Forging his way through the thickly wooded forests, Striking Thunder quickened his pace when the first fat snowflakes fell. By early afternoon, the storm broke, coating the land with a blanket of white. Finally, he came within sight of his village. He slowed, took stock of the scattered tipis. Some lined the bank, others were set up a short distance away.
After stowing his weapons in the tipi his mother or sister had set up for him, he started a small fire to warm the enclosure, then went to find Emma. During the day, she would continue to help Star Dreamer, but her nights now belonged to him. At Star’s tipi, he hailed, “Hau, my sister.”
Star Dreamer opened the flap. “Hau, my brother. It is good to have you back.” Her gaze roamed his features and like him, she gave none of her thoughts away.
Striking Thunder entered and addressed his reason for the visit. “Where is Emma?’
“In the woman’s lodge.”
Striking Thunder couldn’t help the stab of disappointment at the news. All during the day he’d envisioned the night to come and only now, faced with the prospect of postponing his plans to take her to his mat, did he realize how much he’d been looking forward to the night.
Morning Moon glanced up from an oval-shaped piece of hide and called him over to see her work. He stared down at her crude portrait of a laughing young girl. Brushing the girl’s braid over her shoulder, he hunched down at her level. “You are very good.” It was obvious that Emma had been instructing her, which reminded him of the day she’d done the same with him.
Staring closely, something about that picture drew his attention. It seemed familiar. Only the eyes stood out with clarity. The rest was slightly blurred, though the mouth, that hint of a grin, reminded him of a mischievous imp. Something in that simple sketch of lines and smudged charcoal drew him. The eyes, he realized, and that mouth. They belonged to Emma’s young sister.
He lifted a brow. How could Morning Moon know what Emma’s sister looked like? He tipped her chin and stared into her eyes. Morning Moon stared back but revealed nothing, avoiding the question in his gaze. When her glance slid to her mother, he knew it would have to be later, when they were alone. For a long time, he’d suspected she had the gift. Seeing this drawing confirmed it.
Turning to give his nephew equal time, he ran his fingers over the new larger bow the boy had helped his grandfather make and promised to take him out hunting soon. Preparing to leave, he noticed Star’s haggard appearance. Concern rose. He went to her. “You have had more visions?” He kept his voice low, knowing she didn’t like to discuss them in front of the children.
She shrugged but wouldn’t meet his gaze either. “Nothing I can make sense of.” Her voice was bitter.
Pulling her to him, Striking Thunder held her close. Most men didn’t demonstrate their affection to their female family members but his mother had known none of that. Her children had grown up showing their love for one another and consequently, they were close. “The spirits will reveal all in time.”
Star stiffened in his hold. “But will it be in time for the knowledge to be of use?” She tore free, wrapped her arms tightly around herself. “I couldn’t save even my own husband. His death is my fault,” she whispered, so softly that he barely heard.
He frowned. “What nonsense do you speak? It was not any fault of yours.”
Star Dreamer lowered her head. Tears coursed down her cheeks. “You’re wrong, my brother. If I hadn’t fought the messages of the spirits, I could have warned him. He could have stayed behind and been alive today.”
Her inner torture made Striking Thunder angry. He loved her so much and wished she could come to terms with her gift. If only he had the words of wisdom to help her accept what was. But he could dispel this one foolish belief she clung to. “No,” he said, his voice hard. “You are wrong.” Forcing her to meet his gaze, he willed her to open her mind to the truth of his words. “Had you seen his death, had you warned him of your vision, do you think your husband would have remained behind?” He waited a heartbeat. His fingers pressed firmly into her shoulders. “Your husband’s place was at my side.”
He gentled his tone, his fingers moving soothingly down her arms. “Knowing does not always change the outcome. Many times our people have benefited from both your visions and those of our grandmother but we can’t change the plans of the Great Spirit. He is our creator and he chose to call his brave warrior home.”
“I know your words to be true, my brother, but still the guilt remains.” She drew in a deep breath. “I cannot help but fear the next time. Will I fail to warn of danger? Is what happens a result of ‘what is to be’ or is it a result of my failing to understand? This is what I cannot live with—the knowledge that I might have been able to prevent the death of both your wife and my husband.” She glanced over at her children. Running Elk sat with his bow and tiny quiver of arrows in his lap, and Morning Moon played with her doll and tipi.
“I give thanks that I have not passed this gift on to my daughter. Though you disagree with me, it is a curse, one I would never wish to impart onto another.”
Striking Thunder frowned, his gaze resting on his niece. She seemed oblivious to their conversation, yet he had the feeling she knew exactly what they discussed. He decided now was not the time to voice aloud his own suspicions that Morning Moon had inherited the gift of sight from her mother and grandmother. Time would tell. Star Dreamer interrupted his thoughts as she told him of Night Hunter’s visit.
With much to think about, he bade his sister and her children good-night. Leaving the tipi, he stood undecided. Emma still did not know Renny lived with Night Hunter and his wives. Worried that the Cheyenne warrior had come to tell him that the young girl needed him, he decided this was another good time to go visit Emma’s sister. He’d promised the girl to come whenever she needed him.
Staring at the lodge, he wished he dared go inside to see Emma, to tell her of his plans to leave and that when he returned, she’d share his mat. But men were not allowed in that lodge. Perhaps he could speak with her through the door. Keeping his voice low, he called out, “Emma?”
There was no answer. He called her again, louder. Still no response. Worried that she might be ill, he eased the hide flap aside a mere inch in order to scan the inside. A voice behind him startled him.
“My son. What are you doing?”
Striking Thunder felt relieved to see his mother. Letting his hands fall to his sides, he explained, “I came to check on Emma but she does not respond to my call.”
White Wind tilted her head to one side. “You wish to speak with her?”
Hesitantly, he nodded. White Wind tried to hide her smile but failed. Striking Thunder scowled at his mother’s back as she bent down to enter the lodge. Seconds later, White Wind rushed out, her features drawn with worry. In her hands, she held several sheets of paper.
“She is not here. I only found these.” She held out several sheets of papers that had come from the supply she’d given Emma.
Stunned, Striking Thunder took the fluttering papers but didn’t look at them. A new worry took hold. If Emma was not here, or in the tipi with Star, or in his tipi, where was she? Closing his eyes, he knew. She’d run away. And with what Star had told him of Night Hunter’s reaction to her hair, he suspected she’d somehow learned where her sister was and had set out to find her.
Guilt swept through him. This was exactly the reason he hadn’t said anything to Emma about her sister’s whereabouts. He knew she’d risk her own life to go after her. Now, with a storm brewing, her life was in danger. Running to his tipi, he gathered fresh supplies. With the snow storm outside worsening with each passing hour, there was no time to lose. Grabbing his snowshoes and extra furs and his supplies, he draped a thick robe over his back and set off on foot. A horse would only slow him.
Emma struggled through the worsening storm. Her destination was the thick stand of trees off to her right. There, she prayed, she’d find shelter. The wind gusted. Her mare shook its head a
nd stumbled in a deep drift. “I’m sorry, girl,” Emma murmured, rubbing the animal between its ears. “But we can’t stop now.”
An hour later, Emma reached the edge of the white-frosted hill and the sheltering pines. She dismounted and tied the horse to a tree. Another burst of cold air sang through the trees. Shivering, she pulled the robe around her tighter. Her feet were numb with chill, and she no longer felt her fingers. To conserve warmth and protect her face, she tucked her chin and mouth down beneath the thick fur and exhaled, trying to warm herself with her own breath. A fire. She needed a fire.
Gathering some small sticks, she tried to remember Star’s instructions. But with the wind, it was hopeless. She sat back on her heels and choked back the tears. She was cold and so tired. And wet. She stomped around, trying to warm herself. When that didn’t work, she found the thickest tree trunk to shield her, sat and ate a piece of hard, dry bread and a strip of jerked buffalo meat. Then, utterly miserably, she waited for the storm to abate.
The afternoon wore on and the snow grew more blinding, turning into a full-fledged blizzard. She fretted over the delay the weather caused. By now, Star would know of her escape and would have alerted the warriors. Emma longed to forge ahead, but it would be foolhardy to do so with a blizzard raging around her.
Moving as quickly as her freezing limbs would allow, she gathered fallen branches and brush, piling them several feet away from the tree trunk to form a sheltering barrier of sorts. She pulled long, thin branches from several smaller pines then laid them over the top of the three-foot-high shelter, crisscrossing them to keep them from being swept away by the strong hand of the storm. Next, she piled snow around the base. After clearing the snow from the inside, she had a small enclosure with just enough room to squeeze into and huddle back against the tree trunk.
Outside, the loud snap of a snow-laden branch breaking startled her. Her horse snorted and thrashed, trying to free itself. Fearing she’d lose the animal, her only form of transportation out of this harsh land, Emma crawled from her shelter and untied it. She needed better shelter for the horse. But where? The sudden loud wail of wind slamming through the treetops sent the mare into a blind panic. Already skittish from the storm, it danced and snorted in a circle around Emma, finally pulling free from Emma’s icy fingers. Emma dove after her but fell. The horse ran off. “Oh, no,” she cried. “Come back!”
Scrambling to her feet, Emma quickly realized she had no hope of catching the animal. She needed to get back to her own shelter before the storm obliterated her footprints. Retracing her steps back, she crawled back into her shelter, distraught and sick with fear. Alone, scared and cold, Emma hugged herself tightly and listened to the wind howl outside.
Time lost all meaning. Cold seeped into her bones and her eyes grew heavy. Blinking rapidly, she rubbed her eyes and fought the urge to sleep. But after a while, she put her head down onto her knees and pulled herself into as tight a ball as she could in a futile attempt to keep warm.
Her eyes drifted shut. For a minute, she promised herself. She’d just rest her eyes for a minute.
Grady led his group of exhausted soldiers onward, toward the hills. Despite the turn of the weather, he pressed forward, driven to find his daughters. At every Indian camp, they stopped and searched then rode on to the next. But the results were the same. There was no sign of Emma or Renny, and no one who could or would tell him where to find Striking Thunder’s camp.
Frustrated, he stared out at the hills. Time was running out with the arrival of snow. They weren’t equipped to spend the winter on the plains. If only he could get someone to tell him where to find Striking Thunder, but the Indians were tight-lipped and protective of their own.
Two days later, the first snows fell, slowing their progress further. The Black Hills were still a fair distance away. Zeb rode up beside him. “The men are tired, cold and hungry. You’ve got to turn back, Kern’l. The storm is worsening. I know you want to find your daughters, but we risk starving. Our food is nearly gone and game is scarce.”
Grady rubbed his gloved hands over his beard, dislodging flakes of clinging snow. He knew the scout was right, but damn! Everything in him rebelled against giving up. His girls were out here, he knew it. He felt it.
Lifting his pistol, he fired off five shots in a pattern. Nothing. No sound. No shouts. If Emma was nearby, would she recognize the old code they’d once shared? Memories flooded his mind. Whenever Emma got into trouble, his wife had punished her by confining her to her room. Dinner had been brought to her but without her favorite course—dessert. Grady, unable to deny his daughter anything, had always sneaked into the nursery late at night, using his secret knock. Together, he and his daughter had shared dessert and a glass of milk.
He knew Margaret Mary had known of his giving Emma dessert on the sly. She’d even seemed amused by his sneaking it to her, but she’d never said anything to him and he suspected that was why she’d punished Emma so. It was enough to get across to Emma that she’d done wrong, yet, it allowed him to reassure her that both he and her mother loved her no matter what she did. Bittersweet memories continued to wash over him.
No matter what it took, he’d find his daughters. Taking his field glasses, he searched the area. Nothing but white. Wait. Near the hills, he spotted movement. Disappointment rose when he realized it was only a horse. Reloading, he fired off five shots and waited. Using his binoculars, he scanned the area. No sign of movement. Even the horse was gone, scared off by the gunfire.
With tears in his eyes, he pulled his treasured lock of hair from his pocket. How could he leave, give up? How could he have left her in the first place? Defeated, he closed his fist around that lock of hair, and gave the command to turn back.
Emma dreamed. Once again, she was a young child. A soft knock sounded on her bedroom door. One, two. Pause. Then the third, fourth and fifth knock in rapid succession. She giggled. It was her father, using their secret code. He entered, slipping inside with a finger pressed to his lips. In his hands, he carried a bowl of Mama’s apple pie, two spoons and a glass of milk.
“Papa!” she squealed, jumping up to hug him.
He set down his offerings, swung her up in his arms and crushed her to him in a bear hug.
“We must be quiet or your mother will hear.”
Emma nodded. She’d gotten in trouble and her mother had taken away her dessert. But Papa always sneaked her some. Nestled against his solid warmth, they giggled and ate their dessert, and when he tucked her beneath her thick coverlet, it was with the certain knowledge that he loved her. The dream faded as cold seeped into her bones but over and over, she heard the loud knocking pattern. Only, now it sounded like gunfire.
One shot, two, followed by silence then a third, fourth and fifth in rapid succession. Then silence. It was repeated. Startled, confused, she sat. “Papa?” She listened. It came again. “Papa!” she shouted, her voice thick with sleep. She fought her way from the stick-and-brush enclosure, now covered with a thick layer of snow, and fell into the deep snowdrift.
Struggling to her feet, silence and blinding white greeted her. She stumbled forward. “Papa,” she screamed again and again but the wind absorbed the sound. “Please,” she gasped. “Papa, I’m here. I’m here.” Sobbing, she fell to her knees and prayed for the signal to sound again so she’d know which way to go. But there was nothing more. Only cold bleakness.
Snow swirled around her, coating her, clinging to her hair, making sight impossible. Had it only been a dream? Wishful thinking on her part? Shivering uncontrollably, Emma struggled to find her shelter. To her dismay, in her haste to leave it, she’d destroyed it. Suddenly, she was tired, too tired to care. Falling onto the pile of fallen branches and pine boughs, she curled up into a tight ball.
Chapter Nineteen
Night fell, bringing chilling temperature drops. Calculating the path Emma would hopefully take to reach Night Hunter’s village, Striking Thunder had a fair idea how far she’d gotten. By not stopping, he hoped
to overtake her. By his estimations, she had nearly a day’s head start on horseback but in this weather, a horse wasn’t much of an advantage. Snowshoes strapped to his feet allowed him to keep up a steady pace.
Every so often, he stopped to listen for any sound of her or her horse but the only sound he heard was the wind slinging snow across the plains. Dressed in his warmest clothing with a thick furry buffalo hide wrapped around his shoulders and covering his head, the biting wind still managed to seep through and sting his face.
What about Emma? Just thinking of her out here, alone, shattered his control and sent ripples of apprehension through him. She wasn’t accustomed to traveling in near-blizzard conditions. Would she take shelter or keep going? Did she have enough robes to keep from freezing?
At midmorning, he rounded a small curve in the river near the base of the hills. His eyes hurt from the blinding snow and the cold wind. Head down to get some relief, he almost missed seeing the dark brown horse near the trees. The animal lifted its head and shook its mane at him. With a surge of excitement and hope, Striking Thunder recognized the animal as the mare Emma had stolen from Yellow Dog to make her escape.
When the horse trotted over, he grabbed the lead rope and swept the blanket of snow from its back. He checked for signs of injury. Relieved to find none, he scanned the area. Where was Emma? She wouldn’t have left the horse to roam loose. Which meant it had either broken free from being tethered or the mare had thrown its rider. A slight lessening of wind and snow allowed him to scan the area but visibility was still poor.
Worry churned in his gut. Everywhere he looked, he saw white, no bright patch of golden-red. Realizing Emma could be nearby, or several miles away, hope of finding her dimmed. She could be unconscious, lying beneath a layer of snow within several feet of him and he’d never know. Guilt raged inside his heart. This was his fault. If he’d brought Renny to her, she’d never have run off in the middle of a winter storm to find the child.
White Flame Page 21