White Shadows

by Susan Edwards

  No. No. No. Think of something else. She was not attracted to a man who was her enemy. A man who’d taken her from her family.

  But what had been taken from him? Who had been taken from him?

  Winona recalled his cries, the pain in his voice and the wildness and grief in his eyes when he’d woken.

  Give her back.

  Don’t touch her.

  Bastard.

  Yes, someone had hurt him. Badly. The wound on his face had healed. Not so the one in his heart and mind.

  Disgusted with herself for caring, she tried to concentrate on Hoka Luta. But thoughts of him only served to remind her that Clay had ruined her wedding day. If not for him she’d have danced the mating dance and taken the first step toward forging a deep bond with her mate.

  Clay had ruined it.

  She broke her stick in half. Clay had taken something irreplaceable from her. Even if Hoka Luta rode in right now, rescued her and married her, their first night together would forever be marred by Clay. Like a thorn embedded deep in the flesh, he’d intruded into all their lives.

  Until now, Hoka Luta had been the only man to kiss her, to touch her in an intimate manner. She’d had no doubt that he wanted to mate with her—she’d felt his desire. Winona closed her eyes and remembered Hoka Luta’s kiss, the feel of his mouth claiming and controlling hers.

  He’d touched her breast, his hand hard and possessive, and when he’d pressed his manhood into her belly, he’d been hard. Like Clay. But unlike with Clay, she couldn’t remember how she’d felt, whether his touch had heated her blood or left her weak with a bewildering need.

  All she could recall was being thrilled that Hoka Luta wanted her. And nervous. He was so big and strong. In his arms she’d felt as though he could have smothered her. She’d figured it had to be due to the fact that a woman’s first time with a man was said to hurt. Guilt pounded in her head. She hadn’t felt like that in Clay’s embrace, and that upset her. She should have been frightened. Opening her eyes, she stared at Clay. His lips had been firm, but gentle. His body had been hard, but warm and comforting.

  His size and strength had made her feel safe and secure, even though he’d been angry. And Clay’s hard manhood against her, separated from her skin only by his breechclout, made her long to know the pleasure of mating. She hadn’t feared pain.

  Irritated that she couldn’t stop thinking about Clay, she glared at him. He wasn’t paying attention to her. It was as though she wasn’t even there.

  She picked up a small pebble and tossed it into the fire. He didn’t blink. She didn’t like being ignored, especially since he’d forced her to come to the fire. She wanted answers. He’d disrupted her life, and that of her entire tribe, and she had the right to know why.

  Her mouth puckered with annoyance. All during the meal she’d tried to goad him into revealing what she wanted to know. He’d ignored her. No matter what she’d said, what names she’d used against him, he’d kept his silence, and that frightened her more than if he’d yelled and threatened her.

  Watching the shadows play across his features, Winona tossed the sticks into the fire and helped the flames resume their dance.

  Again Clay didn’t flinch at the popping, or back away from the sudden flare of heat. He was still lost in the fire. What did he see? The past? Did he see that the flames seemed to be mating, see how they became one?

  She closed her eyes. This was silly. She’d sat before countless fires and not once had she thought these sorts of thoughts. Not even when she had sat across the fire from Hoka Luta the night he’d arrived.

  With the red paint Hoka Luta wore, the flames of the fire had made him seem darker. Larger. Fierce. He didn’t give orders verbally. A look was all that was needed to send his warriors running to do his bidding. He’d even commanded her with his eyes, sending her a look of reproach when he’d caught her staring at him. Shamed, she’d immediately cast her gaze downward.

  Drawing her knees to her chest, Winona rested her chin on her fists. She hadn’t liked the way he’d made her feel that night. Her mother often watched her father, and White Wind seldom took her eyes off her husband. But Winona told herself that Hoka Luta was right. As the son of a medicine man, he deserved higher respect.

  Besides, he was everything she wanted in a mate. He would take care of her, provide for her, give her children. He’d teach her how to be the perfect wife, and she’d make him proud of her as they walked together through life.

  She frowned as she thought of something else. During their supervised walk the night he’d arrived, he’d spoken sharply to her when she’d walked at a slightly faster pace in her excitement.

  At the time she’d dismissed his curtness. But now it bothered her. She shivered and rubbed her temple. What was wrong with her? When the tribe traveled, men always walked ahead of women. They had the weapons. Their job was to protect their family.

  But there had been no reason for her to walk slightly behind him that night. Couples always strolled shoulder-to-shoulder. Frustrated, she tried to clear her mind. Captivity had to be responsible for the confusion circling in her head. She needed to subdue her inner voice—perhaps a verbal battle with Clay would do the trick.

  She cleared her throat. He didn’t respond. Didn’t even seem aware of her presence. Dropping her arms to circle her shins, she leaned forward, trying to see his expression, but the shadows hid his thoughts from her.

  What was he thinking? What was he feeling? The questions raced through her mind, were on the tip of her tongue, but she bit them back. He was the enemy. She didn’t care what he thought or felt.

  Deep lines etched his face and spoke of suffering—in the past, as well as right now. He looked lost, alone, even hurt, and she wanted to know what had happened.

  Seeing him like this made him seem human. Gone was the cold control. Sitting across from her was a man who felt deeply. Who’d been hurt deeply.

  A cold breeze stirred the air and blew bits of debris into their shelter. She shivered. Since Clay’s nightmare she’d spent a lot of time wondering what had happened to him in the past. If she knew why he sought revenge then perhaps there was something she could do to help resolve this situation and free herself and Spotted Deer.

  Judging from his dream, it had to do with a woman named Jenny. Jenny had been taken from him. Had she been killed, and if so, by whom? Hoka Luta, or a member of his family?

  She thought of her father. If someone hurt or killed his wife, he’d take whatever actions necessary against the enemy. So who was Jenny? Clay’s wife? If so, what had happened to her? Winona knew the answer would not be good.

  She drew the tip of her finger along the surface of the ground, making snake trails in the loose dirt. The fire began to die and the air grew colder as the wind picked up. She smelled rain. Shadows closed around them. She brushed off her finger and tugged her dress tightly over her legs for warmth.

  Glancing to the side she saw the bedding. She should take it and get some rest. Clay wouldn’t bother her. Each night he slept on the hard ground in just his shirt and leggings. But for some unknown reason Winona couldn’t leave him lost and alone in the past.

  So she sat. The night grew darker. Wind howled through the trees, and a flash of lightning lit the sky and illuminated their shelter. Clay lifted his eyes from the dying fire. Winona caught her breath. There was no life in his gaze. No soul mirrored there. Thunder boomed overhead.

  He’d said he had no heart. She hadn’t believed him. His demand earlier that she come to the fire proved that he was aware of her, her movements, and that he didn’t wish any harm to her. And there was that kiss, and the life that had pulsed through him. No, he had a heart. He felt.

  What he lacked was a soul.

  The wind whipped around them. Still, Clay didn’t move.

  Standing, she retrieved the bedding. Taking one fur, she draped it around Clay’s shoulders, then took her place across from him, wrapping the blanket around her shoulders.

  He look
ed surprised. His eyes narrowed but he didn’t speak.

  Winona shrugged. “If you die, then we will not meet up with your warriors, and I will never see my sister again.”

  Clay stared at the stone wall behind her. “I have walked through death’s door but escaped before it slammed shut.” His voice sounded far away.

  Surprised that he’d spoken, and of something so telling, Winona had no trouble believing him. Something had destroyed the man inside.

  Earlier he’d smiled and laughed during their banter. She still didn’t understand what she’d said to bring it out She lifted her brows. She’d forgotten about that.

  I have no heart.

  I have walked through death’s door but escaped before it slammed shut.

  Could a man with no soul laugh and find amusement in something so simple as words? She frowned into the embers. Clay felt pain, and for a man to feel pain, he had to be alive.

  There was life in him, somewhere deep in his soul.

  Sneaking a look at him, she saw only emptiness. Something tugged at her. Pity? Yes, she felt sorry for him. That realization drew another frown. She didn’t want to feel anything for him. He was using her to gain revenge. He’d denied her a maiden’s greatest desire—a loving husband—and then had used the sister of her heart to gain her compliance.

  He’d taken her away from everyone and everything that she knew and loved. Why should she care whether he truly lived or not? She sighed softly. There was no reason, no reason at all why she should care, but she did.

  Rubbing her forehead, she tried to tell herself that she was just tired and confused, Clay was the enemy. Her father would kill him. Hoka Luta would kill him. He might not be dead as he claimed, but as soon as she was found, he would be.

  Staring out into the night, she watched streaks of light explode across the heavens. If she had not left camp to go to Gray Rock none of this would have happened.

  She slowly sat up straight. The rock. Her vision. In her mind’s eye she saw again the vision of the igmuwatogla. Until now she’d forgotten about the vision. What did it mean? Had it been a warning?

  She pulled from her memory every story she’d heard about mountain lions. Some believed they were bad signs; others believed they were good. Signs of power.

  She grimaced. Like the cat, she hadn’t cowered, or given in to fear. Remembering her daring name-calling, she admitted to herself that like igmuwatogla, she struck quickly and strongly, taking advantage of every opportunity to attack without showing weakness.

  Her eyes glazed with exhaustion. She should rest, but her mind raced. The vision had meaning. Everything had meaning. What was it she needed to know? She closed her eyes and kept the image of the large cat firmly in mind.

  The animal took advantage of a prey’s weakness. Its favorite prey was deer. Winona’s shoulders slumped. Spotted Deer was as gentle as the animal she was named after. And innocent. Well, mostly innocent, she thought, remembering their rather embarrassing encounter with Lone Shield.

  Weakness. She opened her eyes and stared at Clay. His weakness lay in his torment. In the dead part of him. She could strike there. She dropped her head back onto her knees. No, she couldn’t do it.

  It wasn’t in her to deliberately hurt someone, especially someone who’d suffered to the point where he felt dead inside. Winona lifted her head and sighed loudly. Clay glanced up at her. His features were shadowed but the soft glow of the embers softened his features and made his eyes seem warm.

  In that moment Winona knew what she had to do. She had to teach him to live. To feel. To laugh. To feel the joy along with the pain. Life was a circle. Without pain there was no life. Without joy there was only sadness. Without love there could be only hate.

  The spirits had given her the power of the cat to stand up against him and defend herself verbally, and even attack him to the point where he lost control.

  They’d given her the power to make him laugh, which meant she had the power to make him feel. If he felt, he lived.

  Igmuwatogla was power, being assertive but also knowing when to wield that power with a gentle hand. Clay needed to feel and to find his soul so that the circle of life would resume.

  Could she do it? The past was the secret. Jenny was the key, but to use that weapon meant causing him more pain. Shifting, Winona prepared herself. Any woman or man knew that sometimes a wound had to be cut open to release the bad spirits.

  Tucking her legs to the side she picked up another rock, this one the size of her fist. She braced herself mentally before she tossed the stone onto the fire. A shower of sparks flew up and outward, jerking Clay from his own world. He sent her an angry glare.

  She ignored it and asked, “Who is Jenny? What happened to her, to you, that you no longer live?”

  Chapter Eight

  Night Shadow flinched. The sound of his sister’s name was as painful and damaging as an arrow wound. Pain crashed through him. He tossed a handful of dirt onto the fire, then stood.

  “I suggest you rest.” He walked away. Around him the wind whipped into a frenzy.

  “Coward.”

  He whirled around and stalked over to where Winona stood, arms crossed in front of her like a shield against his fury.

  “You know not of what you speak. Do not interfere in matters that do not concern you.”

  Winona tipped her chin. With the dying fire behind him, he couldn’t see her expression in the darkness.

  “As I am here, and not wed to the man I love, it is my affair.”

  Sneering down at her, Night Shadow advanced. Above, another clap of thunder rolled across the heavens. The air seemed to grow thick, making it harder to breathe.

  “The man you profess to love is my enemy.” He fingered his scar. “Death was his gift to me.”

  A brief flash of light seared the heavens. “You did not die.”

  Inside him, Night Shadow fought a storm much more powerful than the one overhead.

  “Wrong. I died here.” He stabbed his finger at his chest. So many times he’d wished he’d died. The pain of losing his family and hearing his sister’s screams had been too much to bear.

  He’d wanted to die, but Jenny’s screams had kept him in this world, a prisoner of his past. Even now the echo of that time drummed inside his head. It grew louder, insistent. He did not want to remember; didn’t think he could survive if he had to relive it yet another time. But whenever he slept, he relived it. And died a bit more each day.

  Winona’s voice, firm with conviction, shot out of the dark—a thunderbolt of sizzling power that beat the shadows back. “You are not dead inside. You feel.”

  Night Shadow grabbed on to his fury like a drowning man. He took another step forward and towered over the woman who in such a short amount of time had managed to break through so many barriers.

  He’d hated before, but had been able to bury the pain. She’d released it, and it was more than he could bear; the darkness of it threatened to swallow and destroy him.

  That she affected him so violently made him hate her. Made him hate himself, and the entire world, even more. He grabbed Winona’s hand and slapped her palm against his scared face.

  “I hate. I seek revenge. If that is life, then I live.” He released her hand, expecting her to flee in fear.

  She didn’t. Her palm slid down the side of his face slowly, stopping to cup his jaw. “And what about Jenny?” she asked.

  Night Shadow jerked back as though struck.

  She stepped forward, her voice soothing and compelling. “Clay, tell me. I want to know.”

  Another flash from above revealed the sadness in Winona’s eyes. A cry rose from deep inside Night Shadow. Hate and anger he could handle. But he couldn’t bear pity, didn’t deserve the compassion he saw deep in her eyes.

  “You would do better to fear me instead of angering me.” He spun around and strode away. He could not admit to himself that she was right. He’d spent his life running from his past—from the knowledge that he’d dared to
survive when everyone else but Jenny had died.

  Winona ran after him. “Hoka Luta will come and bring with him many warriors. It is you who should feel fear.”

  At the sound of his enemy’s name, white-hot pain shot down the side of his face. He grabbed his head with his hands. “Jenny was—is—my sister,” he bit out. Bitterness choked his throat.

  “Clay—”

  The past exploded inside his head. Blood. Death. Screams.

  “No!” he shouted. “No more. God, no more,” he moaned.

  He couldn’t take much more, yet he couldn’t let the past go. More than anything he feared forgetting. So he welcomed the darkness in his heart and soul. He used his memories to feed the hate. As long as he hated, he was driven to find his sister and kill his enemy.

  But at that moment, for just a moment, he desperately needed to feel something—anything—else. Reaching out blindly, Night Shadow pulled Winona hard against him.

  The wind whistled around them. It howled, calling to the thunder. Bolts of lightning cracked and shattered the dark sky—and Winona’s last vestiges of guilt for her desire to help Clay. Hoka Luta was his enemy. What had he done to Clay? Or to Jenny, Clay’s sister? She needed to know, but she couldn’t fight or even protest when Clay’s lips crashed down over hers with the same intensity of the mountain storm.

  His chest heaved and his fingers bit into her upper arms as his breath came in ragged gulps that sounded more like sobs. Winona couldn’t struggle. The agony in his voice stabbed her, held her immobile. She’d never seen or felt such emotion, such need.

  Something inside her needed to help this man who was her enemy. He didn’t care that he’d die for taking her. He thought himself dead already. She knew better.

  The passion in his kiss, whether from hate or fear or need, spoke of life. And she responded by matching his movements, his intensity, his emotion. He needed; she gave. He hurt; she soothed. He moaned; she whispered softly.