumstances in which he’d brought her to the village, she would just have to accept it.

  “You should be ashamed of yourself for what you did—and for what you did to her earlier down at the river. You should never have brought her here. I ask you to release her; return her to her people and forgo this plan of revenge. It is not right.”

  Striking Thunder clasped his hands behind his back and unlike most Sioux men, he met her gaze squarely with his own. “I respect you, Mother. You are wise, but the white girl is none of your concern. I am chief. I will decide what is right.”

  Keeping his features impassive, he winced inwardly at the look of fury on her face. From the corner of his eye, he saw his father and sister ride away. He wished he dared to ride after them. He stifled a sigh. Chief or not, when his mother was determined to have her say, nothing stopped her.

  “I am disappointed in you, my son. More violence and killing will not bring your wife back. The white woman had nothing to do with the killing of her or the others.”

  He sighed. “I know this and for that, I have promised no harm would come to her. She will be returned to her people unharmed.”

  “And that will put her mind and heart at ease when she knows you plan to use her to kill her father? What if her father is innocent of the crimes Yellow Dog accuses him of committing?”

  “I know the truth.”

  “Do you? And if you are wrong? What then? What of her?”

  Tired of having his judgment questioned by the women who surrounded him, he held up his hand. “Enough. I will not release her or be swayed by emotion. I am a warrior. I have responsibilities to our people. We are fair. I will give the white woman’s father a chance to prove his innocence. If he cannot, he will die. The needs of The People will be met.”

  White Wind’s gaze held a hint of troubled sorrow. “And what of your needs? When will you tend to those?”

  As he’d done, she held her hand up when he opened his mouth to remind her that avenging his wife’s death was one of his needs.

  “Do not say it.” Her gaze softened. “Think you that this mother does not know you married Meadowlark to appease the council who wished to see their young chief married and settled? Though you found some happiness with her, she did not lay claim to your heart. A mother knows this, so do not try to tell me otherwise.”

  Striking Thunder didn’t bother to deny it. She was right. “That has nothing to do with the girl or what will be.”

  “True. I cannot force you to change your mind, but I will have your promise that you will keep her from harm. At least you had the good sense to give her to Star. I’ve heard Waho’s grumbles. He and his sister are very angry about your decision.”

  Striking Thunder reached out to tug gently at one of his mother’s long braids. Always, the color—or lack thereof—fascinated him. “My mother will not worry. This chief will deal with Waho and will keep the woman called Emma safe. He has already given his word.”

  White Wind’s gaze sharpened. “Do not think I haven’t seen you watching her with that same hunger as many other warriors in our village. I expect my son to keep her safe from all, including himself.” They stared at each other in silence. Finally, without another word, White Wind walked away.

  Striking Thunder turned his glare toward the white woman. Her hair, bright in the afternoon light, lit a fire in his loins. He hated to admit, even to himself, that his mother was right. He wanted nothing more than to take Emma to his sleeping mat and make her his. He was grateful his mother had not extracted a promise from him. He wasn’t sure he would have been able to give it.

  Chapter Twelve

  Sitting in the cool shade, Emma leaned against the side of a tipi, her stomach still queasy from the discovery that she’d had her hands up to her elbows in boiled brains. Drawing her knees to her chest, Emma hugged them tightly, feeling weak and washed-out after her hysterical bout of tears.

  Frowning, she fought both embarrassment and humiliation. She’d never fainted and seldom cried. But since leaving the Annabella, everything had changed. How could she endure this? She wasn’t cut out for this sort of life. Despair brought fresh tears to her eyes. How would she make it until March? She couldn’t scrape flesh and hair from hides, skin animals or—she shuddered—rub brains into the skins. And God only knew what else they’d ask her to do.

  Her resentment toward Striking Thunder grew. He’d known perfectly well she didn’t have any idea what she’d been rubbing into that skin and had purposely set out to shock and humiliate her. Her gaze shifted to where he and a woman with white braids argued. Who was she? Like the other women, she dressed in a simple, unadorned dress made from softened hides but her hair held faint traces of pale yellow. She wasn’t Indian. Was she a captive, too? Observing her and Striking Thunder, Emma could tell neither was happy with the other.

  The woman spun away and Striking Thunder glanced over his shoulder and speared Emma with a look of displeasure. Whatever they argued about concerned her. Good. Emma hoped the woman made his life difficult. He deserved it for doing this to her. She sent him a pleased smirk and had the pleasure of watching him stalk off.

  Her stomach settled, and her resolve returned. She’d survive—somehow. Turning her thoughts from the horrible experience, she took the opportunity to study her surroundings. The village was alive with activity. Several women sat and gossiped while grinding nuts and dried berries, others stooped over the funny-looking pouches that hung from tripods. Steam and aromatic scents rose from them. Earlier, she’d watched a woman bent-over with age add water and hot rocks to one of the pouches. This was apparently how they cooked their stews and heated water. Emma grimaced and decided she didn’t want to know where the elastic pale pouches came from.

  But what amazed her were the children. Even in the cooling weather, most ran around naked. From one group of women or men to another they would hurry. Some reached out to sample food being fixed or just plopped into an empty lap. No one minded. Three small naked boys ran in front of her. They stopped as one and stared at her, their eyes wide. Hesitantly, she smiled. Their round brown faces split into huge grins. The bravest one came close. He re
ached out and touched her braid, then jumped back as if afraid he would burn himself.

  Finding relief in such innocence, Emma laughed softly and held out her long braid. The other two bravely stretched out their arms to touch the red rope. All three broke into excited speech then ran off, shouting to a group of older boys. But when she spotted Morning Moon and three other girls playing with miniature tipis and dolls, she thought of Renny and her two favorite dolls, the ones that had once been Emma’s and were locked in the trunk aboard the Annabella. Renny would love to have an Indian doll and tipi to play with.

  “Where are you, Renny?” she asked quietly. “Are you well?” Was her sister being taken care of? Fed? Treated well? From what Emma saw here, the Indian people cared a great deal for children—but what about a white child? Would they treat her as a slave and mistreat her?

  Morning Moon glanced up. Emma stared into her wide, far-too-serious dark eyes. The girl stood and came to Emma. She removed a long beaded necklace from her neck and silently slipped it over Emma’s head. With one last solemn look, she ran back to her friends.

  Fingering the beaded gift, Emma studied the design. A round leather medallion with two stick figures beaded into the center hung from a narrow strip of leather. The figures, one tall, one shorter, stood with their hands clasped. Emma felt her throat clog. It reminded her of a mother and daughter. Or two sisters, one older, one younger. She stroked the intricate patterns of color circling the two figures, and felt a strange sense of hope and peace steal over her. One day, she and Renny would be reunited.

  Startled by the thought that seemed to come from nowhere, she glanced back at Morning Moon. How had the girl known? Staring at the gift, Emma shook her head. Of course she hadn’t. It was just wishful thinking on her part, the need to believe that she’d find Renny. The two figures hanging between her breasts must represent Morning Moon and her mother. Emma decided later she’d make sure that the girl hadn’t given away something she shouldn’t have.