The Warrior's Captive Bride

by Jenna Kernan

Skylark frowned. “You were telling me when you got your dog.”

  “Oh, yes. He came to me after my last battle. He kept coming into my mother’s lodge. Finally my mother just let him stay. She thought he would be good company for me. And so he is.” Night Storm straightened.

  She offered the back of her hand to Frost. He licked it. Then she scratched his cheeks and petted his head. When she glanced up at Night Storm, it was to find him staring at her with an expression that reminded her of pain.

  “Are you all right?” she asked.

  “No. I don’t think so.”

  Their gazes held fast and she felt the blood rising in her body. Was he having the same sensual reaction to watching her stroke his dog as she had felt watching him? The possibility filled her with a giddy longing mixed with terror.

  They stood, hands at their sides, eyes dipping and returning to meet. She remained fixed to the earth, stubbornly refusing to yield to the calling of her body to touch his. At last he looked away.

  “What should we do next?” asked Night Storm.

  “I suppose I should find out all I can about you. Ask you many questions. I will need to know your signs before you fall and all about your falls. Have you had many?”

  “Three.”

  “When was the first?”

  He glared at her and she knew. Of course, it was when they met. That was why he thought she had cursed him. His eyes narrowed.

  “I am not a witch. I cannot bring frenzy witchcraft or love magic. I cannot shape-shift, nor do I see visions.”

  His eyes widened and then his gaze darted away. Did he see visions, she wondered.

  “But I know many cures. Some for falling.” She folded her hands and squeezed one with the other.

  “Start with those,” he said.

  The silence stretched and she cleared her throat. “Now about my questions.”

  “I will answer, but let me first see to my horses and make a camp.”

  A camp. Her stomach lurched. Of course, he would make a camp. She was staying here in the forest with him for two days. And two nights. Alone.

  Fear and anticipation mingled.

  She warned herself against his appealing mouth and the enticing line of his jaw. He retrieved his bow and she watched the muscles of his forearm cord. His body was strong and muscular. It appeared perfect, but, just like her, he had flaws. This was not the kind of man she should want. Still, some part of her did. Was it because he had been bold enough to approach her in the woods that day?

  She recalled their first meeting and his offer to make her his second wife.

  “You were promised to a woman. Have you taken her as a wife?”

  He stilled and spoke to her over his broad shoulder. “No.”

  She nodded and he turned away from the direction where she could find her tribe.

  No wife, she thought, watching him. He looked so strong. So perfect.

  “Because of...” She wanted to ask if it was because of her but could not.

  “I will not marry her until I am well.”

  Skylark absorbed this blow. He needed her help to return him to his path. But he did not want her in the way she wanted him.

  Heyoka, she thought. Wanting a man who did not want her.

  Sky stiffened her shoulders and her resolve. Certainly she had enough sense not to become involved with a man who loved another.

  He glanced back at her. “Are you coming?”

  “Yes.” But I will not share a buffalo robe with you. No matter how handsome you are.

  He led the way to his horses and Frost trotted along with them, occasionally darting off after a ground squirrel or some other alluring scent.

  She was surprised to see two pack animals, a chestnut and a red roan. Neither wore a saddle.

  Where was his mount? The men always rode. Women rode only on traveling days and only if there was room on the horses after they were packed with the household gear. Men needed to be free to protect their families and so their horses carried no gear and their hands held only the reins and their weapons.

  He tied his quiver to the nearest pack saddle and hooked his bow over a pommel. When he turned back, he found her studying him.

  “I no longer ride,” he said.

  She realized why instantly. His falling made it too dangerous. Their eyes met and she saw the pride in the lifting of his chin as he waited for her to say something. This was why he did not wish his people to know, because of this feeling she had for him right now.

  She forced a smile.

  “Soon you will ride again.”

  His guarded expression switched to confusion as his brow furrowed.

  “That is what I pray for every day, to be a warrior once more. I want to serve my people. But to be a burden...” He shook his head in dismay.

  “I understand that. Everyone needs a purpose.”

  “And I have lost mine.”

  “We will find it again, together.” She spoke with a confidence she did not feel, but still she held her smile and finally she saw his mouth quirk. The transformation was immediate and startling. He looked less severe and even more handsome. She could not keep from reaching out to stroke his cheek. Excitement buzzed through her, tickling her skin like bees on an open blossom. She leaned toward him. His hand captured hers, trapping it to his jaw for just an instant. Then he released her and stepped back.

  She stood, bereft by his withdrawal. “Tonight we will talk,” she said. “Tomorrow I will begin gathering plants.”

  “Yes. That is good.”

  “I have to know all about you. If I am to treat you, I mean.” It was true, but she was grateful for the excuse to hear his voice.

  When he spoke, the low rumble tickled her deep in the pit of her stomach. A warning prickled her neck. He had asked for her help. Nothing more. Yet he seemed to also feel the lure that tugged between them.

  “Well, that may take some time.”

  He picked a place with a wall of rock beside a small, pretty lake. The open ground had tall green grass for the horses, and nearby a cold spring tumbled down the rocks, giving them drinking water. It was a good camp. The rocks behind them protected against the wind and the ground all around was scattered with much firewood. She set to work gathering timber and kindling as he unburdened his horses and hobbled them to keep them from wandering. When she returned, the horses were happily munching on grass, unconcerned that their front feet were tied with a leather binding.

  Frost was sniffing about in the cattails, and trying and failing to catch frogs.

  The sun was directly over them, so they sat in the shade beside the lake and shared a meal.

  They drank cold water from the cascading stream and ate the pemmican they both carried. Hers was filled with wax currants mixed with tallow and his was filled with nuts and dried Saskatoon berries. Traveling food, portable, dense and delicious.

  Frost appeared, his tail wagging, hopeful for some food. Night Storm fed him some of his pemmican and then waved him off. Frost left in good humor, returning to his futile attempts at hunting. The process involved a great deal of leaping into the water, swimming back to shore and shaking off only to leap in once more.

  “He will chase away all the fish,” said Night Storm.

  As they ate, she began her questions with ones about his family, learning that his father, Many Coups, was one of the chief warriors of his tribe and the head of his medicine society. Every tribe had secret warrior societies and their business was never shared with women. Just as women had rites and ceremonies kept secret from the men. Red Corn Woman had born Many Coups three children. His brother, the oldest, had already taken a wife from the Wind Basin people who bore him a son. Night Storm also had two younger sisters, six years his junior at seventeen winters and another who was fourteen winters a
nd already a woman.

  Skylark realized that at twenty-three winters, Night Storm was three years her senior.

  “Most of my friends and family call me Storm. You may do so, as well.”

  She nodded her acceptance of this. “My family calls me Sky.”

  “Sky? A pretty name. I understand that you have no brothers or sisters,” said Night Storm.

  “Yes. That is so.”

  “And you live with your father and aunt and uncle.”

  “Yes.” Her mother was gone because Sky could not heal her. Sky was silent. Should she say that her mother had left her husband before the time of Sky’s birth? Did he already know that Sky and her mother had lived alone for much of her childhood? Perhaps she should tell him that her mother’s family had advised against her marriage but her mother had left her people to wed a man whose first wife was of the Low River Tribe and when she left this husband a few years later she was too proud to go home to her family. Thoughts of her mother saddened her and even after three winters since the passing of her mother, the pain was still heavy on her heart.

  “Some say you are like your father.”

  “I have heard that said. Do you think so?”

  “I have not decided yet.”

  “Why have you not married Beautiful Meadow?” she asked.

  “You need to know this to cure me?”

  “No. It is a woman’s curiosity.”

  He made a face. “She is angry that I have not yet married her. Her father, Broken Saddle, was of the Shallow Water people, like my father, until he married. Now Broken Saddle is chief of the Wind River tribe and his brother, Thunder Horse, married one of our women and joined the Black Lodges. He is our shaman.”

  She raised her brows at the implications of this. No wonder he had not wed. A shaman’s niece would quickly note his illness and seek her uncle’s help. His condition would be raised at tribal council and then known by all.

  “I see.”

  “And understand why I have not yet taken her to my lodge?”

  She nodded.

  He liked that he did not have to explain everything to her.

  “Beyond that, I cannot hunt for her or protect her.” His eyes lingered on Skylark. “No woman wants a man who cannot ride.”

  Except perhaps a woman who did not sew? They were a strange pair, she thought. She almost said that aloud and then quickly reminded herself that he would not marry while he was ill and if she managed to cure him, he would marry Beautiful Meadow. She needed to cease her folly and get back to her people as soon as she could.

  Storm growled and lifted a stick, preparing to throw it into the water. But his dog placed his mouth over it and Storm let go. Frost sank to the ground and began gnawing on the branch.

  “Is that all?” he asked.

  Her gaze shot to him. She had promised to try to help him and instead she had become consumed with her own wants, needs and burdens.

  “No. Not all. If your falling sickness is from a ghost or curse, then your children would not be affected. If you are ill, we will find a cure.”

  “I hope so. Because becoming a burden, it would be worse than death.”

  The responsibility she had taken now weighed upon her. Why had she thought by leaving her tribe for a few days she would be free? Free from the burden of chasing after her father, free of the curious stares of the men and the pitying glances of the friends who had found good husbands. But this new burden was heavy, indeed.

  “What other questions do you have?” he asked.

  “Have you had visions?”

  He scrubbed his face with his hands as if washing. Then he blew out a breath to the sky.

  “How did you know this?”

  She shrugged. “A feeling I had. And falling is like sleeping, dreaming. Many visions come with dreams.”

  “Yes, they do. I will tell you something else that I have shared with no one. During the time of my vision quest, I had strange dreams.”

  “That is not unusual, I think.”

  Much of the process of becoming a man was kept a very carefully guarded secret, just as the entry process of becoming a woman was held from the men. But she had heard this and that. She knew, for example, that when their mentors deemed them ready, a boy left the tribe with his mentor, went into the forest and stayed there. Many days later the boy would return, gaunt and changed in ways that frightened her. The candidate left as a boy and returned as a man. The tribes’ celebration for these new members was jubilant, as was the welcoming for women who were of marriageable age.

  She was well past her womanhood and still the men of her tribe had done no more than steal a few kisses and bestow a few trinkets.

  Skylark focused on Storm. “I know little of the vision quest.”

  He nodded his understanding of this. “And I can tell you little, except to say that my name must come from what I saw and I saw many things. Terrible things. I was told to choose my name from the visions or from the first creature I saw upon waking. I did not do as I was told. Do you think this could have brought this sickness?”

  “Possibly. Why did you not do as you were instructed?”

  He made a face.

  “It was night when I became aware. But it was not storming. And the first creature I saw was the same one that came to me in my visions. They came again and again. They still come. Follow me in dreams and while awaking. I thought it called me to be fearless in battle and to take many enemy lives. Now I do not know what they want from me.”

  “But you should use this creature for your name. Is that right?”

  His expression turned grim.

  She cocked her head, the unease growing at his silence. She swallowed back her trepidation. What could possibly be so terrible?

  “What animal?” she asked, the dread creeping into her with the evening chill.

  “A white owl.”

  She could not contain the shout of fear as she threw her hands across her chest. Her skin went cold as she stared in shock at this man.

  It was the worst of all possible omens.

  * * *

  Storm placed a hand over his forehead and kept it there as he spoke, the horror of his disclosure clear in his voice. “I saw many strange things, but the animal I saw again and again was the owl.”

  She could not find her voice and so spoke in a whisper. “Death. Your death or the death of those you love.”

  “Or the death of enemies in battle. I saw the owl in visions and dreams and upon waking. A white snowy owl in the summer time. A horned owl perching over my head and the sound of screech owls during the night.”

  “Perhaps...” Her mouth was so dry from the fear that she had to clear her throat before she could speak. “Owls are messengers. They bring word of impending death, that is true. But perhaps...” She was reaching for some glimmer of hope. “Perhaps... Perhaps they only foretold of this time. If this is spiritual, then you are called to interpret this message. A message from the world of the dead.”

  “Instead, I have hidden it from all but you.”

  She could understand why.

  “I knew that they called me to something. I assumed they called me to battle my enemies. I rode into all battles expecting to send many ghosts to the spirit road.”

  Or to die, she thought. She shivered at the thought. Had it not occurred to him that the owls called him to his own death?

  “My name should be chosen from my visions, but I knew that my tribe would be afraid, if I called myself White Owl or Shrieking Owl or Evening Owl. So I chose Night Storm, for the storm that finally quieted the owls.”

  “This is a terrible omen.”

  “Yes. I am linked to death. I just do not know how.”

  “Do you see the dead?”

  “No.”

&nbs
p; “Do you think the owls were the spirits of the dead?”

  “I do not know.” He turned his head and looked at her, his brow furrowed. He seemed to be puzzling something out.

  “What?” she asked.

  “Why are you still here?”

  Now she was the one who was confused. “You asked my help. Don’t you remember?” Was his mind worse than she supposed?

  “Of course, I remember. But most women would have run screaming in the other direction the minute I told them of my vision. Why didn’t you?”

  Why hadn’t she? “Well, I suppose because you need help and because I think I might be able to help you.”

  “You are not like anyone I have ever met. You are either the bravest of all Crow women or the craziest.”

  “Don’t call me that,” she snapped, and immediately recognized what she had done. Her eyes widened. Women did not speak to warriors in such a way. It was within his right to chasten her.

  He tucked his chin and stared through thick lashes at her. But he did not chastise or raise his voice, showing so clearly the kind of control a warrior must have over his emotions. He just watched her as her face grew hotter and hotter. She wished he’d say something. Finally he spoke.

  “We’ll speak of this later.” He stood.

  She followed him and stepped before him when he tried to move away. “Is it because of what I said?”

  His mouth quirked. “No. It’s just that my head is hurting again.”

  “Where?”

  He gripped his forehead.

  “Does that happen often?”

  “Less often than at first.”

  At first? What did that mean?

  “When did it begin?”

  “In the Fast Water Moon.”

  That was the time when the old man of the north finally released his grip upon the land and the snows receded and the green shoots poked up through the ice. A time of great change in the land. Melting ice and rushing water. What had happened to him at that time?

  She was about to ask, but he placed his broad hands on her shoulders and gave a little squeeze. “Enough talk for now. I would catch us fish or it is pemmican again for supper.”

  Frost returned, tail wagging, carrying an enormous bullfrog in his mouth. He laid it down before them and the frog leaped into the tall grass. Frost pounced like a fox on a mouse but missed, judging from the sound of the splash coming from the lake.