White Dusk

by Susan Edwards

  Swift Foot snarled, “You lost your father! Your cousin lost her babe!” Perhaps he himself would even lose his own child. He refused to think of the possibility that he’d gotten her pregnant so quickly.

  “Yes, I lost my father,” Small Bird agreed. “Should I be bitter? Should I wish that another’s father had died instead? Should a child of two or three years of age have died instead of one not born?”

  Swift Foot listened to his wife. She was kind, forgiving him. But he was far older than his years. His innocence had been stolen long ago. He knew he was guilty, but she did not need that inflicted on her. “You are a strong woman, wife,” he said. “I want no more death, either. If only so that you will lose no more people you love.”

  Small Bird reached out and wrapped her arms around his neck. “Then we will find the way to peace, and give it to all as our gift.” She pulled him closer.

  Swift Foot nuzzled her neck, unable to resist. His hand slid slowly up and down her spine, the other pillowing her head. Breathing in her sweet scent, he felt desire spiraling inside him. He said, “Before you asked what Emily gave me. You did not ask what you give.”

  Pulling her head back, Small Bird traced the length of his jaw with her finger. “Is there something?” She sounded surprised and pleased.

  He reached down and started inching her dress up. “You take my control away.”

  She cocked her head at him, then lifted herself so he could remove her clothing. Unashamed, she rose naked before him, allowing his heated gaze to roam her face and body. “Is this a good thing?” she finally whispered.

  Gently, Swift Foot pushed her down on their buffalo skin. He covered her body with his, allowing his hard length to mold to her softness. Arching his back, he leaned down to suckle on first one breast, then the other. It was a long time before he moved to her mouth and murmured, “Absolutely.”

  Small Bird finished packing her tipi and her belongings. She had two dogs and the mare Swift Foot had given her. Finished, she went to see who else might be in need of help.

  Walking to the next tipi, she found the two children who’d lost their father. They sat on the ground. Their mother, with help, was folding her tipi to be loaded. “Hau,” Small Bird greeted her. Several times over the past few days, the small boy had come to her for a quick hug, or just to see what cooked over her fire.

  The girl still held sadness in her eyes. Bending down, Small Bird noticed two pups in her lap and realized the pregnant bitch she’d seen earlier belonged to these children. She reached out to stroke one pup’s fat belly. “Are you keeping these pups for yourselves?” she asked. She hoped so, for she knew new life would help take the children’s minds off their loss.

  The girl shook her head. “No. We cannot. The mother died during birth. My mother does not want them.” She looked sad and up set.

  “There are only two? Were there others?”

  Again the girl shrugged. “They are gone.”

  Small Bird’s stomach clenched. She stared at the brown balls of fluff. One dark nose lifted. Its owner rooted around, his small squeaky cry wrapping around her heart. Making a decision, Small Bird reached out. “I will take them in trade.”

  “What will you give for them?” the mother demanded, turning at the proposition.

  Small Bird met the woman’s gaze. She kept her voice soft. “I will give one horse for the two pups.” She’d noted that the family had no horse of their own, that they were borrowing horses for the move.

  The boy’s eyes sparked like a star exploding in the sky. “A horse?”

  The mother nodded in pleased surprise, then went back to her work. Only the girl eyed Small Bird with wariness. “What will you do with them?” she asked.

  Small Bird knelt. “I will raise them.” She eyed the two squirming beasts. “But I might need help feeding them.”

  The girl drew herself up. “I will come and feed them, then.” She pulled a small basket from behind her. Soft scraps of bear fur lined the basket. She held up a bit of deerskin fashioned into a bottle with a small nipple. “You must use meat juice.”

  Small Bird smiled, knowing she had done a good thing. “Pilamayan,” she said, thanking the children.

  “What have we here?”

  Startled, Small Bird turned, a pup cradled in each hand as she faced Swift Foot. She smiled weakly. She had no idea if her husband liked dogs or not. “I just traded one of our horses for these two motherless pups.”

  A brow lifted. “And what do you plan to do with these pups?” he asked.

  Small Bird’s eyes narrowed and her chin lifted. “Raise them to be strong adult dogs.”

  Swift Foot eyed the two children and their hard-working mother. “I think two horses for two pups is a fairer trade. When the pups are strong adults, they will be of great help.” He motioned to a young brave who was accompanying him. “Take these children to the herd. They shall each be allowed to choose a horse from amongst my stock.”

  Small Bird grinned as the two children raced off. Their laughter eased the gloomy pall over the tribe. Adults stopped to watch, small smiles hovering around their mouths.

  “My wife has a kind heart.” Swift Foot said softly behind her, his hot breath stroking the back of Small Bird’s neck.

  “My husband is generous,” she said softly.

  “They are in need,” he agreed. “And we have much.” He stared at the two mewling pups. “Take them to Gray Woman’s tipi. Her dog just gave birth. She does not give her pups away to be eaten. She will allow your pups to nurse and keep them safe for you.” With that he walked away.

  Small Bird turned to go find Gray Woman’s tipi. She nearly ran into her brother.

  “It is easy to give when one has more than enough,” he said. Contempt lingered in his words.

  Narrowing her eyes, Small Bird glared at Lone Warrior. “My husband’s heart is kind. He is generous.”

  “Because he feels guilty,” her brother spat.

  “No, Lone Warrior. Because he cares.” And that was the truth. Swift Foot cared about his people—even to the point that she knew he sometimes considered turning himself over to the enemy in a trade: his life for peace. He hadn’t said the words, but she’d heard them in his voice, and she recognized his intent. He sometimes believed it was the only way.

  Lone Warrior opened his mouth to protest. Small Bird held up her hand. “Careful, brother. Do not insult my husband further.” Without giving him a chance to respond, she walked away.

  He caught up with her. “Wait.” When she stopped, he glanced away. “I am sorry. He is your husband.”

  “And our chief.” She held his gaze.

  “And our chief. My chief. I should not speak so openly in anger.”

  “Speaking of it is not the problem. Acting on it or allowing it to rule you is the difficulty. That will only give your unhappiness power over you.”

  Lone Warrior grinned ruefully. “When did my sister become so wise?”

  Small Bird smiled back. Then, noticing the gaunt look of her sibling, she glanced around to make sure none were listening. She said, “And when is my brother going to admit that he is in love?”

  Lone Warrior’s smile faded, and he glanced down at his feet. “She is afraid,” he said.

  Reaching out with one hand after shuffling her pups into her basket, Small Bird gave her brother’s arm a comforting squeeze. “Then you must prove there is nothing to fear.”

  Brother and sister stared at each other for a long minute. Then Lone Warrior said, “You are right. But it will have to be dealt with later. We have much to do before reaching our new camp tonight.”

  Glancing down at her new puppies, Small Bird grimaced. “That we do, my sweets,” she said to them. Then, with a nod to her brother, she hurried off to finish her preparations.

  In a short amount of time, the tribe was retracing its steps. With the ground hard—there was no rain today—the path up the ravine was easily navigated. At the top, Small Bird glanced downward. One day she hoped to retu
rn to this place. Hidden away in this canyon, many dead had been laid to rest. Though it was a place of sadness, Small Bird also held precious memories of her time here. This was where she and her husband had first become one.

  With mixed feelings, she fell into line, choosing to ride with her mother, aunts and cousins. Up ahead, she spotted the two children she’d helped, sharing the back of one horse. Their mother sat proudly on the other. When the children spotted Small Bird, they turned to wave.

  Small Bird waved back. She belonged—not only at her husband’s side, but among these people. She vowed to find the path to peace for all of them.

  A shadow trailed the tribe. Unseen, unheard, like a snake in the grass, Many Horns kept himself concealed. From the battleground he’d followed the signs left in the trampled earth. He’d found this ravine just that morning, having spotted the warriors guarding it.

  He could have killed them and sneaked down to count their numbers and eye their camp, but he didn’t want to alert Swift Foot to his presence. Traveling on foot most of the way, he’d been able to arrive undetected. Swift Foot was not the only one who ran fast. Endurance was something Many Horns had worked hard to achieve. But he also had a horse sheltered a safe distance away.

  By midday, he was particularly glad he hadn’t tried to take the guards. The enemy was on the move. This was good, for it meant he’d be able to spy from a distance. He patted his bundle of clothing and prepared to follow. Finally the last person left the ravine, and the boulders were replaced to hide the path down. Many Horns collected his horse and rode out after them.

  For three days he stayed well behind. He had the advantage of being able to easily spot the large tribe on the move. No one had spotted him. He was clever. Cunning. Shrewd.

  When the Hunkpapa tribe finally halted and began unloading travois, he grinned. They were many miles from the ravine and the battlefield, but he knew the way back to his people. Crawling up to a man-sized boulder to watch the tipis be erected, he planned and plotted.

  The eastern horn was far from him. The herd of horses who might spook at his presence had been taken far to the north. The tipis closest to him belonged to the outcasts. Everything suited his needs well.

  Darkness finally came. People came and went, but he waited. When he deemed it late enough, he donned a woman’s dress and covered his head. Since he was dressed as a Winkte, no one would bother him.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Lone Warrior embraced the night as he followed the snaking river; it gave him what he desperately desired. Cradled in his lap, Willow Song rested her head against his chest. Whenever she rode with him, she insisted on placing her scarred cheek so he could not see it.

  Reaching down, he stroked his fingers through her hair. Over the past few days the tribe had headed south for flatter, grassier land. With winter coming, they needed to hunt and prepare for the cold months. Slowing his horse, Lone Warrior rejoiced in the feel of the woman snuggled against him.

  “Where do you take me?” Willow Song asked, lifting her head.

  “Somewhere special.” He grinned. Each night he came for her, and they spent much time together. Already he’d received many comments—and unwanted advice. Kills Many Crows had even tried to order him away from Willow Song. But Lone Warrior ignored them all. He loved this woman, and anyone who could not see the beauty he saw was blind.

  When he arrived at a low overhang of rock with dry brush on either side, and several large boulders that formed a small, secluded enclosure, he stopped his horse and dismounted. He’d found the spot earlier, and thought it perfect to try to convince this woman to be his wife.

  His mouth went dry. So far any mention of the future had sent her into a panic. Holding up his arms, Lone Warrior helped Willow Song down. Instead of setting her on the ground, he carried her across the rocky terrain and into the enclosure. He’d brought furs, food and water. This would be home away from home.

  Setting Willow Song down, he allowed her length to slide over him slowly.

  She glanced around. “You went to much trouble tonight, Lone Warrior.”

  “You are worth it, Willow Song.” He bent his head and kissed her. Then he just held her tenderly. Finally he gathered his courage and tipped up her chin. He stared into her dark eyes. “I want to make you my wife, Willow Song,” he said.

  As he’d expected, she stiffened. “I cannot.” She gasped, trying to pull away.

  “You can. You love me. As I love you.” And he did—deeply, desperately.

  Willow Song’s eyes filled with tears. She glanced away and stared at the furs, pouches of food and wood for a fire. “Please, Lone Warrior. Do not ask again. You deserve better.” She turned away, her shoulders hunched.

  Lone Warrior stepped close, but he didn’t pull her back to him. His heart sank. I deserve the woman I love,” he said. “I want no other.”

  “I cannot marry. Ever. You know this.”

  “I know no such thing.” He turned her gently back to face him. “You deserve happiness, too, Willow Song. Marry me.”

  Sobbing, Willow Song fell into his arms. But she said, “I cannot give you what you want.”

  Frustration rumbled low in Lone Warrior’s throat. “What do I need, Willow Song? Tell me.”

  “A child.” She sobbed, her hand resting on her abdomen. I will never have children.” Tears streamed down her face.

  Lone Warrior had had no idea that her scars, her injuries, were so extensive. But he found it didn’t matter to him. Only she mattered. “Then we shall not have children.”

  She glanced up, uncertain.

  He cupped her face. “I want you, Willow Song. I want to make you my wife. Now. Tonight. This is a good time. Our warriors will be hunting and will not break camp for a week. Come with me. And when we return, we will be man and wife in the eyes of all.”

  “I may be your wife, but they will still not accept me.”

  “I accept you. I love you and want to take care of you.”

  She glanced down. “You feel sorry for me.”

  Lone Warrior laughed softly. “No. I feel sorry for me. I want someone to take care of me as well.” He rested his chin on her head and stared off into the night sky. “What do you say? Can we take care of each other?”

  Willow Song sighed. “I am honored…but so afraid.”

  “Of what the rest will say?” Lone Warrior led her to the furs he’d laid down. He felt her trembling. He knew her leg bothered her. Sitting, he pulled her down into his lap.

  “No. That you will see the rest of me.” She hesitated. “There is no beauty here.” She hugged herself.

  “There is beauty everywhere that counts, my love.” He shifted. Holding her gaze, he grabbed the hem of her dress. “Show me what you fear. Let us get it out of the way, so that you will see that I love the woman inside this body.”

  Willow Song shifted and lifted her arms. She closed her eyes and bit her upper lip.

  Slowly Lone Warrior lifted the hem of her dress. “Look at me, my love,” he said.

  Holding her teary gaze, Lone Warrior slid the dress up her body and over her head. He waited, staring into her eyes for a long time before allowing himself to look at her body. She lowered her arms to her sides, but did not try to hide herself.

  Scarred flesh puckered her neck and collarbone and one shoulder, and covered half of one breast. The other side, like her face, was nearly perfect. Her other breast was perfect: a small, round globe tipped by a rosy flower.

  His fingers trailed down both her sides. Then he stared at her belly. Deep scars, wide and silvery-white, crisscrossed her entire abdomen, and more puckered flesh padded her hips. He saw where the horse had trampled her. Saw the slice where either a knife or sharp war ax had nearly killed her.

  “I don’t know how you survived,” he whispered. “You were but a child.”

  Considering all the damage that had been done to her, he knew he stared at a miracle.

  “I should have died,” she said.

  Lone Warrio
r stepped closer and ran his hands over her shoulders, across her back and down to cup her buttocks, drawing her close. “No. You were saved for me. You are my miracle. My love. For now. For always.” This time when he kissed her, he showed her the truth of his words. “I want you, Willow Song. I love you.”

  “I love you, too, Lone Warrior,” Willow Song whispered. “But I am still afraid.”

  He smiled down at her. “Do not be afraid, Willow Song. Not with me. Not ever.”

  When he took her lips once more in his, Willow Song relaxed and gave herself up. When his fingers stroked her flesh, she felt beautiful. And when he entered her and made their bodies one, for the first time in many years she felt whole.

  Swift Foot sat in front of a fire outside his tipi. Small Bird served him, his uncle and his cousin. Kills Many Crows set his bowl of rabbit stew down untouched.

  “I don’t see why we have to miss the Sun Dance. There will be many tribes gathered. Always we have gone.”

  “Our enemy has never been so bold,” Swift Foot explained. For days Kills Many Crows had complained bitterly, and he was sick of it. “And it would be a dangerous trip.”

  “Then perhaps only those of us who feel it is safe should go,” Kills Many Crows snapped.

  Charging Bull waved his son to silence. “We will have our own Sun Dance ceremony for those who wish to participate. Swift Foot is right. The grassy plains are far, and the many weeks of travel will make us and our wounded vulnerable.”

  Swift Foot nodded to his uncle. “There are still many warriors healing. Many grieving widows. Such travel is too much to ask of them. There will be no more discussion on this matter. The council agreed.”

  Kills Many Crows glared at Swift Foot. “They always agree with you. You can do no wrong.”

  “If my husband can do no wrong, then perhaps you should agree with him.” Small Bird set a bowl of boiled greens down before the men. She sent Kills Many Crows a pointed look. “Of course, those who seek to find fault can always do so.”