Sighing, she wished she knew what each symbol meant, what story it told, but sheer stubbornness kept her from asking and taking advantage of the opportunity to learn about a different culture by experience rather than from a book or newspaper account.
Showing interest might make it seem as though she had accepted her role of captive—and that she refused to do. She did what was expected of her, mostly because Star was kind to her and Emma didn’t want to be a burden to the grieving woman. Many nights, Emma woke to the sound of soft tears. She also acknowledged that she could be treated far worse if she rebelled so she’d slid into the routine demanded of her, embracing the hard work so that each night, she fell into bed too exhausted to lie awake and worry over the future.
But most of the labor required of the Indian women was repetitious and mindless. It left her free to think—too much sometimes—while she worked. Stopping at the edge of the village, she stared across the prairie, praying her father would find her before the snows made searching impossible. That was her only hope. He had to find her before Striking Thunder had time to prepare his trap. Not once did she allow herself to question whether her father was out searching. For her own sanity, she had to believe he was.
The long afternoon loomed before her. If she were home, she’d have spent the afternoon curled up in her favorite chair in front of a fire in her mother’s parlor, or if the day was particularly fine, she’d have spent a couple hours in the park with her paints. Even that option was out. She didn’t have a pencil or even paper to sketch with and wasn’t about to ask for the use of their Indian dyes.
Walking past a group of older men telling stories to children of all ages, she smiled. Some of the youngest ones had fallen asleep, pillowing their heads in the lap of an older child beside them. Too bad she didn’t understand enough of the language to listen from a distance.
Emma glanced around the quiet village. Different groups of women and girls of all ages chatted as they sewed or made sinew. Others sat around just visiting. She supposed she could join Star and her group and learn to bead and quill but she shied away from becoming involved any more than what was required of her. To join them in this social time meant encouraging friendliness, which risked forming attachments. And first chance she got, she planned to leave. She thought of the stash of dried meat and berries hidden among her things. Unlike Striking Thunder’s mother, she wasn’t going to be here long enough to adopt this way of life.
Pulling the end of her belt up, Emma counted the tiny lines she’d scored on one side. One for each day since Striking Thunder had found her. She figured it had to be near the end of October, now. Mentally, she ticked off the months. Six more to go before Striking Thunder released her. Six before he planned to kill her father. Six before she could arrange a search party for her sister.
Rounding another tipi, she came to an abrupt halt. Her absentminded meanderings had led her to the back of Striking Thunder’s tipi. And it was just her luck that he was there, painting a scene on the bleached hide. She grimaced. Though Star Dreamer wasn’t demanding, Striking Thunder made sure she was always kept busy.
Though he seldom spoke to her and never openly criticized her, his watchful silence spoke more than words when she did wrong; like the time when she’d torn a hole in the hide she was scraping because she wasn’t being careful, or whenever she burned a meal. And it wasn’t just him either. Others made their feelings known just by their silence. But as she improved, she’d also felt their unspoken praise.
This method of not openly criticizing one another was a major difference between the Indian world and hers. Being shamed and feeling humiliated among one’s peers was a far better tool than words raised in anger. It was much more subtle, and more compelling.
Leave, she commanded herself. The last thing she needed was another encounter with the arrogant warrior. But she didn’t leave. Running Elk hurried up to his uncle and without any sign of impatience, Striking Thunder stopped what he was doing. The sight of him crouched down with his arms around his nephew held her enthralled. He was teaching the boy how to shoot his bow and arrows.
Emma grinned. Running Elk never put the bow down, he even slept with his prized possession. From the cadence of Striking Thunder’s voice, she knew he was telling the child another story, a form of instruction, she’d come to realize. Sliding into the dark shadows between two tipis, she watched. Despite her resentment of Striking Thunder, she admired his patience with the young and his concern and respect of the elderly.
Running Elk shot off an arrow. It flew straight and true, landing a short ways away. The boy ran off to fetch it, shouting his happiness. Striking Thunder stood, smiling. The love and pride on his face touched a deep chord within her. With a start, she realized that because he thought himself alone, he’d lowered his guard.
Her own pulse quickened. The softening of his features made him one handsome man to look upon. Especially when he only wore his breechclout and left his hair unbraided as it was now. She loved his hair. Long, baby-fine, it fell in ripples halfway down his bare, golden back. Her fingers itched to go to him and feel its silky texture. Alarmed by the urge, she took a step back to beat a hasty retreat before he found her watching him. But without turning to face her, Striking Thunder spoke. “Do you not have work to do?”
Embarrassed to be caught staring at him, Emma’s good mood shifted. Her first impulse was to turn tail and leave before he found more work for her. No. She was fed up with his constant hounding. She did her share of work and was entitled to her share of free time. So she sauntered over. “Nope. I’m free to spend the afternoon as I like. Star thinks I work hard.”
Dipping one end of a slender bone into the paint, Striking Thunder returned to his work. “My sister is far too easy on you. As you have nothing to do but stand around, you may fill my water pouches and fetch more wood for the fire. That should keep you busy until time to prepare the evening meal.”
Narrowing her eyes, Emma decided it was time to play the game. She kept her eyes trained on the figures and shapes decorating his tipi. “Star Dreamer is kind, thoughtful and fair. Something her brother is not. He would take away this woman’s free time when she has earned it.”
Startled at her show of defiance and her method of turning the tables on him, Striking Thunder glanced at her. She meet his gaze. Green eyes clashed with brown. He grunted and went back to his work. “Then you will do as I’ve asked later.”
Pleased to have won that round even if it meant more work later, Emma walked around him to study another scene. She recognized his black raven and was impressed by the lifelike effect of the bird soaring over the taut hide with a herd of buffalo running below. She glanced up. The bird wasn’t in sight. Good. The stupid raven was always swooping down to try and pluck her braid.
Moving on to another scene, she lifted her brows at a brown hawk, eyes closed, its wings pulled back as it arrowed down the canvas from a gray cloud as if about to strike an unseen target. Next to it, Striking Thunder had painted the same bird with its beak wide open. And from brilliant golden eyes, jagged bolts of lightning flashed into the dark sky painted around it. The bird looked fierce and angry. She slid her eyes sideways. Much like the artist who’d drawn it.
“You’re good,” she admitted grudgingly, moving on to the scene he was currently painting. It showed two warriors. One with his fist held high in victory, the other, crumpled at the victor’s feet. Looking closer, seeing the yellow-painted face, she realized the slain warrior was Yellow Dog. She shuddered and stepped back as if the slain warrior could still reach out and do her harm. And in a way, he still could. Nightmares from those terror-filled days still haunted her. “Rather violent for my tastes, but good.”
Striking Thunder ignored her comment. Pointing to a fort surrounded by wagons and people, she asked, “What’s this one about?”
Expelling an exasperated breath, Striking Thunder glared at her. “Do you not have anything else to do?”
Emma glanced over her shoulder a
t him, pleased to have irritated him. Normally in her presence, he remained stoic and unemotional, barking out his orders. She held up one hand and ticked off her fingers. “Let’s see. No books lying around to read. No carriages to take me shopping. No balls to attend. No letters to write. No mail service, even if there were, and—” her voice broke slightly “—and no little sister to chase after. So no, guess there’s not much to do out in this barren, godforsaken land.”
Using the sharp bone he used as a brush as a pointer, Striking Thunder indicated various groups of women sewing or painting quills. “There is much you could do instead of asking questions of this warrior.”
Emma lifted her shoulder. “Why bother? By the time I master those skills, I’ll be gone. When I return to St. Louis, I won’t have need of deerskin dresses.”
Striking Thunder narrowed his eyes, a sure sign that she was pushing his patience. Good. How many times since her arrival had he driven her to the point of anger, knowing full well she couldn’t say anything?”
Setting the bone down, he regarded her with contempt. “No. You’ll return to a life centered on proving how much better you are than your neighbor. You’ll go about each day without realizing all you have to be thankful for in your quest for more. And you won’t care about the cost to the land or the people, as long as you have what you want in your search for happiness.”
His counterattack stung. “That’s not true.”
“No? How many dresses hang in your closet? How much material is wasted by clothing thrown out because the styles change each season? How many women wear a garment only once and discard it?
“Your people seek things to make them happy, to make them feel important yet most of it sits and gathers dust. Always, the white man has need for more. Bigger houses. More land. More wealth. Look around you. We only have what we need.”
Slapping her hands on her hips, Emma glared at him. “It’s not fair to compare us. We live differently. You can’t judge us because we don’t live as—”
“Savages?” He bit out the word. Placing his hands on her shoulders, he spun her around to face the rest of the village. “Look around you, Emma. We have so little, and yes, we live primitively by your standards, yet all we need is here. We are rich in our lives, not in our bank accounts. It is people and families we value, not objects. You think you live a superior life, but you are no happier.”
What he said was true. His people were not only happy but content. She shrugged free of his disturbing hold. “How do you know so much about it?”
Striking Thunder grinned and looked pleased with himself. “It is wise to learn all one can about your enemy. Do we not know how each animal lives? We study them, learn from them and use the knowledge they give us.” His grin turned wolfish. “With the whites, it is no different.”
Turning serious, he stared over her head, his eyes coming to rest on each of the people in his village. “My mother made sure her children were educated in both their Indian and white heritage. Each spring, my brother White Wolf, who lives among the whites, and I go to your towns to trade and buy supplies. There, I see your houses of wood and stores filled with goods and places where men drink your spirits and leave swaying on their feet. Are they happy with their minds clouded by alcohol?”
Emma paced. “Some may not be happy, but most are.”
“And you, Emma. Were you happy in your house of wood?”
The question took her by surprise. It was the first time he’d asked her a personal question. And it struck a raw nerve. For only here had she begun to see that in truth, she’d been very unsatisfied with her life. Out here, there were no restrictive conventions. Here one could, and was encouraged to, speak one’s mind. And for reasons she didn’t understand, though she was a captive, she felt free for the first time in her life.
She did not admit any of this to Striking Thunder. She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. “Of course I was happy. It was my life, one taken from me first by Yellow Dog then by you.”
Striking Thunder’s features gentled, his eyes softening. “Then why did you leave your home? What drove you to travel a long distance to a land unsafe for white women? Do not lie and tell me you were happy, Emma. In your eyes, I see it isn’t so.”
Mesmerized by the unexpected tenderness in him, she whispered, “You wouldn’t understand or care.” Some part of her wanted him to care. This was a side of Striking Thunder she hadn’t seen. Not only had he backed down on his orders—by action if not by words—but he allowed her to voice her views, allowing her to come to her own conclusions. But his insight into her own heart left her reeling and wishing that he truly did care.
Striking Thunder reached out to finger one golden-red braid. “That is where you are wrong, white woman. There is much about you this warrior understands.” Tugging gently on her braid, he drew her close. Tucked out of sight from the others, they stared at each other, devoured each other with heated gazes. Emma held her breath. With his gaze alone, she felt kissed. But it wasn’t enough. He’d touched her mind and heart, now she wanted him. His mouth hovered just over hers. Their breaths mingled, hot and sweet.
His hand slid from her braid to the back of her neck. She leaned into that warm hand and waited, her lips parting with breathless anticipation. Finally, his mouth whispered a kiss across her lips. Lifting up, Emma sought more. Striking Thunder obliged in a slow, tender and thoughtful kiss that sent shivers of pleasure down her spine.
The kiss lasted forever and stayed sweet until noisy shouts of children running toward them intruded. Striking Thunder broke the contact. Four boys ran past yet their gazes remained locked, each longing for more of what the other had to offer. Striking Thunder reached out to stroke her cheek. “You make this warrior want what he cannot have, white woman.”
His kiss, his gentleness made her yearn for the forbidden as well. Gone was the ruthless warrior. The change confused her. “You say you understand, yet you would kill my father and deny my sister the father she so desperately longs for?”
Striking Thunder’s hand fell to his side. He stepped away, his eyes hard. He drew his lips together in a line of displeasure. “A man who abandons his family and destroys others doesn’t deserve the gift of life.”
Emma paled, shaken by his quick mood change and his belief that he had the right to judge and take lives. “Who appointed you God?”
His head lifted and his hands bunched into fists at his side. “I am chief. It is my duty to see justice served when wrongs against my people are committed.”
“And if you are wrong? Who will pay the price? You? Your people? No. It will be a young innocent girl—if I ever find her. Think of that when you contemplate killing him.” Furious, Emma stalked away, her afternoon ruined by a stubborn, arrogant and frustrating warrior whose kiss transported her to a heavenly world where everything turned soft and wispy as the clouds floating across the blue sky.
Across the village, she stopped. Anger, frustration and confusion boiled inside her and screamed for release. Why him? Why did he have to stir her and make her long for things she couldn’t have? She pulled at her fingers and searched around her. If she didn’t find a distraction, she’d go mad. If she were home, she’d take her paints and canvases outside and lose herself in her drawing until her mind and emotions equalized but here, she had nothing.
She kicked a rock. It landed in a fire pit in front of her and sent a partly charred stick flying into the air. It hit her dress, leaving a line of charcoal down the front of her skirt. Emma started brushing it away then stopped to stare at it. Charcoal. She picked up the stick and drew another line on the underside of her garment. Excitement grew as she varied the thickness of the strokes. Surveying the lines, she grinned. Crude, but it might work. Filled with purpose, Emma went to Star Dreamer’s tipi and slipped inside.
Striking Thunder felt guilty on two accounts. One for upsetting Emma needlessly. Her praise and appreciation for his work pleased him—too much—as did her response to his kiss. And two, for withho
lding the knowledge of her sister’s whereabouts. He frowned, torn by her pain and worry.
The horse Emma had taken from Yellow Dog had belonged to the Cheyenne who’d traded horses for the girl. With faint paint marks remaining on the animals haunches, Striking Thunder had traced the animal back to his owner—and Renny.
Knowing how much Emma worried, he was tempted to call her back and give her peace of mind on that account but instinctively, he knew it wouldn’t be enough. If she knew Renny was in the region, she’d insist upon going to her or upon him bringing her here. And that was out of the question. In case his plan to lure the colonel into a trap failed, he needed the two sisters apart. Besides, once she had Renny with her, there wouldn’t be any reason for her not to run.
No, it was better for her not to know where the child was or that he’d purchased her. It was bad enough that Renny knew he had Emma. He thought back to his first meeting with the sullen and unhappy child who kept trying to run off to find her sister. He grinned inwardly. How alike the two were. So spirited. So loyal. And when Renny turned those beseeching blue-gray eyes on him, he’d lost the ability to remain impassive. She’d reminded him of Emma so much, he’d finally given in and reassured her that Emma was safe.
The sullen and depressed girl had turned eager and demanding, insisting he take her to Emma, but Striking Thunder had managed to convince her that it wasn’t yet possible. He’d found himself promising they would be together come spring. His story that her Indian owner demanded many horses and buffalo robes for her release and that it would take most of the winter to gather them had worked. And for good measure and to distract her, he’d given her one of the horses he brought with him as payment for her after she’d promised to stay where she was and give her owner no more trouble.
Unlike Emma, who was nothing but trouble.
Anger rolled through him over his conflicting emotions. The woman was his captive, the means to avenge his wife’s death and the others’, but he couldn’t help feeling compassion toward her. From what she’d told Star, she’d been given the task of raising her sister at a young age. This he didn’t understand. How could any father turn his back on his own children? In his eyes, Colonel Grady O’Brien had failed in his most important duty—family.
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