Perhaps he had wandered too far and himself frozen to death. This could well be a summoning from the next life, a vision. If it could be said that hearing music was a vision. He squinted into the thick blanket so intensely that his eyes hurt. And that was all he could see. Snow, snow, and more snow. Beyond it, out there somewhere, the beautiful music continued in the plaintive language of the white woman, burred by her vague accent of another land. It had to be her.
Playing out more yarn, he moved in the direction from which the soulful lament appeared to come. Slowly, slowly, he advanced, the music growing closer, more plaintive. Another step, then another, taken like a blind man, and he almost tripped over her, nothing more than a drifted-over lump huddled on the ground. Still. Unmoving. It couldn’t have been her voice he heard, for she was nearly buried face down and so cold and limp he thought her dead.
On his knees, he brushed away the thick, wet cloak until he uncovered a tangle of frozen red hair, a head tucked between clamped knees. Fearfully, he lay a hand over the back of her neck. Stiff and as unyielding as a statue. Was she dead? Beneath his palm, a fluttering as fragile as moth’s wings. Or was he imagining it, just as he’d imagined the song that had summoned him here? For surely she had not been capable of making so much as a sound. Curling his fingers, he felt for the pulse at her throat, found only frigid skin. His heartbeat quickened with dread. Had he come all this way only to find a corpse?
But no, there, under his touch, a faint pulse. Slow, barely discernible.
Leaning forward, he bent close to her ear. “Woman, woman, wake up. Hear me.” What was her name? One of those strange names, foreign even to the white tongue. He had not called her by it, so he could not be sure. A’den, that was it.
“A’den, are you alive?” He shook her, searched once more for the movement of life’s blood beneath the iciness of her skin. Found nothing. Odd how her death saddened him. She was the enemy, to be hated and destroyed. But seeing her lying there, features tranquil and lovely in a mantle of snow, tore at his stone heart as nothing else had save the suffering of his people.
She couldn’t die. He wouldn’t allow it. Already so many had perished in this place. This killing ground should be consecrated by the gods, forever left untouched, hallowed in honor of so many who had died here.
Removing his hand from the unresponsive flesh, he tenderly brushed snow from her hair, caressed her blue-tinged features, gathered her into his arms and cradled her. His heart beat against her, his warmth washed over her, his breath of life touched her face.
“I am sorry,” he whispered, the words catching in his throat.
A harsh cough erupted from deep within her chest, sent a massive quaking from her body to his. She let out a broken moan, joined by his own startled cry.
She was alive! Nearly frozen, but alive.
Gratefully, he picked up the precious ball of yarn that would lead him back to the dugout, and rose, her fragile form in his arms. The pain in his side and leg slowed him down. Also, he must be careful not to dislodge the other end of the yarn, planted deep in frozen snow outside the tunnel they had carved. They would both die if he lost hold on that fragile line of life. Carrying her and following the length of yarn proved difficult. Every few steps he paused to draw in great drafts of air and fight off the stabbing pain in his side. Such a short distance, yet it seemed to take forever to reach its end and the welcome opening to the shelter. The hole they’d dug was already beginning to drift over, and he had to put her down to clear the way.
Taking her through the tunnel proved even more difficult. Finally he settled on backing in on hands and knees and dragging her along lying on her back, not so easy on either of them. He did not want to hurt her, nor could he ignore the pain of his own wounds. But they would heal, and keeping them both alive was more important than a bit of discomfort. Once inside, he lay her on a blanket, wrapped her snugly, and built up the dying fire. Dried buffalo chips burned hot but could not be banked like logs. One had to be vigilant or lose the coals. He could not afford to waste valuable time striking sparks and coaxing a new fire to life.
He must see to her quickly. Even if she lived she was in danger of losing her fingers and toes. He removed her fur-lined moccasins, lifted one small foot in his large hands, and rubbed snow over the blue flesh, wrapped it once again and massaged the other. Finishing that, he removed her coat and clothing and bundled her in warm, dry blankets. Even under the dire circumstances, he couldn’t ignore the sweet beauty of her body. Pale as ivory, smooth and daintily curved, her breasts were delicate mounds with erect nipples the color of dark honey. A flat belly and tightly muscled thighs showed she was strong of limb and accustomed to walking.
Dragging his reluctant glance from the thatch of golden red hair at the vee below her belly, he massaged her hands. They were so small and still and cold that he tucked them beneath his arms and held them there while she cried and tossed about, trying to pull free. He knew she was in a great deal of pain as feeling returned, but she must endure this.
Several times she called out for her papa, her mama, but at last stopped fighting him and allowed him to cradle her in his lap and share his body warmth. He sat that way in front of the fire for a long while, staring into the flames and gently rocking the blanket-shrouded woman. His enemy.
Where her head lay against his chest her breath moistened his shirt. She lived and breathed, and holding her brought a flame into his own heart, so that he had to lie her down to quench a raging desire that grew in his gut. A desire beyond his comprehension. He had saved her, now he wanted to take her completely, make her his own. This he could not do. Strange how closely united were love and hate, that he could go from one to the other with no effort.
Wrapped in the cocoon, she lay as if already dead and did not respond.
Hope dwindled for her survival, and he kept a silent watch, as if by doing so he could bring her back from the brink where he was sure she tottered. Once he would have killed her without compunction, only hours earlier he had planned to leave her behind, now he could scarcely bear the thought of her death.
From the diminishing supply near the fireplace he tossed more chips on the fire. He dare not use too many or they would both freeze to death before morning. Yet he must keep her warm.
Partially buried, the dugout held its heat well, and grew quite comfortable. Yet, if the storm continued, there would be another problem. He tried not to think of it, but if the outside opening to the mud and straw chimney became blocked by drifting snow the place would soon fill with deadly smoke.
Whatever happened now, he saw little chance they would live through the next few days. Had he survived the battle with the evil Wessells and his men only to die like an animal in this hole? And what of this beautiful young woman? Much as he hated the whites, he felt compassion for her plight. Besides, she had no control over her own heritage. How well he knew that.
He must lie with her, share his body heat and remain awake to keep the fire going all night. Tomorrow would be time enough to worry about fuel to keep that flame burning for another day and night.
Gently, he unwrapped the blankets from her bare body and snuggled in against her back. It took a few moments to fit his own long legs to the curl of hers, adjust his hard belly to the tantalizing curve of her hips and tiny waist, press his broad chest against the feminine softness of her back. How strange the feel of her body against his beneath blankets still redolent with the scent of his murdered people. Soon, a soothing warmth crawled through him to nudge at his stone-hard heart. How long it had been since someone had needed him. Even his people looked upon him as having come from the other side, the evil white man. Wondered if they could trust him not to betray them.
To be all that stood between this young woman and certain death reawakened a tenderness long buried within his soul. Smothered the hate and rage and stirred a concern he felt ill-suited to accept. He had other obligations that would soon get in the way of such feelings.
He could only s
ee to it that she lived, no matter what. And get her to Fort Robinson where she would be allowed to return home. How well he understood that need to go home. That all encompassing yearning to live with your own people. He must return with his people to the north land above the Platte River or die in the trying. Nothing could get in the way of that.
Aiden awoke in her sunlit bedroom, white lace curtains fluttering in a breeze off the river that smelled of summer. What a dreadful dream she’d had. In real life she would never have considered doing such a thing as going off to the wilderness with Stephan. They must marry and settle in St. Louis. How could she have thought for one moment about going west on such a dangerous adventure? What a relief to awaken from the nightmare of such a horrid experience. It had all seemed so real, the harrowing trip west by train and stage, Stephan’s disappearance and her struggle to survive. And that gorgeous but fantasized savage who rescued her.
Thank God it had not been true. She must tell Stephan all about it when he came to court this evening.
Sitting up, she stretched and breathed deeply of the aroma from mama’s kitchen downstairs: bacon frying, coffee perking; the laughter of her raucous brothers, who kept the small house in a constant uproar with their shouts and teasing and sheer enjoyment of life. Childishly eager to join them, she threw back the covers and poked her feet out.
They touched the floor and a pain she could not describe exploded up her legs. She moaned in agony.
“Mama, where are you, what’s wrong? What happened?”
Strong arms enclosed her shoulders, steadied her. A man’s voice, lyrical but gruff. “You’re all right. You’re safe. Lay down, cover up. It’s not yet morning.”
She opened her eyes, saw a fire blazing in the mean darkness. Smelled wet musty earth, a wildness she didn’t recognize. Not her bright bedroom at all. Her heart plummeted. The arms tightened around her shoulders and she twisted from their grasp, felt herself swathed tightly in blankets. Struggled to escape and fought a rising rage.
“Let me go. Who are you? What happened? Where am I?” Her voice didn’t sound like her own, raspy and broken. Her throat hurt, her feet throbbed, her hands ached. What was wrong?
He did as she asked, but before he could reply to her questions, memory washed over her and her eyes filled with tears. “Oh, dear, I thought this was a dream, and it isn’t, is it? I’ll never see Mama and the boys again.”
“A’den, listen to me. You must stay under the blankets. You were so cold when I found you I thought you were dead. Please. Get back in the bed and let me cover you. Stop fighting me.”
“You...it’s you...the savage. Don’t touch me.”
“Yes, it is me...the savage.” His sharp retort held a note of sadness.
It didn’t matter. Stephan was gone and she was stranded in this terrible place. That’s all that mattered. A burning anger rose within her, an anger that she awoke to find herself in this terrible soddy on the Nebraska plains, not home in her own bed. This was not supposed to be real, and finding it so made her want to lash out, punish him for what had happened.
Too weak and exhausted to struggle further, she sighed in surrender, curled up, and let him cover her. He lay down, arms and legs wrapped around her. Vaguely she wondered what he would do to her. If he would ravage her, then kill her, but she found no energy to object. She would go to sleep and not wake up. Maybe if she tried very hard, she could return to that place of her dreams, and if she died while she was there, then she wouldn’t have to come back to this dreadful country. Ever again. Remembering at last, wandering off and getting lost, she wished he’d left her in the snow to die.
Blessed sleep encompassed, lulled, and soothed her.
****
“Stop, please stop,” she murmured, tried to push away an insistent hand shaking her shoulder. The death she had wished for had not come while she slept, and now someone would not leave her be.
“Are you awake?” he asked.
“How could I be anything else with you taking on like that?” She popped her head from under the covers, shoved the mop of hair from her eyes, and peeked at him through slitted lids. Groaned out a muzzy reply. “It’s true then, we are still in this place.” Lowering her head, she fought back tears. “I dreamed...I thought it was a dream...a nightmare. What happened? I remember getting lost and the storm. How did you find me? And why?”
While offering a small pan of water, he told her about the ball of yarn and how he’d nearly fallen over her half-dead body. “Drink. We may have no food, but we must drink to stay alive.”
Obediently, she sipped from the vessel he held to her lips, making a face at the brackish taste of melted snow. “I asked why.”
“I could not leave you to die. Now, take it all.”
Shuddering down the remainder of water, she tried to move her legs about, but the pain was excruciating. “What happened to me?”
“You nearly froze. Here, let me have a look.” Without waiting for her permission, he unwrapped her legs, took one foot in his hand and began to rub the skin briskly.
“Ow, that hurts.” She tried to kick out with the other leg, but found she couldn’t make it work right. “What’s wrong? Why can’t I move?”
“I told you, you almost froze. Can you feel my fingers on your toes?”
Eyes wide, she searched the concerned features and nodded. “But it stings.”
“That is good. We will get you on your feet.”
Without waiting for her consent, he hooked her under the arms and lifted her easily.
Frantically she clutched at his shirt to keep her balance. The blankets fell away and she cried out in dismay. “I’m naked. Where are my clothes?”
“There.” He gestured where he’d spread them over the rickety shelves to dry.
She glared at him, fought, but he wouldn’t let her go, just kept a tight hold. Muscles tightened beneath the deerskin shirt, building their own kind of fire against her bare flesh. Angry at her own body for betraying her, she tried to push him away. It was no use.
“Stop fighting me. They were wet. When they are dry you can put them back on. Let me wrap a blanket around you.”
“Why didn’t you let me die?” she wailed and punched out, catching him with a solid smack near the wound.
A grunt exploded from his throat and his grip loosened. Before he got a good hold on her again she staggered and almost fell, but he caught her, breath rasping against her ear.
“Dammit, stop, now. I’m not trying to hurt you.”
Because she couldn’t remain on her feet without holding on to something, she bunched his shirt tightly in both fists and gazed up into his eyes that glinted like silver agates and remained stubbornly aimed at her face.
Defeated, and left with little choice, she said, “All right, but I’ll dress first. Please get me my clothes.”
None too happy, he raised his shoulders, gripped hers and sat her on the pile of blankets to do her bidding.
“You’re about as mule-headed as any woman I’ve ever met,” he said when he threw the shirt and leggings down beside her. “And don’t bother trying to kick me out while you dress. I’m not going out there. You’ll have to settle for me turning my back.”
While she struggled awkwardly with the clothing, she could hear him muttering something about women acting foolish for no good reason he could think of. Something was different about him, his speech or manner, maybe both, but she couldn’t put her finger on what it was.
Pulling on the leggings proved difficult because she couldn’t stand without help. She absolutely would not ask him, either. Finally she lay on her back and wiggled into them, then turned over to fasten the waist.
“Okay, you can turn around.”
He stopped his grumbling and lifted her from the floor as easily as if she were a bag of flour. When he set her upright, prickles of pain shot through her limbs, and she held on to him, even though she didn’t want to. Helpless as a babe in arms, she had no choice but to allow him to help her. Speechles
s, she crossed her arms and glared at him. This savage warrior was nothing...no one, yet she had to accept his help. If she could raise her fist she’d punch him one right in the nose. How dare he show his civilized side? He’d reverted to the language and actions of his white heritage and made it harder to ignore a growing attraction toward him. Once she began to think of him as white, she might be lost.
He snaked an arm around her back to support her. “I won’t let you fall. Can you move? Let’s walk and get your circulation going. I’d hate to have to chop off those pretty toes.”
“You’d pay hell doing that,” she muttered. He pretended not to hear her, but she knew he did, for his eyes flared.
Around and around the small room they walked, if one could call it that. He limped and dragged her, yelling that she had to move her legs, to stand, to live, because he wasn’t going to let her die.
“I’ll die if I want to,” she said, but all the same did as he ordered. Something deep inside told her it was not yet time for her to give up her life. Though, looking around the dreadful circumstances of their existence, she couldn’t figure out why she should want to continue living.
If they didn’t get out of here soon they would surely starve to death, or freeze when fuel for the fire ran out. But she walked and continued to walk until the feeling returned to her legs and feet, until she felt the pounded earth of the dugout floor beneath her soles. Until the pain receded a bit.
Firmly, she shoved his arms from around her shoulders. “I can do it myself now, let me go.”
He did as she asked, stepped away, and she swayed, reached out to steady herself against the dirt wall, then began to totter around the room. After a few more turns, she glanced his way, caught him watching her, his silvery eyes still as a wood’s pond, the usual hardness of his features gentled in an expression she found heartbreaking.
“What is it?” she asked.
As if someone had re-chiseled his countenance into marble, he glowered at her. “If you think you are going to live, I will go out and see if the snow has stopped. I will get us something to eat.”
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