by Connie Mason
“What are you doing?” She huddled in the water, her arms crossed over her bare breasts and her legs pulled close to her body. She looked pale, thin, and frightened, and as vulnerable as a newborn babe.
“Trying to get you clean.” Scooping up a handful of sand, he attacked her skin with a vengeance. The layers of dirt literally floated off her back, arms, and neck. When Wind Rider pulled her to her feet so he could scrub the rest of her body, she cringed and pulled away.
“No, don’t touch me.”
Wind Rider stepped back, suddenly, shockingly aware of her tender white flesh, small, firm breasts, and long, slender legs. How could anyone be so appallingly thin and still appear womanly? He wondered dully. Her nipples were pink and elongated, her breasts like small, round apples, so tempting he wanted to taste them. The woman’s hair between her legs was not dull brown like that on her head but a rich, vibrant auburn. It glittered in the awakening sun like gleaming copper. The sight brought a painful jolt to his loins and he quickly looked away. In that instant he’d had a brief glimpse of why men were willing to pay for the use of her body. Even more startling was the fact that, cleansed of dirt and grime, her face wasn’t nearly as unattractive as he had first thought.
All he could think to say was, “Finish your bath and wash your hair.” The filthy mass of hair streamed down her back in a tangled, knotted mess. Immediately/she ducked her head beneath the waist-deep water, embarrassed to the point of tears. No man had ever seen her naked before, and it angered her that an Indian had been the first.
Wind Rider stood at the water’s edge, a nude statue that rivaled the finest works of art. He watched Hannah through slitted lids, his expression devoid of all emotion, the planes of his face stark against the brilliance of the sunlight. He could not turn his eyes away as Hannah ducked her head beneath the water and scrubbed it with sand. Within minutes the vibrant hues of rich auburn interspersed with streaks of gold emerged, and against his will he recalled the copper curls crowning her woman’s mound. His body reacted swiftly and unexpectedly.
Despite Hannah’s hollow cheeks, long, thin neck, bony collarbone, concave stomach, and prominent ribs, a jolt of raw desire exploded through him. His man’s part rose high and hard, filled with the blood of sudden, inexplicable need. Perhaps Cut Nose had been right, he thought dimly. The woman was a whore; he should use her like one. But when she turned and looked at him the sight of her small, vulnerable body and the mute appeal in her green eyes made a profound impact upon him. He snorted in disgust. What kind of Cheyenne warrior was he that he couldn’t restrain his manly urges?
He should feel contempt, loathing, and utter disregard for a white captive. Instead, this small, insignificant woman had found a place inside him he hadn’t known existed. Cut Nose hadn’t been too far from the truth when he had accused him of coddling his captive, Wind Rider thought derisively. White men had killed his people, stolen their lands, and tried to wipe them from the face of the earth. How could he feel anything but hatred for this pale-faced, worthless creature? He should kill her and be done with it, since he no longer needed her.
Hannah dared a glance at Wind Rider, startled to find him staring at her in a curious manner. Was it loathing? What had she done to cause him to hate her so much? she wondered. She slid her gaze down his body, gasping when she saw his engorged sex. His violent reaction shocked her. How could he react in such a blatantly sexual manner when he thought her ugly? She was aware of how thin and unattractive she appeared to men and until now had been proud of her ability to make herself homely. What did this Indian see that no other men had?
“I have nothing to wear,” Hannah called out when she had rinsed every last grain of sand from her hair.
Wind Rider turned and found the buckskin shirt one of his friends had left for him. He held it aloft, waiting for her to come out of the water and claim it.
She swallowed convulsively. “I-I’m not decent.’
Wind Rider sent her a chilling smile. “You may ride naked if you prefer, but your white skin will burn beneath the prairie sun.” He turned away.
“Wait! I’ll wear the shirt. Place it on the ground and turn around.”
Wind Rider laughed harshly. “I did not think whores were so modest. Do not pretend with me, woman, for I know what you are. I have nothing but contempt for women who sell their bodies to men. Perhaps I will give you to the village men to use for their pleasure as Cut Nose suggested. Now that you are cleaned up, perhaps they can overlook your ugliness and white skin.”
Hannah gasped in dismay. Where did Wind Rider get the idea that she was a whore? Didn’t he know she had run away because Mr. Harley wanted her to sell her favors for his personal gain? No, of course not, she answered her own question. How could he know?
“I’m not what you think,” she denied vehemently. “Will you turn around so I can leave the water?”
Crossing his arms over his bronze chest, Wind Rider refused to budge. “Your body does not tempt me, woman.”
Hannah flushed, vividly recalling the rampant state of his sex only moments before. She kept her eyes on his face, fearing to glance down to see if he was still aroused. Raising her chin to a defiant angle, she rose to her feet and walked slowly ashore.
Wind Rider tensed, wondering why he was putting himself through such agony. He must be desperate for a woman to become aroused by a skinny white woman who until a few moments ago had appeared utterly repulsive to him. But there was nothing repulsive about her now. Water streamed off the elongated tips of her breasts and puddled in the glorious copper hairs adorning her woman’s mound. The sight was so stirring,Wind Rider turned abruptly and walked away, blaming his white blood for making him desire the kind of woman he had always despised.
A white woman.
Chapter Four
Hannah tried valiantly to preserve her dignity, but it was difficult while sitting astride Wind Rider’s pony, locked in the cradle of his loins with her legs exposed and the buckskin shirt he had given her hiked up to her thighs. When he saw she had difficulty keeping her seat behind him he had insisted that she ride before him, straddling the horse’s withers. With his arms surrounding her and his body heat making her giddy,Hannah sensed a danger that had nothing to do with the obvious one she would expect from being held captive by an Indian. No, it was much more complex.
Wind Rider rode steadily north, aware in the most basic way of the woman fitted snugly between his thighs. It wasn’t as if taking a captive was unique; far from it. Since Sand Creek dozens of settlers had been killed in widely spread raids across the Cheyenne plains, and women and children had been seized and dragged away as captives. The Cheyenne trail of looting, burning, and murder had moved north, heading for the safety of the Powder River country, where the Sioux were camped. Wind Rider had joined them in the winter of 1864, raiding with them for weeks at a time before returning to the village.
Hannah heaved a sigh of relief when Wind Rider stopped beside a stream late that day. They had ridden without respite, munching on pemmican when hunger could be staved off no longer. She slid from the horse’s withers, hanging on a moment until her rubbery legs stabilized. Wind Rider had already leaped to the ground, favoring his wounded leg only slightly. Hannah watched him disappear into the woods. Her bladder near to bursting, she chose a path in the opposite direction. She was washing her hands in the stream when Wind Rider reappeared.
“Gather wood,” he ordered brusquely. “Do not stray too far or you will become lost.”
Hannah bristled with impotent rage. Was it her lot in life to be ordered about by men? First Mr. Harley and now Wind Rider. It was demeaning. One day, she vowed, she’d not be beholden to any man. Meanwhile, she had no choice but to do as Wind Rider directed. A short time later, when she heard rifle shots reverberate across the plains, she started violently, until she recalled Wind Rider’s intention to hunt for their supper. When she returned with the wood he was gutting and skinning a fat rabbit. She sat down on a log to watch him as he finis
hed with that rabbit and started on another.
“You speak English amazingly well,” she said idly, fascinated by the movement of his strong hands and nimble fingers.
He sent her an austere look. “The white man’s tongue is not difficult to master.”
Hannah stared at him. “Is your mother white? Did you inherit your silver eyes from her? Did she teach you to speak English?”
Annoyed by her infernal questions, Wind Rider slashed his hand in the air. “Quiet! Are all white women so nosy? A Cheyenne would never inquire into another’s past. I am Cheyenne; that is all you need to know.”
“But you don’t look .
“You are brave, Hannah McLin. I could kill you without remorse. I have killed before and would not hesitate to do so again.”
What Wind Rider didn’t say was that he’d never in his life killed or harmed a woman or child. Killing pony soldiers who had attacked his people was one thing, but he had yet to participate in an attack on settlers. His own sister and her husband, Zach Mercer, were settlers who lived not far from Denver.
Fear shuddered through Hannah. She did not doubt that Wind Rider was capable of performing every vile atrocity attributed to Indians. His words made her think seriously of escape. Lowering her lashes to shutter her thoughts, she desperately searched for a plan. Obviously, she needed more information.
“When will we reach your village?” Hannah asked after Wind Rider had spitted the rabbits and set them over the fire to cook.
“If we encounter no delays, we will reach Red Cloud’s camp tomorrow.”
“Who is Red Cloud?”
“He is a great Sioux chief.”
Hannah fell silent, realizing that she wasn’t going to get much from Wind Rider in the way of conversation.
Wind Rider watched Hannah warily. She was too nosy by far, he decided. He should either kill her or let her go, but unfortunately he could do neither. Killing her definitely didn’t appeal to him, and letting her go would be tantamount to a death sentence, for she was ill-prepared to survive on her own. Besides, she’d likely be captured by someone who would delight in torturing and killing her after using her body to satisfy his blood lust for white flesh.
Wind Rider tested the rabbits, found them done to a turn, and ripped one into pieces. He offered Hannah a share, which she accepted with alacrity and tore into with relish. Juice ran down her chin, but she didn’t stop to wipe it away until the last morsel had been chewed and swallowed. She looked at the remaining rabbit with such longing, Wind Rider offered her a share of that one, too. He had hoped to save it for their morning meal, but Hannah’s ravenous appetite changed his mind. He felt scathing contempt for the girl’s master, who obviously had starved her and worked her excessively. White men puzzled him. He didn’t understand why whites were allowed to mistreat one of their own so severely.
Kneeling beside the stream, Hannah washed her hands and face, then searched for a place to bed down. Wind Rider placed a blanket beneath a tree and walked to the water’s edge. Wading into waist-deep water, he submerged himself briefly, then rose like a golden statue and, ignoring Hannah, walked into the nearby willows for a moment of privacy. When he returned Hannah was sitting on a log beside the fire.
“Lie down,” Wind Rider said gruffly. He jerked his head toward the blanket. Hannah ignored him. “I am tired. I wish to sleep.”
“Go ahead,” Hannah said carelessly.
Wind Rider’s eyes glittered dangerously. “Do not defy me, woman. I do not trust you. Lie down.” His tone brooked no argument. Rising slowly, Hannah walked to the blanket and stretched out.
“What are you going to do?”
Using the rope that had been rolled up in the blanket, Wind Rider bound both of Hannah’s wrists and attached the end of the rope to his waist, leaving a two-foot slack to allow her freedom to turn in her sleep. The short tether would bring their bodies too closely together for his peace of mind, but there was no help for it. The buckskin shirt barely reached her knees, and the knowledge that she wore nothing underneath it was distracting. The sight of her slim but shapely legs made him forget that he had once thought her scrawny and plain.
Hannah hated being confined at Wind Rider’s side, so close she could feel the heat of him against her own cool flesh. The only concession he had made to his state of nudity was donning the leggings provided by one of his Sioux friends. Since she wore his only shirt nothing else was available to him. But he seemed unaware of the chill in the air as he lay down, forcing Hannah to conform to the curve of his body. Scooting as far from him as the rope allowed, Hannah’s tense body refused to relax until she heard the even cadence of Wind Rider’s breath and knew he was sleeping.
Wind Rider awoke in the dead of night, astounded to find Hannah snuggled against him. During the night she had sought his warmth, and his arms had welcomed her without conscious thought. A firm little breast filled his hand; his fingers rested on an elongated nipple. Two slim legs lay intimately entwined with his strong ones, and the sweet mounds of her buttocks pressed snugly against his loins.
Her silky hair tickled his nose and he brushed it away, amazed at the softness and texture. A few days ago it had been so filthy he wouldn’t have dared touch it for fear of encountering vermin.
Of its own volition his hand left her breast and slid down the curve of her hip. When he met bare flesh he inserted his hand beneath the fringed hem and inched the shirt upward, seeking the warmth of her inner thighs. The smoothness and heat of her flesh startled him, and he groaned as if in physical pain. If anyone had told him a month ago that he’d desire a white woman with such intense longing, he would have laughed. It had never occurred to him that he’d find Hannah desirable.
His hand slid higher, gravitating toward a beckoning heat, recalling how astounded he’d been when he’d first seen the glorious, fiery crown of her woman’s mound. Exhausted, Hannah groaned but did not awaken when Wind Rider slid a finger into the tender cleft between her legs. Moistness flowed from her honeyed depths and Wind Rider wondered how many men had feasted upon her tainted flesh. But tainted or not, the compelling need to join the ranks of those nameless men who had lain with her existed deep inside him.
Feeling vaguely uncomfortable, Hannah groaned and jerked awake, startled to find Wind Rider bending over her, his hands doing indecent things to her. Things that made her tingle and burn between her legs. “What are you doing? Don’t touch me!” A forbidden heat welled up from her loins.
Wind Rider’s generous mouth stretched into a mirthless grin. “You are wet and hot for a man.”
”I-I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He slipped a finger inside her and her body lurched upward. “Please! Don’t do that.”
“What would you prefer I do? Do white men arouse their women differently? Or do you wish me to pay in white man’s coin to lie with you?”
Hannah shoved at his chest, trying to push him away. It was too dark to see his expression, but the warmth of his silver eyes and the heat of his body scorched her flesh. “I’m not what you think. I’ve never lain with a man.”
Wind Rider laughed harshly. “Perhaps you’ve never lain with an Indian, but I know you’ve lain with white men. Do not lie, Hannah McLin, for I know what it means when a woman is called whore.” His finger slid deeper and Hannah gasped, squirming to accommodate the foreign object into her narrow passage. “Do not fear, Little Sparrow; I am capable of giving you pleasure if I so desire. Did you receive pleasure from the others, or was their coin more important to you than their manhood?”
Hannah paled. “No, please ... I’m not a whore. Where did you hear that? Don’t do this to me. I’ll be your slave, I’ll work hard, but don’t rape me.”
If Hannah did not remember him, he wasn’t going to tell her that he’d seen her in Denver many moons ago. ”A slave is less than dirt,” Wind Rider spat, so desperate to thrust himself inside her that his heart was thumping wildly against his ribs. ‘1 can use you in any way I desire. I
f you do not please me, I can kill you.”
“I’d prefer you killed me,” Hannah said softly. Abruptly, the building pressure inside her eased as Wind Rider removed his finger.
“You’d prefer death to me? Is lying with an Indian so repulsive to you?”
Hannah swallowed convulsively, searching her heart for an answer. Truth be known, Wind Rider wasn’t repulsive at all. It frightened her to think she’d even consider bedding with the heathen savage. She’d always assumed that one day she’d many; lacking worldly goods, she intended to give the gift of her virginity to her bridegroom. After her period of indenture she’d be free to live her own life, find a mate, and settle down to raise a family. Maybe in time she could bring some of her younger brothers and sisters to America. What she hadn’t counted on was a vicious master like Mr. Harley, or being taken captive by Indians.
“Answer me,” Wind Rider repeated. “Is death preferable to bedding an Indian?”
“Yes!” Hannah shouted recklessly. “If you rape me, I’ll find a way to kill you and then myself.” They were fearless words, spoken in the heat of passion.
Wind Rider went still. It seemed inconceivable that a whore would prefer death to lying with a man, Indian or no. He was sorely tempted to grant her wish. His hand curled around the hilt of his hunting knife and he slowly drew it forth. Hannah had no idea what he intended until the sharp point pricked the skin at the base of her neck and she felt the warm trickle of blood.
“Go ahead,” she taunted, tossing caution to the wind. Wouldn’t death be preferable to enforced slavery? Having to answer to a master like Wind Rider would test her sorely. She must never let down her guard and forget that her captor was a vicious savage. Wind Rider had already threatened to give her to his friends if she didn’t please him.