by Karen Kay
Still…
He grimaced. Did he have a choice?
She cried.
He shook his head as he looked down, his eyes staring without really seeing the ground below him. If he went down there, he would take her in his arms and comfort her, trying to discover whatever it was that ailed her. And his body would react all the more toward her, making him ache with a desire he thought reserved for adolescents, not for grown men.
He breathed out heavily.
She sniffled just then, the sound muffled, as though she tried to hide it, but it made no difference. He’d heard her, no matter the volume of her voice.
He moaned; he cast his gaze upward, yet even as he did so, he threw off his coverlet of buffalo hide, easing his tall frame out of his sleeping robes. He came up onto his haunches, quickly positioning his breechcloth around him and shaking out his moccasins before he put them onto his feet. Next came his quiver full of arrows, over his head, onto his back, then he picked up his bow.
Quietly, so as not to alarm her, he slipped toward her, squatting beside her once he reached her.
He touched her shoulder first so she would know he was there, then gently, placing a finger beneath her chin, he brought her face around toward him.
“Ne-oneseohtse?” he asked. “You are in pain?”
And she shook her head as though she’d understood him, tears streaming down her face. Neeheeowee’s gut wrenched in response.
He did not want her to cry. He did not want her to hurt. In truth, such a protective feeling toward her washed through him at that moment, he might have jerked away in response to it had he not been so concerned about her.
He didn’t say a word. Instead, looking down into her eyes, he traced her tears with a single touch of his forefinger, raising his shoulders at the same time in the age-old gesture of inquiry.
“Henova’e he’tohe? What is it?” he asked.
She sniffed, she sobbed, she held up her hands, showing stickers so deeply embedded into her fingers, they bled more now than they had done when she fell.
“Eaaa!” Neeheeowee stared down at them, at her. What had she done?
And then he remembered—her backside, her bottom. He had not attended to it. She hadn’t wanted him to and he had shunted away from it, knowing the inevitable result of such an action.
He raised his eyebrows and sighed. There was nothing for it. He would have to attend to her there. She had tried to do it herself, all to disastrous result. He would have to do it.
And though his body jerked in reaction to the mere thought of it, Neeheeowee strove to bring his responses under control.
He would do it, he could do it, and perhaps if he pretended she were a child instead of an adult, he might come away from the experience with his senses still intact.
It was all he could hope for.
And as he raised Julia’s hand toward him, feeling the inevitable quickening of his pulse, he moaned.
It was going to be a long night.
His touch felt like the warm caress of a lover. He had looked into his bags, dragging out a bone object looking much like the pluckers women in white society used to pull out unwanted facial hair. And though Julia had buckled at the sight of them, they had proved a useful tool.
Neeheeowee hovered over her now, her hand in his as he pulled first one sticker from her hand, then another and another.
She couldn’t understand it. She’d been so sure she could handle this all herself, yet the stickers had adhered to her hands as she had reached around behind her to pull them from her derriere. It had gotten worse and worse, the burrs embedding themselves deeper and deeper into her hands.
She’d not had the courage to call out to Neeheeowee, yet he’d come to her anyway.
Julia gazed at him, the flickering firelight illuminating first one, then another of his features. And all at once she became aware of other things: the feel of his hands holding her own, the aroma of the fire mixing with his own spicy scent, the soft resonance of the wind as it drifted on past her.
Neeheeowee looked up to her.
She gazed back, unaware of the breeze blowing her hair back from her face.
And then it happened. Her heart felt like it had burst.
She caught her breath, groaning, the sudden realization of what was happening to her rocking her with the emotional impact.
She knew. She had feelings for this man, deep, heartfelt feelings, and the power of her sentiments gave her pause.
Did she love him? Was that what she felt? Or was the sensation more one of…well, she didn’t know. But of one thing she was certain: She cared for him greatly.
“Maybe it’s just the sort of adoration I might feel toward a brother,” she whispered to herself. “Or maybe I only feel devoted to you because you are my rescuer. Is that all it is, my friend?”
Neeheeowee looked up at her, then back down to her hand.
She frowned. Whatever it was, it didn’t matter. She held him in affection. It was all she needed to know.
“Maybe I feel this way because you have never lost your temper with me, though I am aware that you have been angry with me on numerous occasions. You have never raised your voice to me, nor have I heard a harsh word from you. Instead, though I can often feel your frustration with me, you continue to treat me with kindness and…with respect. I believe, sir,” she said in an undertone, “that you are a rare sort of gentleman in any society.”
Julia, watching his handsome features in the flickering light from the fire, came to another conclusion: Nothing mattered between them—not where admiration was concerned—not race, not culture, nor even prejudice. What she felt transcended such things.
She gasped, whispering, “It is beautiful, what I feel for you.” And it was in that moment that she knew that nothing, not even the censure of her own people, could make it less.
It was a sobering, startling awareness for Julia, who had striven all her life to fit her needs neatly within the boundaries of her own society. And with intuitive realization, she knew these feelings would not go away. And so she breathed out a deep sigh, settling back to enjoy the quiet ministrations of Neeheeowee, her proud, proud wolf.
“Who are you truly?” she asked, her voice soft in the wind. “Are you Neeheeowee? Indian? Brave warrior? Are you my hero?”
She gazed up at him. “Yes,” she said at last, answering her own question. “I think that you are my hero, truly.”
And as he looked back at her, she very slowly smiled.
Neeheeowee had heard her soft words, had glanced up, only to catch that smile.
His heart did a flip-flop, then burst on with a rate of speed equal in intensity to that of a long-distance run. He stared away. What was that he had seen there, heard in her voice?
Admiration? Perhaps love? No, it could not be. He did not want it to be; he could not handle such things from her.
He was supposed to keep his distance from her, he was supposed to protect her, cherish her; yet that smile of hers did things to him, made him think thoughts he shouldn’t, made him wish for things he could not have. It gave him ideas, it set his blood to racing, it made it hard for him to breathe.
What was he to do? The worst of his ministrations was yet to come, and, with calm resolve, Neeheeowee cautioned himself to move slowly, to think first and to think clearly.
He pulled out another sticker from her finger, then another and another, washing her hands after each one. But soon there remained no more stickers left in her hands, and Neeheeowee, sending a shy gaze up at her, motioned her to stay here while he got to his feet.
The medicines he needed to spread over her fingers remained in his parfleche, and he was glad for the opportunity to leave her, if only for a moment. He had to collect himself before he continued to attend to her. If he did not, well…
He took several deep breaths, his body already responding to the mere idea of what he had to do. He dallied, he paused, fussing over his bags and then, looking over to her, realizing the dela
y did not lessen his agony, he threw back his shoulders and, thrusting out his chin, set about to do the deed.
Julia stirred under his touch, his fingers gentle as he turned her onto her stomach.
Her buckskin dress remained slit where she had fallen, exposing a portion of her anatomy she would rather he not see, and she hoped the slit there would be enough for him to help her without the necessity of pulling the dress entirely up and over her hips.
She felt his fingers there now, felt his exploring touch, winced as he ran his fingers over something sharp.
“Julia?”
She heard his deep baritone voice. It was the first time he had called her by name, the first time he’d voiced anything she could understand. She marveled at the warmth of it, the way her name sounded on his lips.
“Julia, Na-heese-tsehestoestotse.”
Julia shrugged, moving her head from side to side.
He sighed and pulled on her dress, repeating, “Na-heese-tsehestoestotse.”
Julia, at last, understood. He needed to pull up her dress.
“No, I don’t think that I want you to—”
“Na-heese-tsehestoestotse.”
He’d said the words softly and Julia, knowing what he had to do, nodded her assent.
He inched her dress up gradually, gently, as though he, too, were afraid of the result of such an action, though perhaps he just took care not to hurt her.
Slowly, inch by inch, he pressed the dress upward until at last, he grabbed her hips, holding her slightly up and easing the dress over her hips, up to her waist. Cool night air immediately assaulted her buttocks and Julia shivered as his hands touched her, easing her back into place while his fingers explored her wound.
And then he bent forward, hovering over her. She could feel it, she could sense it, and though she held her legs firmly together, she felt a response toward him building there where his touch came so close, yet hovered so distant.
She wanted him to touch her there. She wanted it. She…shame burst through her. How could she think these thoughts? How could she…squirmed, just a little. And though she was sure color diffused through her face, she couldn’t help herself. At least he couldn’t see it. At least he couldn’t know that she wanted…so much more.
He touched her other buttock cheek, the one uninjured; his touch fleeting, still…she moved in response to him…just a bit…she…
He removed his touch, making her feel immediately bereft.
“No,” she murmured before she knew what she did. But he didn’t hear her, or at least he didn’t appear to.
No, it seemed he set about his task of cleansing her wound as one who had no interest in a woman’s bare bottom, as one who had seen such things so many times, it had lost its effect on him long ago. Gently, using the tweezers he’d produced, he did nothing more than pull each sticker from her behind, carefully avoiding further contact with her.
One after the other, he worked at his task, washing her after he removed each sticker, carefully spreading ointment over each place. It took too long, yet not long enough.
At last he had finished, and still he hadn’t felt her where she longed for the contact. She lay still, wishing, hoping, aching. And though she little knew it, a moan escaped her throat and, involuntarily, she moved her hips, not much, only a little.
But it was enough.
“Ne-ve’-neheseve,” he groaned just before he caressed her, his stroke fleeting.
But it came back again, his fingers, his hands brushing her up and over her buttocks, one hand finally centering over one soft mound of flesh, then squeezing.
Julia sighed, the sound more a high-pitched moan.
“Eaaa,” she heard his soft exclamation, sounding as though he were in pain, and she felt the touch of his fingers on her; then his lips were there, too, kissing the wound better, his lips, his touch roaming farther afield while his fingers dipped ever closer and closer to that spot that…
He touched her there, and Julia murmured a soft reply.
She shouldn’t do it. She knew it. She had just decided she wouldn’t do it, and yet… His touch felt like warm velvet against her, his fingers searching, and Julia could no longer hold back.
She fretted. She sighed, but with a slight wail of relief, she did it. She opened her legs…just a little, allowing him the access she had earlier denied him.
And when she groaned aloud, she no longer heard herself.
Neeheeowee, however, registered every soft whimper, its effect devastating to his tight control, and, with his own groan of frustration, he prepared to give to her all she could need.
Chapter Seven
Neeheeowee was almost beyond control. He’d had to bend down too closely to her in attending to her. And too many things about her filled his senses; the sweet, erotic scent of her, the smooth feel of her skin, the sounds of her quickened breathing, her moans. He could envision the taste of her, and he longed to run his tongue over the soft flesh there, if only to experience the flavor of her skin. Was it sweet, salty, spicy? How would she respond to him?
Just wondering about it set his head to spinning. And then she moved—only a little, but it was enough.
She was aroused.
The knowledge sent him over the edge. She wanted his touch, and Neeheeowee was past the point where he would deny her.
He looked down at her. She lay before him, her feminine beauty fully exposed to him, and he would not have been a man had he not stroked her, giving to her all he felt she desired.
Up and over her buttocks, down lower and lower, his fingers trailed a path around and into the sweet recesses of her body. And then, she did the unfathomable. She opened her legs—just a little. And unable to help himself, Neeheeowee bent to her, kissing her skin there, the wound and then more—he had to know more. He traced his tongue over the path where his fingers led, up over her back, down lower and lower.
She moaned, the sound as erotic as if she had begged for his touch, and Neeheeowee could think of nothing at this moment save the ache in himself, the ache in her.
She spread her legs, again—only a bit, but it was more than enough for him.
Neeheeowee let his fingers trail down toward that area of her body demanding attention, touching her softness there, exploring her body, his touch as vibrant as if he had lived all his life for this one moment. And when she opened her legs even farther, he removed his breechcloth.
He would make it good for her. He would…
What was that he felt there? Curls of hair?
He ran his fingers up farther toward her stomach, his touch exploring her every crevice along the way. Yes, it was hair he felt in that region of her body. He knew the white race to be a hairier race of people than the Indian. He had seen it in their men’s faces; but he would never have imagined discovering such a protective covering in this region of a woman’s body, for Indian women had no such markings. He remembered seeing Julia naked in the stream that once, but he hadn’t registered it all then.
How far did these tiny curls extend? He wanted to see them, he wanted to touch them, he wanted…
She whimpered and Neeheeowee looked down at himself, at her, and all at once sanity returned to him:
Saaaa! What was he doing? This was Julia—an honorable guest. Julia. And he was ready to use her as though he were some animal in heat.
He let out a cry of frustration and withdrew from her, taking with him his touch, his passion, his curiosity. He sat up, giving her backside one final squeeze before he came up onto his knees.
He groaned, aching for her, wanting her, still knowing that he could take no further action. For of one thing he was certain: He had no intention of keeping her with him, of making her a permanent part of his life. He couldn’t.
Not now. Not in the future. Even if he made love to her. He would still return her to her people, which would do what for Julia? What if their union brought about another life? Mightn’t it alienate Julia from her people?
He thought back to what
the grandfathers had taught him so many years ago, their words running over and over in his mind. Wasn’t it true, they had said, that a woman pushed too far into passion, could not return? That it was up to the man to call a halt to the lovemaking before it went too far? That it was up to the man to preserve her honor?
Neeheeowee shut his eyes, all at once disgusted with himself. Hadn’t he been taught these lessons from the time he was a small child? Hadn’t he been instructed that to take a woman without the sanctity of marriage meant only to disgrace that woman? That a man should do this only if he meant to bring shame upon the woman?
Neeheeowee despaired. He did not wish this for Julia. Never.
Yet, here he sat, naked; there she lay, naked, her body aching for his, and it was his action, his failure to control himself, that had caused her this. Without thought, he’d almost taken from her that which a woman holds most precious.
Neeheeowee stood up all at once, barely daring to look at Julia. He scooped up his breechcloth lying on the ground close by and moved around to face her.
“Hena’haanehe,” he said to her, motioning in gestures that he would go no further so that she would understand he would not bring dishonor to her. “Nohoomanahtsestse,” he said, then, “put on your blanket.” He motioned with his hands, throwing a buffalo robe to her at the same time. And with one last look at her, at all the beauty of her, he turned and stalked away.
And if his walk were a little crooked, perhaps a little pained, he could only hope she didn’t see it.
Julia had never felt so embarrassed.
Not only had she offered Neeheeowee the use of her body, he had turned her down! Never could she remember feeling more the fool—more used.
“What happened?” she voiced her thoughts. “Why did you turn away? Did you find me undesirable?”
No, that couldn’t be. Julia had seen the outline of his body as he’d left, leaving her in no doubt as to his own state of arousal.