I think I am falling in love with you.
Willow Song felt ill—sick with fear. Lone Warrior hadn’t been serious, could not have meant his words.
Walk with me.
But she had walked with him. And though she’d kept him to her good side, waiting for him to tell her he was playing a horribly sick joke, he hadn’t. They’d walked in silence.
She closed her eyes and tried to smile, ignoring the stiffness of half her mouth. As much as her brother loved her, she knew he couldn’t bear to look upon her ugliness, for it reminded him of their mother’s death. She understood and needed him too much to resent that. As he accepted her flaws, she accepted his.
Outside, the night air felt fresh and soothing. She longed to step out and leave her small enclosure, but even under the cover of darkness she didn’t dare. Not with so much grief ravaging her people. Any who saw might blame her for the deaths of their loved ones.
A sudden cramp in her thigh made her cry out. She stretched her leg and rubbed the knotted muscle. Fear wasn’t the only thing that kept her inside; the long and arduous night of travel had left her muscles screaming in pain and her body weak with fatigue. It would take many days before she recovered. By then they’d likely move camps again, and leave the dead behind.
A sound outside her tipi made her tense. Who was it?
“Hau,” a low voice spoke.
Willow Song held her breath. Lone Warrior? Here, in the early predawn hours when most were asleep?
“Willow Song. I’ve come to see if you are all right.”
The man’s voice, deep and husky, rich with tenderness, made her shudder. “I am fine,” she whispered, hiding her pain from him. She couldn’t move to the doorway to see, and couldn’t allow him in. She didn’t want him to see her like this.
“Will you come out so that I may speak to you?” he asked.
Tears gathered in her eyes at the concern in his voice. She still feared he played a game—a cruel one that would break her heart and crush her spirit. It seemed no matter what she told herself, she’d started to hope he cared for her.
“No. I cannot. Please go. It is early.” She longed to see him, wanted to offer him sympathy over the loss of his father, but she didn’t dare. His sister was wife to their chief, and he was also an important member of the tribe. There could be no relationship between them.
Why had she forgotten that fact? She tried to scoot over to the doorway to close the flap. She couldn’t allow him to see her again. As soon as she moved, the knot in her leg went into a painful spasm. She cried out, then bit down hard on her lip to silence herself.
Lone Warrior pushed inside. “What is wrong?” he asked. He took one look at her leg, then dropped to his knees. “You are in pain.”
“It is nothing.” She gasped. “It will pass.” Her fingers twitched over her thigh.
“Let me,” Lone Warrior said, moving her hand out of the way.
Willow Song realized two things at once: her head was completely uncovered, and he was about to touch her thigh and the ugly scars caused by the hooves of the horse that had trampled her.
She pulled her hair over her shoulder to hide the ugly side of her face, and reached out a hand to stop him. “Please do not.” She couldn’t bear for him to see so much horror, let alone to touch it. He was so beautiful. So perfect. His long, black hair was parted down the middle and fashioned into two thick braids hanging over his broad shoulders to his gleaming skin. His good health, good looks and sinewy body took her breath away. Her throat clogged with emotion.
He was as perfect as she was marred.
As beautiful as she was ugly.
As strong as she was weak.
He deserved someone whole. A woman he could be proud of. Someone who could walk at his side. Willow Song was not that woman and never would be.
But as he had the other night, Lone Warrior ignored her protests. His hands, warm, firm and gentle, slid her dress up just past her knees. Then he leaned down, putting firm pressure on her thigh. Slowly he worked his way up from her knee, easing the muscles as he went. When his fingers brushed the ridges of her scars, she tensed.
“No. Relax. Let me help,” he said. His voice soothed yet commanded her compliance.
At first his firm massage hurt—as her own clumsy fingers would have. But after a few minutes, magic flowed from his fingers into her thigh. The warmth of his hands and the strength in them were far more potent than had been Willow Song’s attempts to ease her own pain. She relaxed.
As she stared at him, watching his dark, perfect fingers knead her flesh, Willow Song truly feared that she was falling in love. He glanced up at her, and their gazes locked. His hands stilled.
“Soon it will be day. When darkness bathes the land once more, I will come for you. Will you walk with me again?”
Willow Song wanted to shout yes. But fear held her back. She withdrew into herself. “I cannot.”
Lone Warrior lifted her chin with his finger. “Why? Are you afraid of me?”
Slowly, she nodded, for she was. But that wasn’t the only reason she told him no.
He reached out and tucked her hair behind her ear. “I have looked upon your face. Do not hide from me.” He slid his finger down her disfigured cheek. “Please let me come to you tonight. I have need of your company. I mean you no harm.”
Ashamed, she drew a deep breath. “I cannot walk tonight. My…my leg—”
Lone Warrior cursed. He took both her hands in his. “You will not have to walk. I will carry you, and we will find a quiet place to sit.”
The thought of him carrying her made Willow Song blush. “It is not proper,” she protested, even though her heart begged her to accept. His eyes held sadness, anger and need. She responded to his need by lifting one hand to the side of his jaw.
“Are you afraid of what the others will think?” he asked.
“No,” she replied softly. “Of course not. I fear what they will say of you. You are important.”
“And you are not?” he wondered. He held up his hand. “No, do not answer, for what you say will anger me.” He smiled to take the sting from his words. “It is settled, for I care not what others say, or think.” He forced her to lie back, then covered her with a fur, saying, “Now rest.”
He stood, then without giving her a chance to talk him out of returning, he left, giving her no chance to argue.
Though it hurt to move, Willow Song threw off her cover and pulled herself to the doorway. Slowly she lifted the flap and watched Lone Warrior walk away. Had she lost her mind? Her life had always been a solitary one, though she might desire to be with others. As a child she’d borne her isolation bravely, for that was the least she could do for her people. But she’d cried at night when there was no one around to see or hear.
Pulling herself back to her pallet, Willow Song lay down and stared out the top of her tipi. Softly, so no one would hear, she sang a song of healing. Those for whom she sang would not hear, nor would they know she sang for them. But Wakan Tanka, who commanded the other spirits of their world, might hear her song and bring healing to those who suffered.
Chapter Twelve
The dawn turned into full morning. Lying between two furs, Swift Foot knew it was time to rise. From outside his tipi came sounds of people leaving their homes: the clearing of a throat, low murmurs, steps walking past, even the sound of horses greeting the day.
Normally he’d have been up, bathed and planning his chores by now. But today the cozy bed made warm by the body snuggled against him kept him from rising.
He told himself that he didn’t want to disturb Small Bird. The day would start soon enough, and it would be emotionally draining as she dealt with the death of her father, just as so many had lost their loved ones. Today the damage from last night’s battle would be fully realized. In the harsh daylight they would all see the ravages of grief. And he would learn which other warriors had died during the night.
The day would be busy and emotional, and he wan
ted to postpone it as long as possible.
Rubbing his chin over Small Bird’s head, he closed his eyes. Their lovemaking had been unlike anything he’d ever known. Remembering his loss of control, he sighed. No one had ever won that from him—and there had been plenty of times in his life when he had been given the opportunity. He’d carefully nurtured his control, knowing how easily he might otherwise give in to resentment or bitterness.
Usually he solved things by running: when things became too much, when he feared that his control was in danger of snapping, he ran. But last night he hadn’t been able to escape. And he hadn’t been able to stop from taking all that his wife offered.
Even now, when his shield of logic was firmly replaced, his body hardened with need for her. But such desire couldn’t be given free rein again.
Using his hand, he smoothed strands of midnight-blue hair from Small Bird’s face. Regret filled him. Fear assailed him. The enemy would try to kill her. And if he’d gotten her with child during their wild night of loving?
Pain clutched at his middle. No! He couldn’t think about that. He’d never allow that to happen. Yet it had happened to his parents. And sooner or later an attack would be launched against his family that he couldn’t fight off.
The urge to protect his wife overwhelmed him. Had he been able, he’d have taken her away and hidden her somewhere safe. But there was nowhere they could hide safely unless they wandered alone for the rest of their days. And that wasn’t much safer. Only in numbers would they be able to defend themselves amply, pool their resources to survive.
Small Bird shifted in his arms. One hand rose over her head, and she rolled onto her back. Her fur covering slipped, revealing one bare breast. Swift Foot stared.
He hadn’t seen much in the night and early predawn, only felt the softness of her flesh. As he watched, cool air kissed the nipple. The small bud tightened. His loins swelled along with it.
He closed his eyes and tried to clear his mind. He could not allow himself to get emotionally involved. She could be just his wife. A wife took care of the tipi. Cooked. Saw to her husband’s needs.
He gulped. He had one need that continued to grow.
No!
In his mind he told himself over and over he was risking too much. The more he touched Small Bird, made love to her, the greater her chances of conceiving—if it wasn’t already too late. And also, deep down, he knew the real reason he strove to remain distant was that he feared falling in love with her.
After Emily, he hadn’t thought another woman could enter his heart. But Small Bird had found her way inside. Her courageous spirit, her unfailing belief in their lightness, her determination and her fierce need to be with him instead of leaving him to be alone, her compassion—all had won him over.
Worse, after last night he wasn’t sure he could bear to be alone again. But he had to keep his distance. Becoming emotionally involved with Small Bird would do neither of them any good. With that thought in mind, he tried to ease away from her. She woke.
He froze at her innocent, sleepy gaze, her flushed cheeks, and once more his gaze slid down to her bared breast. He swallowed hard. The small, fleshy mound tempted him. He wanted to bend down and cover it with his mouth. He wanted to lave her nipple with his tongue, and most of all he wanted to hear her soft, breathy cries fill his ears.
“Hau,” she said softly.
“Hau,” he replied, his voice deep and low.
When she saw where he stared, she blushed and tried to cover herself.
“No. You are beautiful.” He pulled the fur down, revealing both of her rounded breasts to his gaze.
Get up and leave, his inner voice demanded. Do not risk more than is already at stake. Listening to that voice, he pushed away.
Her arm went around his neck and stopped him. “Stay a few minutes,” she cajoled.
“I have work to do. I am needed.”
“Yes, husband, you are needed. But a few minutes won’t make a difference.”
Swift Foot shook his head. Control, he reminded himself. Control. That was all he had.
Small Bird traced his lower lip with her finger. “You are trying to run. But you cannot. It is too late to change what we did.”
Swift Foot dosed his eyes. “You mean if you are with child.”
“Yes. If I am with child.”
The image of a small girl who looked as Small Bird had at age three slid through his mind. She’d been a cute child with big, trusting eyes and a sweet nature. He remembered how she’d clung to him, how she’d followed him around for days and how he’d held her close and comforted her. The thought of one day having a daughter who dogged his heels or looked up at him with big, trusting adoration turned his resolve to mush. The image appealed—greatly.
But there was one problem: he had to keep everyone safe. “How can I bring you any further into danger?” he whispered.
Her hand cupped the back of his neck, and she smiled. “Can we decide that after we fly again?”
Swift Foot felt shock at her casual dismissal of danger, but he took in the hunger in his wife’s dark brown gaze. “Perhaps there is no more within me to give,” he said. But he knew he wouldn’t refuse.
She smiled again, even more hungrily. “There is more in you than even you can see, my husband.”
He growled low in his throat. “All right. For now, then, I want to see my wife. All of her.”
Small Bird flung the covers off them both. “Look, my husband. Look all you like.”
Swift Foot bent his head to her breast. “I plan to do more than look, wife.”
Small Bird rose. Sore and stiff, she bathed with water from a skin and scrubbed with a piece of softened hide. She dressed with care.
As wife to Swift Foot, she had many new duties. Food had to be arranged, and with so many deaths, everyone would pool their resources together and help out everyone else. Also, they would have to determine who would help out those families who had lost their men.
Taking a deep breath, she paused at the door of the tipi. The sounds outside brought back the nightmares of last night—the memories of the dead and wounded. Last night she’d taken comfort in Swift Foot, but today he’d be busy with his own duties. She was on her own and too old to run and hide from emotions she didn’t enjoy.
“I still don’t understand,” she whispered, feeling sick at heart over the loss of her father. “He can’t be gone.” It seemed impossible that one day he would be planning her wedding, and the next he would be gone.
Resting her forehead against the pole to one side of the doorway, she tried to make sense of the tribe’s many horrible deaths. So many. The loss had been great for each side.
Shoving aside the flap, she peered out of her tipi. Wails filled the air. Across from her, two small children huddled near another home: a small boy and his older sister. Both looked scared. Small Bird knew how they felt. Even as a grown woman she longed to have Swift Foot’s comforting arms back around her. But she wouldn’t see much of him for the rest of the day.
Stepping outside, she crossed to the children. Inside their tipi, soft sobbing spoke of death. Small Bird held out her hands. “Come. We will find you something to eat.”
The girl simply stared at her. The little boy, in desperate need of comfort, flung himself into her arms. He slumped against her as Small Bird picked him up, and she rubbed his back. Tears stung her eyes. Had these two been out here all night, hiding in the shadows?
Small Bird asked, “Waniyetu nitona he?” How old are you?
The young girl drew herself up. “Waniyetu mawikcemna!”
Small Bird smiled. “You are ten? You are old enough to tend to your small brother, then. Come. I know just the person to help you.”
She made her way to Yellow Quail’s tipi, where she set the boy down. “Wait here.” Stepping to the door, she called out, “Hau.”
Shy Mouse came to the flap. The girl threw her arms around Small Bird. “I am so sorry, cousin,” she said, sobbing.
Holding the younger woman close, Small Bird fought her own tears. She had no time to give in to grief. Especially with two frightened children behind her. Pulling back, she motioned with her head. “Their father is among our lost. They were huddled outside.”
Shy Mouse stopped her. “Say no more.” She walked around Small Bird, sank to her knees and looked at the children. “I could use your help with the morning meal,” she told the girl. “There are many who need to be fed. Including your little brother.”
The little boy scrunched up his face. “I am not little. I am big. Like my father.” He puffed out his skinny chest.
His sister bit her lip and looked ready to cry. She glanced first at Small Bird, then at Shy Mouse. “He does not understand,” she said, her lower lip trembling.
Small Bird brushed her fingers across the girl’s cheek. “None of us understands, child. Let my cousin help you care for your brother until your mother stops grieving and comes for you.”
The ten-year-old took her brother’s hand and pulled him into the tipi.
Shy Mouse patted Small Bird on the shoulder. “I will watch them,” she said.
Thanking her cousin, Small Bird left, heading for her mother’s home. Stepping inside, she found Yellow Robe sitting next to her father, staring blankly into space.
Approaching, she knelt. “Mother?”
Yellow Robe glanced at her. Tears swam in the woman’s eyes. “Your father is gone, daughter.”
“Yes, mother. I know.” She spoke gently, worried at the almost childish tone of her mother’s voice.
“There is nothing left for me.” Yellow Robe rocked back and forth.
“That is not true. You have me. And Lone Warrior. We both need you.”
“No. You are married now. You have a husband, and soon you will have children of your own. Lone Warrior will also take a wife.”
Small Bird gripped her mother’s hand. “Yes. Then we will both have children who will need their unci.” She glanced around and saw a bowl of weak broth. “Have you eaten?”
“I am not hungry,” her mother said.
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