As she accepted each gift, she motioned for its giver to enter her home where her mother, aunt and cousins had retired. Each left with a small gift in return and a huge smile on his lips. His people were pleased. In just over a week, she’d won their hearts. Not that they’d had any reason to resent her, or her tribe merging with his. All—except for Kills Many Crows, who resented everything that came to Swift Foot—seemed happy to see their chief take a wife.
The hard part would be in his winning the respect of her tribe. But he would. The two tribes were joined now. As they were wed.
Shifting inward slightly at the same time as his bride, Swift Foot felt their shoulders brush. Small Bird’s head turned slowly. A wispy strand of her blue-black hair feathered over his cheek.
Taking a deep breath, Swift Foot inhaled her clean, sweet scent and stared into her eyes. Black lashes and brows framed irises the same shade as the golden-eagle feathers in his bonnet. Flames from the fire danced within those eyes and glowed over the smooth brown skin of her cheeks.
Aware of his perusal, his wife lifted her chin with an expression he already recognized: one of determination. Once more he met her gaze. This time she lowered her lashes, looking away. She turned to greet the next guest—a small girl—and he jealously observed the way her arms wrapped gently around the child’s shoulders. A moment later, Small Bird threw her head back and laughed at something the child said.
Mesmerized, Swift Foot stared at the delicate flesh beneath her jaw. His wife was a study in contrasts: strength with fragility, stubbornness with compassion, gentleness with determination. And, oh yes, beauty.
With a start he realized Small Bird was truly ravishing. Again came a shiver of fear—and guilt. His thoughts made him feel traitorous to his earlier love. But when Small Bird touched her forehead to the child in her arms, he too longed to feel her tender touch.
Grateful for the sudden arrival of food, he accepted a bowl of steaming elk, jerked tongue and rabbit. Another woman set before him a bowl of pemmican, wild potatoes, onion and prairie turnips. A third presented a bowl of gooseberry mush.
Taking a small piece of meat, Swift Foot held it up, then tossed it into the fire. As he did, he recited, “Recognize this, Ghost, so that I may become the owner of something good.” Then he offered the bowl of fresh hot meat to Small Bird.
She took a piece. “Pilamayan.”
Accepting her thanks, Swift Foot took a chunk for himself and set the bowl down on the square of hide that lay before them. They were soon joined by others. The women sat on the same side of the fire as Small Bird, the men before Swift Foot. Typically, when in groups, each sex remained apart—together yet separate.
Children ran about. One small boy stopped near Swift Foot. Smiling indulgently, he handed the child a tender piece of meat. The youngster shyly grabbed the morsel, then ran off.
Taking up another hunk of elk, Swift Foot tried to eat—but he was too aware of the woman beside him, his wife. The knowledge of their union made his stomach clench. At least the two of them weren’t expected to speak.
Night Thunder directed a question toward him. “When do we leave?” he asked.
“In two days.” Swift Foot had already made plans to move camp. With summer coming to an end, it was time to leave and join the other tribes as they gathered together out on the plains for buffalo hunts and Sun Dance ceremonies.
Soft laughter drew his attention back to Small Bird. She looked happy, pleased, but he noticed tension in her shoulders, a slight strain around her mouth. She hid it well, though. Unlike him, she ate, sampling everything that had been brought as gifts.
Unwilling to offend the many women who’d worked from sunup to sundown for nearly a week, he resumed eating, forcing the food down. His fingers collided with his wife’s as they both reached for the same piece of rabbit. Both he and Small Bird drew sharply back from each other, and across from them, several women smiled and two girls on the verge of womanhood giggled.
Sighing, Swift Foot tore the chunk of meat into two pieces, then handed one to his wife. Embarrassed, she accepted it.
Again, he noted her graceful, delicate movements: the way she turned her head, the dainty way she ate, the way she sat with the poise of a confident woman with legs to the side, back straight, not leaning on her backrest as he did. Even the sway of her hair when she turned to converse drew him, and her voice, silky and fluid, held an elegance and maturity that washed over him. It held the warmth of sunshine and the freshness of rain. He could make no more pretense at eating, longing to jump to his feet and run—it didn’t matter where. He longed to run from the fear nipping at his heels, the guilt burdening his shoulders and the pain in his heart.
At the sound of drums, everyone rose. The singers began their chants and pounded on drums. Warriors, braves and young boys took their places on one side of them, females danced on the other. The two sexes were separate yet together, two halves making a whole.
Swift Foot noted the young braves and warriors eyeing the young maidens, saw protective mothers move closer to the edge of the dance circle to watch over their daughters. Knowing it was expected, he stood and led Small Bird forward.
He tried to lose himself in the beat of the dance, the rumble of song, the strong shouts followed by softer ones. But when Small Bird began to move, he could think only of her. Watch her.
Her stance was like that of the other women. Unlike the men, who whirled and danced with energy, with knees lifted high and arms flung out, the females kept their legs together, their arms crossed over their breasts, while moving their feet in small steps. The two groups moved toward each other, and soon were separated by only a few feet. Swift Foot’s gaze locked with Small Bird’s. His breath caught.
In her eyes he saw dark shadows, thunder clouds reflected from the sky. The wind picked up and gusted around them, bringing the smell of rain. Bits of grass mingled with wood smoke. Still the newlyweds stared at each other. Swift Foot’s steps slowed to the pattern of hers, his arms crossed over his chest as they danced.
Her hair, unbound, swirled around her face. As the singers increased their tempo, their beats stronger, harder, the wind did too. Like the black of the evening falling across the sky, it surrounded her. In her eyes, Swift Foot saw the lightning playing across the clouds.
Small Bird looked as wild as the elements. Her beauty remained, her grace and gentleness. But along with those, Swift Foot saw something else: power. Untapped energy.
The first crash of thunder rolled through the camp, followed by others, as if the gods were trying to break the tight weave of magic that held the two newlyweds’ gazes locked to each other. With his heart hammering, Swift Foot tried to tear his away. But he couldn’t.
The wild tangle of her hair, as black as the night mixed with the storm in her eyes, contrasted with features that looked too fragile to withstand such ferocity. His eyes never left hers, yet he took her in. All of her.
Where Emily’s hair had been of the palest sun, Small Bird’s was of jet. Blue sky had shone through Emily’s gentle eyes, soothing him with cool comfort. A storm brewed in Small Bird’s. Emily had been desperate to please. Small Bird’s steady gaze promised challenge.
Swift Foot admired the purity of her garments, and his eyes went to her medallion: a small bird perched fearlessly on the strong head of a buffalo bull. It symbolized the relationship of the animals—strength, acceptance and even need. The symbol suited her, became her.
Catching himself, Swift Foot attempted to shake off his new wife’s allure. Why was he suddenly noticing this woman? He’d seen her many times over the course of his life. Never had she held him as she did now.
His time with the white girl had been happy and peaceful, yet bittersweet, for those weeks had been stolen from the very people he’d vowed to serve. He’d known his days with Emily couldn’t last, that his life’s path demanded sacrifice. That was why he’d left her to return to marry this woman, chosen for him by others. Chosen because he had saved her life long
ago.
Watching the storm brewing in Small Bird’s eyes, he recognized that his life would never be peaceful or complacent. The elements lived within this woman, were a part of her. And no matter what he might once have wished, they were now part of him.
Chapter Six
Lone Warrior followed the stream away from camp, away from the feasting, joking, laughter, singing and heavy throb of drums. Worry churned his gut like the wind moiled the stream. In the few short hours of rain before the wedding, the water level had risen drastically—as had his fear for his family’s future. And the storm looked like it was about to return.
How could his father have agreed to this? He couldn’t argue the fact that Swift Foot was a great warrior; the man had proved himself in countless battles. But one fact remained: Swift Foot was hunted. And as surely as Lone Warrior knew water flowed downstream, he knew that sooner or later the enemy would target his sister.
Rounding a bend in this river that twisted and turned, went from slow and shallow to deep and flowing, he leaned into the wind surging against him. From the camp, the sounds of celebration had faded to a low hum.
Lost in his worry and fear for the future, it took a few minutes for Lone Warrior to realize that something sang in his ears, sweetly and softly. He stopped to listen.
Behind him, drums pulsed. The fading evening light illuminated the stream as it slapped against rocks, and birds and insects fluttered and buzzed in the rain-freshened air. Yet one thread of sound didn’t seem to belong. Turning slowly, he tried to locate the light, sweet noise that seemed part of the wind, yet not.
Closing his eyes, he found a melody as pure as birdsong stealing into his heart. It promised warm, summery nights beneath a clear night sky. So clear, so compelling it was, he knew the song was a message from the spirits. He concentrated. Listened. Allowed it to flow through him and become one with him until he felt not only the beauty but a deep sadness.
Realizing it came from somewhere just ahead, beyond the rocky bend, he followed the trail of notes. As he reached a large pile of boulders, the song faded into a whisper. Then it disappeared.
Lifting his face to Tate, Lone Warrior begged for the return of the music that spoke to his heart. He didn’t understand why or how, but he knew he needed it.
Wind answered with the return of the light, airy sound. Lone Warrior climbed. The haunting notes called him, pulled at him, held him in its magical grip. Over stones he pulled himself, climbing the rock pile until he was several feet off the ground. Afraid that the unseen spirit would disappear, he moved as stealthily as he could.
Then he saw his spirit. She stood in a small indent in the bank, upon a flat boulder slightly above him. Long black hair streamed behind her, and her lovely features were lifted to the heavens. In a voice as pure as the very air he breathed, she sang softly to the sky. To the world around her.
Mesmerized, Lone Warrior could only stare. The perfection of Willow Song’s profile, the compelling movements of her hands, the sway of her body—he’d never seen anything so beautiful, nor heard anything so…otherworldly. He’d never heard a voice like hers. Slowly, as if his body no longer belonged to him, he climbed toward her. Then he waited. And watched. And listened. Taking a deep breath, he drank in the sight and sound of this woman who was both beauty and beast in looks, but gifted with a voice of perfect purity.
When her voice faded, he silently waited for her to sing again. But apparently feeling his gaze upon her, she opened her eyes and cried out. Bending down, she scrambled to retrieve her head covering, then took two unsteady steps away.
Lone Warrior rushed forward and steadied her. “No, do not run,” he implored, his voice low and soothing.
She froze, then ducked her head and turned away, re-covering her head as she did. “Go,” she said. “Do not look upon me.” Fear, sorrow and pain turned her clear singing voice to a husky plea.
Lone Warrior gently turned her to face him. He stared down at the ugly hide draped over her head. “Do not be afraid.”
“You should not be around me.” Her voice was panicky.
Yesterday Lone Warrior would have agreed. Yet after hearing her voice, and seeing again the perfection of her profile and the grace of her arms as she danced and sang to the spirit world, he no longer feared her. “You have a beautiful voice,” he whispered.
“I am cursed!” She tried to move around him.
“No. You are beautiful.” The words spilled from his lips, startling him as much as her.
Her head shot up, her face still hidden. “What joke is this? You seek to make fun of me? Do you think I do not know the truth?”
Lone Warrior wasn’t sure what had come over him. But he couldn’t walk away. “What I heard is a gift. Your voice is not a curse. It is not evil. It is sweet and innocent. Sad and haunting. Never have I heard such a gift.”
Willow Song laughed, the sound harsh. Without warning, she tossed her head back and yanked off the covering, revealing her full face to him. “This is what goes with that voice.” Anger burned in her eyes.
Unable to help himself, Lone Warrior sucked in his breath. Words failed him.
She shoved him out of her way. “The gifted was cursed.” She scrambled away, over the rocks, but her lame leg slowed her and caused her to stumble.
Springing forward, Lone Warrior caught her. This time he was prepared. He made himself look at her—really look at her, and not just what was beautiful. This time he took her in fully, his gaze roaming over even the puckered and distorted flesh.
When she tried to bury her face in her hands, he held her chin up. Yes, one side of her was beyond scarred and ugly; it was hideous. But beneath the obvious defects, he saw the heart of this woman. While one half of her face held perfection, that was not her true beauty. Only a woman of pure heart and soul could be gifted with a voice like hers, and therein lay her worth.
“There is beauty in you that none has seen before.”
“You jest,” she whispered, tears shimmering in her eyes.
He shook his head. “No. I think I am falling in love with you.” The shock in her eyes mirrored his own. But it was true. He hadn’t been able to stop thinking of her since yesterday.
Picking up her walking stick, he handed it to her. Then he took the head covering from her grasp and placed it gently over her. Leaving her face free, he wrapped the ends around her throat. “Walk with me.”
Stunned, she could only stare at him.
“Walk with me, Willow Song. Please.” Lightning flashed overhead.
Slowly, she nodded.
Lone Warrior took her arm, placing her hand on his arm as he led her over the rocky ground until they reached the bank. There, when she tried to pull away, he tightened his hold. Their gazes met. Hers was filled with confusion and fear of rejection, his with the desire to get to know her.
When she glanced down at her hand resting on his forearm, his gaze followed. The back of it, puckered from her old wounds, felt hot, as though a fire within burned.
As if struck by the earlier bolts of lightning from the sky, Lone Warrior knew fire smoldered within her. And it was that spark of life that electrified him.
The storm broke.
The downpour was a silvery sheet of pelting water, and the wind howled as jagged light ripped through the clouds. The beat of drums, the singing, the feasting and the gaiety of Swift Foot and Small Bird’s wedding all ended with mad dashes to warm, dry tipis. Hobbled behind each gently glowing dwelling, warhorses shook their heads and swished their tails. The outside fires sizzled in their pits, while the inside fires provided warmth for the newly united Hunkpapa tribes.
With early-evening fury, the earth had turned violent, primitive. Staring up at her new husband, Small Bird saw those same elements in his eyes. A crash rumbled across the sky. Startled, she realized she and her husband were the only ones remaining outside; everyone else had sought shelter.
Swift Foot seemed to realize it too, for he grabbed her hand and pulled her toward their
tipi. Bending at the knees, he swept her up into his arms and carried her through the flapping doorway.
Inside, she waited for him to set her down, to break contact and turn away in distaste and anger. She waited for him to reject her. To her surprise, he did neither of those things.
Against her right breast, his heart beat with resounding thumps. Hers responded by speeding up, like the wings of Tanagila, the tiny hummingbird who flitted from flower to flower.
Her lips parted as she worked up the courage to ask him to release her, but the intensity of his gaze sent Small Bird spinning downward like an eagle making a steep, curving dive. The dark brown of his eyes turned orange-yellow in the dancing firelight. Mesmerized, curious and just a bit scared at the emotions shimmering in his gaze, Small Bird shivered. And then she saw something else.
Something undefined. Something that frightened and fascinated her. Desire?
Her breath hitched. Her lungs felt tight, as if she’d just run many miles or danced the most sensual dance of her life—which she had. For the first time in her life, she felt primitive desire.
Longing to form a bond between herself and Swift Foot, Small Bird ran the tip of her tongue across her dry lips. She just didn’t know what to say. What did one say to one’s husband? Was he waiting for her to drop her eyes in respect? She tried, but his gaze held hers. Not that she minded. Her husband was tanwaste—handsome.
“The flaps. I should close them,” she finally managed to whisper.
“Leave them,” he murmured, his voice deep and thick as box elder sap.
His gaze moved to her mouth. She licked her lips. “The fire will die.”
“I will build a new fire.” He moved nearer to her.
Small Bird’s heart jumped into her throat when she felt his breath warming her lips. She didn’t know this man. The stoic, cold and even angry man of the past few days was gone. In his place was a man who wanted a woman. His woman. His wife.
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