by Connie Mason
Hannah’s lips thinned resentfully. “You know nothing about me and certainly have no right to judge me.” Nevertheless, she knelt beside the stream and washed the grime from her hands. When she returned to Wind Rider’s side he handed her the knife, staring at her strangely.
The woman didn’t recognize him, Wind Rider thought as he pulled the crude bandage of leaves from his wound. But he remembered her. No man could look into those compelling green eyes and forget her. He knew she was an indentured servant and a whore, that she sold her body to men for money and, from what he had observed in Denver, was abused by her master. She was skinny and plain, and no decent Cheyenne warrior would look on her with desire or wish to lie with her.
“The bullet,” Wind Rider said, gripping her arm as she accepted the knife with marked reluctance. “And do not make the mistake of thinking I am incapable of swift retaliation should you decide to attempt something foolish.”
Hannah tore her gaze from the icy menace in the Indian’s cold eyes, thinking him perfectly capable of reacting swiftly and cruelly. She gazed down at the swollen flesh surrounding the wound and shivered. She had no idea how to go about removing the bullet; it seemed almost a sacrilege to mar that smooth bronze flesh more than it already was.
“Do it!” Wind Rider gritted from between clenched teeth. His brutal grip on her arm tightened.
Wincing in pain, Hannah uttered a silent prayer and pierced his flesh with the tip of the knife. Hannah gagged and turned away, but the pressure on her arm increased until she was forced to return to her loathsome task. She spared a fleeting glance at Wind Rider, amazed that he could bear the pain without uttering a sound or passing out. He held his leg absolutely still beneath her unskilled probing.
White beneath the bronze planes of his face, his expression gave away nothing of the agony he was suffering. All the while she worked over him, he watched through slitted eyes, fully prepared to intervene should she attempt something reckless.
“I feel the bullet!” Hannah cried triumphantly as she probed deeper. The groan that slipped from Wind Rider’s lips was scarcely audible as Hannah carefully pried the bullet from the gaping wound. “There; it’s out!” Relief swept through her like a tidal wave. Had she been required to dig into his flesh a moment longer she couldn’t have borne it.
A lesser man would have passed out long ago, Hannah thought, amazed at the Indian’s fortitude. She wondered what his name was, and if he was, indeed, a half-breed, or merely a strange breed of Indian with silver eyes.
“You must cauterize the wound,” Wind Rider said, his voice a raspy whisper. His eyes were dilated, his skin ashen, but he was still watchful, still aware of what needed to be done to save his life. “Place the knife in the fire and when it is red-hot hold it against the wound.”
Hannah’s eyes widened and she gasped in horror. “I cannot. How will you stand it?”
“I have gone through it before,” he said stoically.
Her eyes traveled up the virile length of his body, noticing for the first time the wound just below his ribs. The scar had healed but was still red and puckered.
Following his instructions, Hannah heated the knife in the fire. When it was red-hot she removed it, pausing a scant moment to search his face. Impressed by his courage, she felt a grudging admiration for him and his ability to withstand intense pain, despite the fact that he was a savage heathen. When she placed the red-hot blade against his flesh his body jerked convulsively, and a great shudder passed through him. But his eyes never left hers. They clung to her as if to a lifeline, impaling her with silver shards, hard, relentless, probing . .. desperate.
Abruptly/Wind Rider released her arm, and she shot to her feet, sickened by the stench of burned flesh. With a cry of dismay she tossed the knife to the ground.
Pain. Relentless. Stabbing. Intense. It tore into him, savaged him, gnawing at his flesh like a ravening beast.
Feeling himself spinning into a black abyss, Wind Rider focused on the young woman leaning over him, her vivid green eyes all that kept him from sinking into oblivion. How could he have thought her plain? he wondered dimly, with those eyes that ate into a man’s soul. He must be hallucinating, he thought, to find anything attractive in the plain brown sparrow.
“Are you all right?” Hannah asked hesitantly. She hated to show concern for an Indian, but she couldn’t help herself. Her mother had always said she was too tenderhearted for her own good. Besides, he hadn’t harmed her, and she hoped he’d let her go now that she’d helped him.
Wind Rider found it difficult to think, let alone speak, so he nodded his head.
“What is your name?” she asked suddenly. For some reason it seemed important to know the name of the man whose life she might have saved.
Breathing deeply, Wind Rider fought to control the pain, and little by little he succeeded. “I am called Wind Rider.”
“My name is Hannah. Hannah McLin,” Hannah offered shyly. “May I leave now?”
Wind Rider thought her voice lovely—soft and lilting. The melodious rhythm intrigued him. He’d never heard anything like it before. Except for her eyes and voice, he thought ungraciously, nothing about her was attractive.
“Where will you go if I let you leave?” he asked, finally finding the strength to form the words. He had no idea why he should care, except that she had helped him when she could just as easily have plunged the knife into his heart. Lord knows he had been at her mercy. Though he had endeavored to frighten her into compliance, he was as weak as a babe, and she had to know it. Something told Wind Rider that fear wasn’t the reason this woman had helped him. He recognized goodness when he saw it, and whore or no, Hannah McLin had a tender heart.
“To Cheyenne. As far away from Mr. Harley as I can get.” Hannah said at length.
“Who is Mr. Harley?”
“He’s the man to whom I’m indentured. By law I’m required to work for him for seven years.”
Still groggy from pain, Wind Rider couldn’t comprehend the need for someone to sell herself into bondage. Did white society have other laws equally as repugnant? he wondered dully. “The Cheyenne do not sell themselves,” he said, sending her a glance that spoke eloquently of his contempt for someone who would do such a thing. “Have white eyes no pride?”
Hannah bristled angrily, her eyes flashing green fire. “I did what I had to do to survive; you have no right to judge me. You, a savage, who raids, kills, and rapes innocent people, have no right to condemn others. As long as Indians roam the plains, no decent folk are safe.”
“We do what we must to survive,” Wind Rider said, throwing her words back at her. His silver eyes turned icy with hostility. “Have you not heard of Sand Creek, where hundreds of innocent women and children were killed by white soldiers?”
Hannah nodded; she had been aware of the gossip but wasn’t certain there was any truth to the stories. Many versions had circulated, and she hardly knew what to believe. She’d heard just recently that the president had appointed a commission to investigate the rumors concerning a massacre. But, truth to tell, she had been too preoccupied with her own survival to pay much heed to politics and such.
“I know little about such things.” She hesitated a moment, then said, ”Tis time I left. I dare not linger in the area too long. Knowing Mr. Harley, he’s sent the authorities to search for me.”
“There are Indian war parties roaming the area,” Wind Rider warned. “The Crow are particularly brutal to women captives.”
Hannah blanched. “I won’t let you frighten me. Death at the hands of Indians is no worse than .. ” She faltered and glanced off into the distance. “I won’t return to Mr. Harley, no matter what. I thought I would be free to go if I helped you.”
Wind Rider struggled to his feet. Grinding pain tore through him, and he gritted his teeth against the vicious onslaught as he gasped out the words, “if you wish-to leave-you-are free-to-go.”
“Should you be on your feet?” Hannah asked, awed by Wind Rider’s
stamina and seeming immunity to pain.
Wind Rider’s grimace was a parody of a smile. It amused him that this plain-faced woman felt concern for him. Except for his sister’s husband he hated all white eyes. And if he ever learned that Zach Mercer had mistreated Tears Like Rain, he’d kill him without regret. He was Cheyenne by choice and would always be Cheyenne. He couldn’t love White Feather more if he had been his real father. Bluecoats had killed his people and forced them from their ancestral lands, and he’d made a solemn vow to fight to the death to restore the plains to their rightful owners.
“The pain is nothing,” Wind Rider said simply. “I must find my Sioux friends and return to Powder River country.” He tested his leg by putting his weight on it, bearing the resulting pain with tight-lipped fortitude. “Good-bye, Hannah McLin. It is unlikely we will meet again.”
“Good-bye, Wind Rider,” Hannah said, strangely reluctant to leave.
The handsome Indian was unlike any man she’d ever met, and she’d met many during the time she’d worked at Harley’s inn. Experience had taught her that men were crude and brutal and couldn’t be trusted. They thought only of their creature comforts and treated women like chattel, placed on earth to give them pleasure. If women were not submissive enough, men gained perverse enjoyment from subduing them with their superior strength. Except for her father and brothers and her cousin Seamus, Hannah feared and hated all men equally.
Wind Rider regarded Hannah with a touch of awe, annoyed that this ragged scrap of humanity covered with grime had somehow managed to reach a place in him he hadn’t known existed. He didn’t like the feeling; he had lived too long with the Cheyenne to trust white eyes. Black Kettle had trusted them, and his people had suffered for it.
Hannah picked up her sack and walked away without looking back, fearing Wind Rider would try to stop her. She hadn’t walked twenty paces when a group of riders came bursting through the trees, cutting off her escape. She reared back in fright as she counted a dozen armed savages, many brandishing spears decorated with bloody scalps. They greeted Wind Rider with exuberant shouts of welcome. Hannah stood frozen with fear as they spoke to Wind Rider in guttural tones.
“Ho, my friend; it is good to find you alive.” The warrior who spoke was tall and well-formed, with a large nose and a thin mouth that gave him a cruel look. Like Wind Rider, he wore only a breechclout, and Hannah could see that his body was a much deeper shade of bronze than Wind Rider’s.
“I am equally glad to see you, Runs-Like-A-Deer.”
“What happened to you?” a short, ugly man with a scarred face asked. He was called Cut Nose because of the way a scar bisected his nose.
“My horse was shot from beneath me and an enemy bullet found my flesh,” Wind Rider told Cut Nose.
While they spoke Hannah slowly edged backward, hoping to escape unnoticed. But Cut Nose’s sharp eyes caught the movement, and he reined his horse to cut off her retreat.
“I see your wound didn’t stop you from taking a captive,” He sent Hannah a contemptuous look. “The woman is ugly; hardly worth the trouble of taking her back to camp. I say we kill her now. Or,” he added crudely, “perhaps you like a woman with no flesh, and bones sharp enough to give pain when you lie upon her. Her scrawny body will provide scant warmth and little comfort beneath your blankets if you plan on scewering her upon your mighty lance, my Cheyenne brother. Our Sioux maidens will give you much more pleasure.” He turned to his companions. “Driving my knife through the white captive’s heart will give me great pleasure.”
“What are they saying?” Hannah asked fearfully.
Wind Rider spared her a worried glance but ignored her question. He dare not free her now, for his friends would think him weak and cowardly and probably kill her despite his protest. For some reason he couldn’t allow them to kill her; he didn’t wish to see Hannah McLin dead. “The woman is my captive; I will decide what is to be done with her.”
“She will slow us down,” Runs-Like-A-Deer said. His lip curled downward into a scowl. “We are short of horses. Cut Nose is right; killing the woman is the sensible thing to do.”
“Take her now upon the ground, Wind Rider, if you’ve a mind to,” Cut Nose chided, “if you can stand the stench. If your enjoyment of her is great, perhaps I will change my mind and take her myself before I end her miserable life.”
“I am in no shape to bed anyone,” Wind Rider argued. “I say she comes with us. She is my captive. It is our way. She belongs to me, and I have need of a slave. I have no wife to cook for me or see to my needs. I have no desire to bed her—she is far too ugly for my taste—but she can be taught to work hard. I will beat her if she does not please me.”
“The Cheyenne are a strange lot,” Cut Nose said, shaking his head. “You fight bravely, Wind Rider, but your lack of judgment is appalling. Anyone can see the woman is worthless as a slave. If I didn’t know you for a fierce fighter and a bitter enemy of all white eyes, I’d say your white blood was making you weak.”
Wind Rider’s eyes narrowed dangerously. He had never gotten along with Cut Nose, and if he hadn’t been wounded and in pain, he would have challenged him. Cut Nose seemed to enjoy questioning his loyalty and reminding him of his lack of Indian blood, despite the fact that they raided side by side with equal zeal.
Sensing a confrontation they could ill afford, Runs-Like-A-Deer stepped between the two antagonists. “It is as Wind Rider says: The captive is his to do with as he pleases. We will take her with us to Powder River country. Standing Bear can ride with me; he is the smallest. Wind Rider can share Standing Bear’s horse with the woman until we can steal mounts for them.”
Since Runs-Like-A-Deer was the undisputed leader of the Sioux raiding party no one questioned his authority. Standing Bear leaped off his horse and handed the reins to Wind Rider. Wind Rider accepted them with a nod and turned to Hannah.
“Am I free to go now?” Hannah asked hopefully.
“You are my captive,” Wind Rider replied gruffly. The harsh tone of his voice startled Hannah. His manner had changed so abruptly, her eyes showed her confusion. A few minutes ago he had been willing to let her go in peace. What did it all mean?
“Your captive? I-I don’t understand. Let me go. You promised.”
His answer was to grab her roughly and toss her upon the horse’s back. He knew many of the Sioux understood the white man’s tongue and he didn’t want to give them the impression that he was coddling his captive because she was white, like he was. In order to keep her alive he had to treat her with the contempt due any other white captive. And in this instance, because Cut Nose had questioned his loyalty to his people, he must dispel their doubts and show them that he could be as cruel as they when dealing with captives.
“I said I’d think about it,” he said, refusing to look Hannah in the eye.
Chapter Three
“I cannot abide your stench,” Wind Rider said after they had ridden a good distance.
Seated behind him on the horse, Hannah clung to his narrow waist with fierce desperation. She’d ridden docile farm animals in Ireland but never anything like this swift Indian pony. Despite her reluctance to touch Wind Rider’s smooth dark skin she was forced to press herself against him so tightly, she could feel the scalding heat of his bare flesh through her rough clothing, providing mute evidence of the fever raging within him.
“Let me go and you can be rid of me,” Hannah said hopefully. “I don’t wish to offend you.”
“You will bathe,” Wind Rider decided. “You will wash your body and hair at the next stream we come to.”
“No!” Though Hannah hated being unclean, she appreciated the fact that it protected her from unwanted attention. She had deliberately become the disgustingly filthy creature Wind Rider thought her when she realized that the sight of her unwashed flesh and matted hair kept Mr. Harley’s customers away from her. It was a small sacrifice to keep her virginity intact. She could not bear the disgrace if she was forced to become one of those poo
r creatures who sold their bodies for a living.
“I do not understand white women,” Wind Rider snorted, wrinkling his nose in disgust. “If you are to prepare my food, you will be clean.”
“Prepare your own food,” Hannah remarked sullenly. “I don’t want to be your slave. Had I enjoyed slavery I could have remained with Mr. Harley.”
“Would you rather be dead? Cut Nose was all for killing you outright, and Runs-Like-A-Deer thought it a good idea. You are alive only through my intervention. If you wish to live, you will be my slave and do as I say.”
Wind Rider kneed his mount, and all conversation ceased as Hannah clutched his middle to keep from falling.
They rode without respite until nightfall, when the war party made camp beside a stream swollen by spring rains. Wind Rider slid off his mount, favoring his wounded leg. He grunted in pain, then turned and pulled Hannah none too gently to the ground.
“Gather firewood,” he ordered Hannah as several men went off into the woods to hunt. “Do not try to escape; it will only make the others angry.” He dropped to the ground so heavily, Hannah realized he must be exhausted after suffering so grave a wound and losing so much blood.
Fearing the other Indians, Hannah stayed within sight of Wind Rider as she gathered driftwood for the fire. She returned with an armful of sticks and dropped them at Wind Rider’s feet. In a very short time he had built a fire to cook the game his companions provided for their supper.
That night they feasted on squirrel and rabbit, roasted wild onions, and clear, cool water. Wind Rider gave Hannah a small portion of the meat, and when she gobbled it down as if she were starving—which, in truth, she was— he offered her more, despite Cut Nose’s snide remark about wasting good food on a woman too ugly to warm a man’s blankets.