White Flame

by Susan Edwards

  “Emma, did I do this right? I want to draw your sister.”

  With a suppressed sigh, Emma turned her attention to Morning Moon and her sketch. Her breath caught in her throat. While the drawing was rough and quite crude, Morning Moon had drawn a pair of wide eyes in a hauntingly familiar-shaped face. While none of the other features were true to life, the eyes—

  Oh, God. She pressed a hand to her throat and stared at Renny’s eyes. The shape, the wide-eyed intelligence and the mischievousness were all there and made Emma want to weep. But she didn’t want to frighten Morning Moon.

  She smiled weakly. “You did an excellent job.” Taking the stick from Morning Moon, Emma added a couple of lines and rubbed the charcoal in, shading them to give the drawing depth. “There.”

  Morning Moon closed her eyes then nodded. “Yes. That’s better.” Then she frowned. “I can’t seem to get the nose or mouth right. I can’t see them so good.”

  Emma couldn’t help but wonder what the child meant. Morning Moon couldn’t know what Renny looked like—unless she’d used Emma as her model in the assumption that the sisters looked alike. That was the only scenario that made any kind of sense. Though Renny favored their mother and she their father, there was enough resemblance between them that the relationship was obvious.

  Tweaking one of Morning Moon’s black braids, Emma hugged the girl. “Do not be in such a hurry. It takes time and lots of practice to be able to draw people.” The girl nodded then ran off to join her friends. Star rejoined her and together, they started in on the evening meal. After a few minutes, Emma glanced around again. Still no sign of Striking Thunder. And though she told herself it was good, that she didn’t need or want to see him, she missed his arrogant presence.

  “My brother has gone.”

  Startled, Emma eyed Star. She didn’t bother pretending not to know to whom the other woman referred. “Gone? Where?”

  Shrugging, Star used a forked stick to remove a hot stone from the fire pit. She dropped it into the pouch of water hanging from the cook-fire tripod. Their method of heating water without the use of pots still amazed Emma. She eyed the stomach lining of a buffalo, which served as their container. It was clever, yet disgusting—especially as someone would eat the pouch after the meal was served from it. “I do not know. Our warriors often go off alone, sometimes for many days.” Her gaze sharpened on Emma’s. “You were out late last night.”

  Emma felt her skin flush. She glanced down at her trembling hands. “I couldn’t sleep, so I went for a walk.”

  Worry lined Star’s forehead. She leaned forward. “You must be careful. Do not go far.”

  “I know. Your brother informed me.”

  At that, Star lifted a brow. “And when did he tell you this? Last night?”

  Remembering all that had happened between them, Emma flushed. “Yes. He followed and explained the dangers, making his point.” Her mood darkened when she recalled his method of proving he spoke the truth. Glancing at Star, she frowned at the look the woman wore.

  “I think he did more than talk to you last night.”

  Emma narrowed her eyes, glad the other women had gone off to tend to their families.

  “What makes you think that?”

  Star reached out and ran the tip of a finger along each cheek and the flush staining her still-pale skin. “This.”

  Horribly embarrassed, Emma crushed the dried herbs and added them to the simmering water, keeping her back to Star. “Well, I’m glad he’s gone and I hope he stays away.”

  “He’s confused.”

  Emma snorted. “He’s arrogant and insufferable.”

  After considering Emma’s words, Star agreed and added some white roots to the stew. “Yes. He is. But you must understand why. He has great responsibility as our chief. My brother has always taken that responsibility seriously, putting duty above even his own needs. He has yet to find balance. You will help him.”

  “Me? Not a chance. I’m not going to have anything more to do with him.” She tilted her chin defiantly.

  Star only smiled, which worried Emma. She knew about the woman’s supposed ability to see future events. While she wasn’t sure she believed in such things, Star Dreamer’s calm acceptance of her from the beginning made her uneasy. “Don’t even think it,” Emma warned.

  The Indian only grinned more widely, then ducked her head to hide her expression.

  “I’m serious, Star. I don’t plan on staying a moment longer than necessary.” Realizing she might sound ungrateful for the woman’s kindness to her, she added, “I do not mean any disrespect. You’ve been kind but this isn’t my world.”

  She stared out toward the hills. “Besides, how could I stay with a man who intends to kill my father? No. There is nothing here for me. When the time comes, I will leave.”

  Star laid a hand on Emma’s arm, her gaze serious once again. “Be careful, Emma. There are many changes to come. Do not act rashly.” She stood and walked away, leaving Emma alone.

  With a few minutes to herself, Emma picked up her pad and a pencil whittled to a point. Already it was a short stub. With a sigh, Emma knew it wouldn’t last much longer. White Wind had given it to her. In return, as Striking Thunder had asked, she’d sketched Dove and Golden Eagle. She’d already done one portrait of Star, capturing her haunted pain. Striking Thunder had returned it so that Emma could present it to his mother.

  Emma grinned. Dove, Star’s younger sister, had been easy and fun to draw. She found the woman to be high-spirited yet deep; there was a steel core that drove her to be constantly challenging the warriors. There was a complexity and a need to prove herself in this fashion that the rest of the women lacked.

  Emma regretted that she would never meet Striking Thunder’s brother White Wolf, who was in Oregon. She’d have liked to meet the last sibling in this close-knit family. Willing her mind to empty, she sketched. And as the form took shape, she was disconcerted to recognize Striking Thunder’s features staring back at her.

  Having put off drawing him, she allowed her hand to move across the page, stroking and shading. Perhaps if she drew him, she’d rid herself of his haunting image. Her mind wandered. She’d gotten little sleep the night before. All during the long hours of darkness, she’d replayed the scene beside the river, felt again his lips, hands and fingers moving over her body. Just thinking about Striking Thunder brought on the familiar throbbing. She shifted on the hard, cold ground.

  “This is crazy,” she muttered. What was wrong with her? Something in him called out to a part of her she’d never known existed. Here, with these people, she’d found the freedom to be herself, to explore and discover who she was.

  She recalled that young girl standing on the doorstep, calling out to her father, crying until her aunt had brought her back inside and told her she must not cry anymore. Young ladies had to be brave. They didn’t show the world their sorrow, they hid it beneath a cloak of dignity. And from that point, her life had changed, ruled by those who needed her to be strong. She’d been molded, trained to hide her feelings, ignore her emotions and follow the rules, even if they went against everything within her.

  Until now. Here, away from the stifling confines of proper society, she was discovering just who she really was and what she wanted from life. And it wasn’t to be molded into what some boor of a male thought a woman should be. Forget being serene, always acting proper and ladylike, and the rule that a young lady should never challenge or argue with a man. She grinned.

  Though she was a captive, that didn’t stop her from arguing with Striking Thunder. He challenged her as no other male ever had. When they entered a discussion, it was as equals—both with separate and defensible points of view. And like yesterday afternoon and last night, she’d stood up to him. It had felt good. Whether or not it had been wise to do so was another matter entirely. Which brought her full circle—back to last night and the knowledge that if he came to her now with the promise of more of what he’d shown her last night, she wou
ld go—willingly—and consequences be damned.

  Like a butterfly emerging from its cocoon, Emma stretched her mental wings and with her transformation, came the discovery of a woman with dreams of her own family. She longed for her own child, yearned also for someone to love her and put her needs first. She needed someone to lean on and trust to be there for her, no matter what. Grimacing, she was truly afraid she’d found that person: Striking Thunder.

  She, Emma O’Brien of St. Louis, was falling hopelessly in love with the maddeningly arrogant Indian chief who had freed her inner spirit and shown her there was much more to life than she’d ever imagined. Closing her eyes, Emma knew true fear. Somehow, she had to stop this from happening, for it was a dream beyond her reach.

  Setting the pencil down, she opened her eyes and stared at the portrait she’d drawn without any real thought or effort. While she’d expected to see Striking Thunder’s stoic features, what she saw made her heart thump.

  The features of the man she’d drawn bore little resemblance to the Indian chief she knew well. Somehow she’d captured Striking Thunder as he had looked last night. His hair, wild and loose, framed his face; his eyes, slightly hooded, promised total fulfillment. And his mouth… Oh, Lordy, just staring at those full lips stirred her blood anew and made her long to lose herself in his warm embrace.

  He was right when he’d said all he had to do was touch her and she’d gladly give herself to him. Just thinking of what he’d done to her, what he’d made her feel and where those clever fingers had touched made her tremble. But it was more than that. It was him—Striking Thunder, a man loyal to a fault to those he loved—who called out to her heart. What would it be like to be put first by him, to be his top concern?

  Heaven.

  And she knew he had it in him. Lord help her, she wanted it. All of it. To love him and have him love her in return.

  Standing, Emma ran to the tipi and hid the drawing. “This can’t be,” she whispered. Yet it was. She loved Striking Thunder.

  The temperature dropped drastically. Grady braced himself against another bitterly cold gust of wind. Soon, the weather would force him to give the order to turn back. The search party wasn’t outfitted for heavy snows.

  The idea of giving up, returning without his girls, sat like a heavy weight on his shoulders. It had been a month since he’d learned of Emma’s capture and left the fort under the temporary command of Captain Derek Sanders. He needed to get back to his duties, but how could he leave when his daughters were out here, somewhere? He had to find them. I promise, Margaret Mary, I’ll find them. I’ll find our girls. He closed his eyes against the tormenting guilt. He’d failed Margaret Mary with the greatest gifts she’d given him. And he’d failed Emma and the daughter he’d only seen once, the day he’d left to return to duty. No. He’d left to run and hide, using the army as a shield.

  Only now did he admit that his sister had been right. He’d run from his grief, shut himself off from the two most important people in his life. He drew a deep, shuddering breath. Oh, he’d meant to return. One assignment. Six months. That was all he’d planned to take. But one assignment had led to another and six months had bled into years. It had become easier not to return and face his loss. For not a day went by that he didn’t miss Margaret Mary and her sunny smile, twinkling eyes and contagious laughter. Not a night passed that he didn’t mourn the loss of her warm body next to his, cradled in his arms with the sweet scent of her luring him to sleep.

  And now, faced with the results of his selfishness, Grady knew true despair. Not only had he abandoned his children, he’d selfishly denied his sister a life of her own by dumping his children upon her. He prayed for forgiveness. With nearly every breath he took, he prayed.

  Please, God. Forgive me. Let me find my girls.

  Please, God. Give me another chance. I’ll take care of them. I’ll never leave them again.

  Please, God. Keep my girls safe.

  Over and over, he prayed, but so far his search had turned up nothing. Day after day, they searched Indian villages but found no trace of them. Today had been no different. He glanced around the gathered Arikara Indians, mostly women and children. Some wept. Others huddled together. The warriors stood stoically, surrounded by his soldiers whose rifles were poised and ready.

  His gut tightened as he stared into the wide, frightened features of the women and children. He was a peacekeeper by nature. Now he’d become the aggressor. Rage filled him. These people had stolen more than his daughters. They’d ripped out his heart and soul. He gripped his reins. His horse snorted in response. Taking hold of himself, he relaxed his fingers and banked his fury.

  He would not take out his anger on the innocent, especially women and children—though many under his command wouldn’t hesitate to destroy the village, steal what they could and kill every “savage.” But Grady was nothing if not fair. He’d mete out justice to only those responsible. Grady narrowed his gaze, his jaw tight. Yellow Dog would pay dearly for this crime. The return of one of his men drew his thoughts back to the ongoing search.

  “They’s not here, Kern’l. No sign of ’em neither.” The speaker, a soldier with no front teeth, sent a stream of tobacco onto the ground. “Whaddya want us ta do now?” One by one, each soldier rejoined him. He motioned for Zeb. “Ask again.”

  Zeb stepped forward and spoke to an old man with long, flowing white hair. There was much hand gesturing. Finally Zeb turned back to him. “Says he knows nothing about any white woman or child with red hair.”

  “Damn. See if he knows where to find Yellow Dog. Make sure they understand that no one here will be hurt. I only want Yellow Dog. He will hang for slaying my soldiers and taking Emma and Renny.”

  Once again, Zeb turned to the Arikara chief, but before he spoke, a woman stepped forward and chattered at the old man. After several minutes, Zeb, his features drawn with worry, returned to the colonel.

  Grady’s chest tightened with fear at the look on Zeb’s face. “Well, what happened? Tell me!”

  Zeb pointed to a woman. “She says Yellow Dog was killed by the Sioux. She, along with the rest of the women and children escaped. The next morning when they returned, it was to find all their men, including Yellow Dog, dead. This is the tribe of her husband’s family. She has returned here to raise her children.”

  “Did she see my daughters?” Excitement warred with fear. Oh, God, how would he live with himself if anything had happened to his little Emma?

  After Zeb repeated the question, the woman turned to him, her voice earnest, yet frightened. “Says Yellow Dog returned with a woman with hair the color of fire, but she never saw a child. And after the attack, the woman was gone.”

  A young boy stepped forward. He showed no sign of fear as he spoke to the chief. “Now what?” Grady demanded.

  “This boy is the woman’s son. He says he knows who killed his father and the rest of the Arikara warriors.”

  Grady turned to the boy. “Speak, boy. Who?”

  At a nod from his chief, the boy said, “Waagliheya Wakiyan.”

  Zeb glanced at Grady. “Name means Striking Thunder.”

  Grady knew that name, knew of the young chief who was determined to protect his land from the white man. At the thought of the fierce Sioux holding his daughter, his heart plummeted. He turned his gaze toward the west, toward Sioux land. His hopes of finding Emma and Renny alive dipped. The Sioux were the fiercest and most feared tribe in the region. They would be the hardest to subdue if it came to a battle to free Emma, even supposing he found her.

  The Sioux traveled and lived in small groups during most of the year, spreading themselves out across the plains and at the end of summer, they gathered in great numbers for celebrations and to conduct their sun-dance ceremonies. With winter approaching, they’d be even more spread out. Even the individual clans tended to separate along rivers in the winter, which made gathering them together for searches difficult.

  Grady scanned the sky, noting the dark, ominous
clouds. Another blast of cold air stung his cheeks. “We’ve got to find them.”

  Zeb frowned. “Beggin’ yer pardon, Kern’l, but the snows are comin’. We don’t have much time left and we’s nearly out of rations.”

  He considered his options and realized Zeb was right. Grady motioned for the soldiers to mount and when they were a safe distance away, he called a halt. His contingent of forty soldiers were bone-tired and cold. Culling out ten of his best men, he sent the rest back to the fort.

  He pointed his horse to the west and motioned the small group forward.

  Chapter Seventeen

  On foot, Striking Thunder wandered for a day then headed into the Black Hills, toward the towering Great Gray Rock jutting from a thick nest of pines and spruces. There, he would seek answers. It was there he’d had his first vision and learned that his sign in times of battle would be a flaming arrow.

  Another more recent vision had provided him with his raven as a special helper. Now he returned to seek new answers with regard to the white woman. Here, he’d lament and beg the spirits to tell him how to cleanse himself of her strong appeal. Reaching the base of the rock, he started his climb. Buffeted by frigid winds, he scrambled for a hold, his fingers so cold that he no longer felt them.

  At the top, he tossed down his bundle of supplies: a warm robe, his bow, his quiver of arrows and his shield—the only items needed by a warrior on the move. Inside the robe, he’d carried rocks. Taking them out, he set one down then placed the other four at points far around it, forming a large circle. Around his waist, he had his sacred medicine bundle.

  Wearing leggings and a buckskin shirt made by Meadowlark in preparation for the forthcoming winter, he lifted his hands to the heavens. Fringe dangled from his arms, playthings for the wind to toss and tangle. He turned in a circle, stopping at each direction to give a prayer, his voice loud and true as he lamented.