Another sharp cry jolted him from his thoughts. The woman thrashed and cried out as bad spirits chased her while she slept. He watched, his gut lurching at the soft, mewling cries choking her. The sound woke her. She scrambled to her knees, her eyes wild with fear and the lingering darkness of her dreams. Seeing him watching her, she tensed. Before she could bolt like Mastinca, he reached out, his fingers circling her wrist.
Murmuring softly, he scooted close to her, using the white man’s tongue to reassure her that he would not do her harm. His voice seemed to pierce the fog of fear shrouding her. Slowly the tension left her shoulders, yet she made no move to lie back down.
Releasing his hold on her wrist, Swift Foot used his hands to force her to recline again on his fur. “Istima yo.” He repeated the words in English. “Go to sleep,” he ordered in a voice soft and low, as if speaking to a frightened child.
She watched him through wide eyes. “Who are you? What are you going to do with me?” she asked.
Swift Foot understood her. Like most of his people, he’d learned enough of the white man’s tongue to aid him in dealing with trappers and those who came to trade with his tribe. He seldom spoke the words, preferring that whites not know how much he understood.
Listening to her voice, Swift Foot wasn’t sure what he was going to do with the woman. He felt strangely vulnerable in her presence. Already he regretted speaking to her in her own tongue; his need to comfort had made him careless. Needing to distance himself from her, he lay down on his side. He turned his back to her, as he was unable to think while looking upon her beauty.
With a few words he could reassure her that he meant her no harm, but if he did, he would remove the one barrier that he sensed was his only protection—and he needed that distance between them. Self-preservation demanded he hold his tongue. He could only hope she wouldn’t press further. Perhaps she might assume that he knew only a few words of her tongue.
The woman finally fell silent. Relieved, Swift Foot took a deep breath. But the silence didn’t last long. Soft sounds of tears battered at his determination to remain impassive. Like a deer tearing through the fragile spiderwebs between trees, this woman’s fear and sorrow broke through his resolve.
Again a voice came to him: Save her. Return her to her people. Prove your worth.
Then it dawned on him. The Great Spirit sought to test his worth and his devotion to his people before granting him the position of chief of his tribe. And what better way than with a beautiful white woman? His father had taken a white woman for wife and brought dishonor on their tribe, an act that had started a vicious circle of war and death. He knew the Great Spirit was displeased by his tribe. Hadn’t the harsh winter and the poor buffalo hunt last summer been proof that the Great One sought to make his people pay for their foolishness?
During his last vision quest, Swift Foot had vowed to make things right when he became chief. And now the spirits demanded proof that he could repair the damage of the past and bring peace to his people. They’d sent him a white woman. They sought to tempt him in the same manner as his own father had been tempted.
Closing his eyes, he thanked the Great Spirit for sending him this woman. He vowed to be strong, to make his people proud of him. Where his father had failed, Swift Foot would not. He would regain the honor his father had squandered.
Save her. The command came once more from Tate, whispered in his ear as the wind whirled around him. Swift Foot closed his eyes, drawing strength from the belief that this would be the first step in righting the many wrongs of the past. He’d take her to one of the many trading posts along the big muddy river.
Yet his decision didn’t make it easier to ignore the woman’s mourning. He realized again that she’d lost her family. Her mother and father. The girl desperately needed comforting. Unable to help himself, he turned to face her. Her eyes were still wide open, filled with grief and fear as she stared into his eyes.
Reaching out, he coaxed her head to rest in the cradle of his shoulder. Speaking, he began to tell her about the pranks and tricks of Coyote and Iktomi, a spiderlike spirit who enjoyed causing trouble and took malicious glee in complicating the lives of the Sioux. In his haste, he found himself mixing Lakota and English—a prank of Iktomi, he was sure.
The woman’s sobs subsided and her breathing slowed. Still, he continued to offer comfort. Her fists relaxed until her fingers rested lightly on his chest. Carefully pulling her body even closer so he could keep her warm, Swift Foot once again found his fingers tangled in her hair.
Yes, he’d save her, take her to safety. Otherwise she’d surely die at the hands of the elements or animals—or worse, end up the captive of either another Sioux tribe or Ojibwa or Mandan, all of whom roamed this land. And in saving her, he’d take the first step to proving himself to the spirits who even now watched and waited. An answering caress of his hair, a brief touch to his shoulders from Tate, told him Wind was pleased.
He closed his eyes, giving himself over to the fragile softness of the woman in his arms. Come morning, he’d devise a way to keep distance between them. But for tonight, he’d give in, victim to Iktomi—son of In-yan, the rock. Iktomi had the power to work magic over persons and things, and for tonight, Swift Foot was unable to resist holding the white girl in his arms and murmuring softly to her.
Emily woke to the scent of roasting meat. Her stomach rumbled at the delicious aroma teasing her from her sleep. Heat radiated toward her, making the cocoon she slept in too warm. She held on to the lingering traces of sleep, though, shoving away the horrible nightmares of savages and wolves. It all had been a dream. She’d open her eyes and find her mother cooking. Even a scolding for being lazy sounded like heaven to Emily, for it meant her mother was still alive.
She stretched and opened her eyes, then blinked rapidly. A few feet away, a fire blazed. But it wasn’t her mother cooking the morning meal. Instead, an Indian sat before the flames, holding a stick with chunks of meat speared upon it.
With sudden and stark clarity, the night came back to her sleeping nestled in the savage’s arms, his soothing voice in her ears, his hands tunneling through her hair. The events scrolled backward: the wolves, the deaths of her parents, her mother’s deathbed confession. None of it had been a dream.
She blanked out all the horror and focused on the here and now—the Indian before her, and the immediate danger he represented. She stared at his body clad in only a breechclout. In the daylight, she saw that her first impression of him had not been wrong. He was young, and had dark, handsome looks, and a body honed to the perfection of a god. The Greek god Apollo came to mind. She’d read about him in a book Millicente had allowed her to read at the mission; her father had refused to allow Emily anything but the Bible.
Frowning, she stared at the warrior. He wasn’t what she expected. All during the night, he’d been kind, his voice soft and tender as if reassuring a child. Each time she’d awakened to find the taste of tears on her lips, his touch had been gentle. He’d held her, stroked her head, back and arms until she fell asleep once more. Despite the circumstances, Emily had felt safer in his arms than she could remember feeling in a long while. Yet this savage, for all his gentle handling, was still an unknown.
Her stomach rumbled again, reminding Emily that aside from that bit of dried meat last night, she hadn’t eaten in some time. Wrapping the buffalo robe around her shoulders, she cautiously sat up.
The savage didn’t look at her or acknowledge her presence. “Thank you for sharing your fur,” she began. Removing it, she laid it a safe distance from the fire. Turning, she discreetly tried to pull up her bodice. The sound of ripping cloth stopped her. It was useless to try to make her dress more modest, so she gave up—before she lost the dress and was down to just her threadbare shift.
Holding her hands out, she warned them, all the while eyeing the sizzling meat on the fire. Juice dripped into the flames and sizzled. Emily licked her lips, feeling faint with the need for food. “You speak English?�
�� she asked, recalling how he’d talked to her last night. Though she couldn’t remember the words, just the soft, reassuring timbre of his voice keeping the nightmares away, she was sure he’d spoken to her in English.
He grunted something in a strange language. Puzzled, Emily shook her head. She could have sworn he’d spoken to her in English. Maybe it had been a dream, she thought. Maybe she’d dreamed that he’d talked to her for most of the night. Leaning forward, she pointed to herself. “My name is Emily.” She spoke slowly. When he glanced up at her, she jabbed her chest. “Emily.”
Still no response. So she studied him. Last night she hadn’t been able to see him in detail. Her gaze slid over his bare shoulders, and she noted that he wore his hair long and loose. One strand fell over his shoulder, drawing her gaze down to his muscled chest. She scanned the rest of him, skimming past the only bit of clothing he wore to note that his thighs, bare to his groin, were enormous. His legs, long for a savage, led to a tapered waist, broad chest and bulging arms.
He glanced up at her. Embarrassed to be caught staring at his naked flesh, Emily felt heat infuse her body. But he didn’t seem to notice, and he held out a stick of meat. With another thank-you, Emily reached out to take the tender morsel. As she sat back, she found his gaze on her breasts, and she found herself wishing she had kept her shawl or suffered the suffocating warmth of the fur robe. As if he sensed her concern, he averted his gaze.
After the morning meal, he walked away, through the trees. Emily waited. He hadn’t taken his pouches, so she knew he’d be back. When he reappeared, his hair was wet and she realized he’d gone to the river to bathe. He indicated that she could go. She shook her head. He shrugged as if to say it made no difference to him whether she bathed or not. Truthfully, Emily would have loved to have done so, but there wasn’t a chance she was undressing with him so near.
He picked up his pouches, rolled the fur robe and tied it with a long, thin strip of leather. Emily stood, uncertain. Was he leaving? The thought of being alone again frightened her. Between him and the wolves, she’d learned just how vulnerable she was with no weapon to defend herself. And if she came across another Indian, she wasn’t sure she’d be able to save herself.
At least this one had treated her well. Panic hit at the thought of being abandoned to make her way alone. Though she didn’t know him, it seemed to her that this gentle savage was her only chance of surviving.
In that moment, Emily realized that she’d rather deal with what she knew than face the unknown. She stepped toward him. “Take me with you. Don’t leave me alone,” she begged. As she spoke, she couldn’t quite keep the fear from her voice.
His gaze impassive, he uttered an order: “U wo!” He motioned for her to come to him.
Grateful, yet fearful, Emily did as bidden. The Indian handed her the pouches, rolled up his fur and shirt, and turned to pick up his bow and arrows. Emily shouldered her burden and fell into step behind her unlikely rescuer.
Chapter Three
The gentle warmth and soft greens of spring gave way to the sparkling heat of summer. Sitting atop a ridge, Emily watched the radiant gold-and-crimson sunset spread like clover honey across the horizon. Below her, determined not to be outdone, matching seas of knee-high grass rippled in the breeze like liquid gold racing to meet the setting sun. Meadowlarks added to the beauty with their golden melody.
Never had she seen a land so dominated by one color, yet comprised of so many hues, shades and textures. Sunflowers, the flower of a cactus, tawny-coated animals, all blended in with the scenery; yet each stood out, offering the observer a beauty not found anywhere else. Even the night seemed to compete, from the dazzle of stars to the cold, green-gold lights that flashed across the dark sky.
The richness of this land took her breath away. From where she sat, miles and miles of it lay open to her seeking gaze. Spying a large golden eagle soaring across the sky, she sighed. Oh, to be a bird and soar across this wonderful world she’d adopted as her own! She had no idea exactly how many days she’d wandered the land with her Indian savior, and she didn’t care. For the first time in her life she felt truly happy and free.
Breathing deeply, she stretched her arms high overhead, rejoicing in the feel of air caressing her bare skin. Reaching back, she removed the leather thong holding her hair away from her face. Combing her fingers through her heavy braid, she released the confined strands to the playful tugs of the afternoon breeze.
Clad in her thigh-length shift, she closed her eyes and tipped her head back, bringing her hands slowly down, her fingers lightly brushing against her sides. Then she held them out, slightly behind her, as if they were wings and she a bird in flight.
Giggling softly, she opened her eyes and twirled in small circles, well away from the ridge, her hair swirling around her. The grass beneath her bare feet felt so different from the green grass of spring; its long stems, bent over, cushioned her feet like a thick carpet, and its ripening heads caught between her toes.
Sinking down, she rested her chin on one upraised knee. Never in her life could she recall being able to sit and enjoy the afternoon. Not even as a child. If there were no chores to be done, then she’d been expected to read the Bible or pray. According to her father, idle hands and minds led to sinful thoughts and actions.
Soaking up the last rays of the day, she wondered how anyone could believe that time spent enjoying the beauty of God’s earth could be considered sinful. For her, it was another aspect of her newfound freedom.
Freedom. The word tasted sweet on Emily’s tongue. Never had she realized just how much her life had lacked. She’d been a prisoner to her father’s demanding beliefs, a slave to society’s rules, and even held hostage by her own body—afraid to do anything for fear of attracting attention and the ire of Timothy Ambrose.
But out here, none of those things mattered. It was just her and the simple world around her.
No pretense.
No falsehoods.
Just the two of them and all this. It was a world she never wanted to leave. A long shadow fell across her. Glancing over her shoulder, she smiled at the warrior watching her. Like everything else around her, he too was golden—from the breadth of his shoulders down to his tapered waist and strong legs. Even the taupe skin below his breechclout and his dark eyes reflected the different earth tones surrounding them.
“You’re back,” she greeted him happily, jumping to her feet. Seeing the dead rabbit he held by the hind legs, she held out her hand.
Drawing the animal away from her, the warrior sent a silent question with his eyes. Emily grinned, knowing what answer he sought. Over the past week, she’d experienced her second monthly flow, which meant she wasn’t allowed to touch anything he touched, including the food they ate.
She recalled her embarrassment when her bleeding had started. Out here there’d been no way to hide it, and he’d quickly made a sign that she was to be secluded while in that condition.
Truth to tell, it had been just fine with her. She’d quickly adjusted to being taken care of. In fact, it had felt good to learn that for that one week, as had happened, nothing was expected of her. No chores. No traveling. Just time to sit and reflect. Going to him, she put her hands on his shoulders.
“It’s all right. I’m done.”
He smiled back, reached up and took a strand of her hair, rubbing its softness between his fingers. Emily knew he loved her hair, and of all things, he had probably missed combing, touching and rubbing it during her time in seclusion.
She reached over to take the rabbit from him. He shook his head, dropped the animal and swept her up into his arms. Laughing, she circled her arms around his neck and rested her head in the strong curve of his shoulder, relishing the male scent of him, the warmth of his bronzed skin against her cheek and the strength and security she felt in his arms.
She herself had missed this: his touches, the way he made her feel special, wanted and loved.
The first time he’d kissed her, sh
e’d been scared that he had been about to rape her. But he hadn’t forced her. He’d been gentle and patient. And at last, she’d given herself to him freely. At first it was because she felt she owed it to him; repaying his kindness in saving her life with her body had seemed a small price to pay. But now she loved him, heart and soul.
Wanton. Sinner. Whore.
Her father’s words echoed in her mind.
Daughter of the devil. Satan’s spawn.
The words still hurt. She hadn’t been any of those things, but now? She didn’t know.
Yet she didn’t care. Forcibly, she put thoughts of her father from her mind. This was far too beautiful an afternoon to spoil it with memories of a miserable childhood, and she preferred to just forget about that last day with her parents and pretend it had never happened. It was easier and less painful. But deep down, Emily knew she’d never forget, just as she knew that day had changed her forever.
She stared up at her golden warrior and felt the glow of warmth and happiness. He took her back to the spot where she’d sat waiting for him and gently laid her down on the still-flattened patch of grass.
While he discarded his breechclout, Emily pulled her shift over her head, baring herself to him. It warmed her to see his eyes feasting on her flesh. Lying back, she held out her arms and welcomed his weight over her. Soft, tender murmurs filled her ears, making her feel beautiful. And when he was poised at her entrance, waiting for her to open to him, she felt cherished.
Loved.
Slowly her knees fell apart, and her legs lifted to draw him to her. With a deep sigh, he entered her, then together they flew through the air as one, breathing as one, reaching ecstasy as one. “I love you,” she cried when the world around her spun out of control.
A long while later, after she’d dressed, Emily set to cooking their meal. Every so often she glanced at her warrior. He watched her. He touched her. But he didn’t speak to her. Yet that was all right. She talked enough for the two of them.
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