by Karen Kay
“Yes. Yes, this would be good.”
“And now,” announced White Claw, “I must go. But before I leave, I would answer any other questions you might put to me, for I would retreat from here with all your doubts at ease.”
“Will you ever be free?” It was Angelia speaking.
White Claw hesitated. “It is possible that sometime in the future, this might come to pass. But until my people are completely freed from the mist, I am needed.”
Angelia nodded. “Then I wish you Godspeed.”
White Claw gazed toward Swift Hawk and lastly at Angelia. “And so I would say to you too, Godspeed.” With no more said than this, White Claw turned the pipe over and let the ashes scatter to the winds.
He arose. Swift Hawk and Angelia followed him up.
“I must go now. You have both done well. Know that in the coming years, the happiness that will be yours is much deserved. Live well, love well.” He drew a deep breath. “And now, I must return.”
Spinning about, he paced away from them, stepping through the grove of cottonwoods, toward the north, the place where his people still dwelled. The sound of happy drums and the voices of many of his own people accompanied him, as though, if they could, their voices would cheer him on his way.
And then there was nothing there, nothing where he had stepped, except the mist.
He was gone.
But Swift Hawk and his wife were very much alive. Swift Hawk’s wound would heal, his people would heal, also, and they would learn to love. For as White Claw had said, had his people’s hearts been filled with love in the past, they might not have ever been enslaved.
Taking Angelia in his arms, Swift Hawk turned to her and kissed her fully on the lips. “You helped me, my love, when no one else could. If not for you, I do not believe I would have broken the spell. For it was my love for you that transcended all else. In truth, I think that you have not only given me life, you have given my people life.”
Angelia shook her head. “Perhaps. But it was you who accomplished the deed.”
“Not alone. Never alone. Do you know that all my life I have searched for you?”
“As I have for you, my husband.”
He placed his arm around her. “I have learned something. It is my belief that you were sent to me in a vision because together we are stronger than I, alone, could ever be. It was because of you that I began to see, began to feel real love. Know this, my love—all my life, I will admire you. All my life I will love you. To you, I give all of me that there is to give.”
Tears were misting her eyes as she responded. “As I do too. I love you too. Now come, my husband, we have much to do.”
It is said to this very day that White Claw’s prophesy did, indeed, come true. For these two lived the rest of their lives amidst much happiness. But then, perhaps this is the way of things, that as philosophers have told us through the ages, all brave and good people at last find true bliss.
Glossary
Aaaaa—a Blackfoot word meaning “yes”.
Band—a tribe is divided up into different parts. A band represents a group within the tribe, often related, that hunts together and camps together. Different tribes have different bands within the same tribe.
Dinner/supper—in this part of the country, and at this time, dinner is referred to as the midday meal, while supper is the last meal of the day.
Haa’he—a Cheyenne word meaning “yes”.
Hova’ahane—a Cheyenne word meaning “no”.
Noon it—a term used on caravans that means “to eat and take a midday nap”.
Outriders—men who rode ahead of a wagon train. Their duties included—amongst others—scouting out the best places to cross a river and making it easier to cross, finding a good camping place, clearing the paths of debris, etc.
Piksan—a Blackfoot word for a place where the Indians induced the buffalo to jump off a cliff. This made it easier for the warriors to kill the beasts. It was usually done in the autumn so that the tribe could obtain enough meat to see it through the winter.
Parfleche—a bag. Indians carried their possessions in these bags.
Saaaa—a Cheyenne exclamation used by men.
To go before oneself—an Indian expression meaning to see something and even to experience it before it happens in the material universe.
Trade-blanket—the white man (Trader) brought with him gaily colored woolen blankets. Many had stripes. These were called trade-blankets.
Travois—a Plains Indian mode of transportation. Two cottonwood poles (which were used for their tepees) were strapped to horses, and blankets were set between these two poles. A travois was used to transport goods and sometimes to carry younger children.
About the Author
Author of seventeen American Indian Historical Romances, Karen Kay aka Gen Bailey, has been praised by reviewers and fans alike for bringing the Wild West alive for her readers.
Karen Kay, whose great-great grandmother was a Choctaw Indian, is honored to be able to write about something so dear to her heart, the American Indian culture.
“With the power of romance, I hope to bring about an awareness of the American Indian’s concept of honor, and what it meant to live as free men and free women. There are some things that should never be forgotten.”
Find Karen Kay online at www.novels-by-karenkay.com.
Look for these titles by Karen Kay
Now Available:
Lakota
Lakota Surrender
Lakota Princess
Proud Wolf’s Woman
Blackfoot Warriors
Gray Hawk’s Lady
White Eagle’s Touch
Night Thunder’s Bride
Legendary Warriors
War Cloud’s Passion
Lone Arrow’s Pride
Soaring Eagle’s Embrace
Coming Soon:
The Lost Clan
The Spirit of the Wolf
Red Hawk’s Woman
The Last Warrior
Iroquois Warrior
Black Eagle
Seneca Surrender
To save her life, they must expose their hearts.
Night Thunder’s Bride
© 2012 Karen Kay
Blackfoot Warrior, Book 3
When lady’s maid Rebecca Cothern journeyed westward, she never thought to leave her mistress’s side. Yet as Katrina Wellington completes her own journey with White Eagle, Rebecca waits at Ft. Union under the protection of Blackfoot warrior, Night Thunder.
Despite what she’s been told about the wild nature of the native tribes, Night Thunder is different. Kind, gentle, honorable to a fault…and handsome in a way that makes her breathless for his next touch.
Though Night Thunder relishes stolen moments with the beautiful white woman, circumstances dictate that he should keep his distance. Until she is stolen away in the night, and he discovers he cannot simply ride into the enemy camp, kill the guilty and sweep her to safety. The thieves are vengeful malcontents from his own tribe, which leaves him only one way to save her from the worst kind of violation.
He must claim that she is his bride. Not only that, she must willingly bare all—heart, soul and body—to claim him as hers.
This book has been previously published.
Warning: Contains warm, sensual love scenes that are certain to have you reaching for your own true Night Thunder.
Enjoy the following excerpt for Night Thunder’s Bride:
Surely Rebecca hadn’t understood. Was Night Thunder asking her to kiss him? To show him a wheen bit of affection? Here, before all the others? Was this, then, an added insult on top of what she had been made to endure by these Indians?
She hadn’t expected to look upon Night Thunder again. When she had been captured by the Indians, she had assumed Night Thunder would go back to his own people with nary a thought for her, believing as she had that the man would feel his obligation to her at end.
But she had been wrong.
“I will watch over Rebecca,” he had told his friend and companion, White Eagle, “so that your woman need not worry about her. I give you my word that so long as I breathe, Rebecca will remain safe.”
That White Eagle’s woman had been the niece of a new breed of man that the Indians referred to as the Long Knives had made no difference to Night Thunder. White Eagle had needed help. Night Thunder had given it, no questions asked.
Rebecca remembered at the time being struck by the incongruity of it.
An Indian swearing his life to protect a white woman?
Yet he had.
She was suddenly glad she had spent the time necessary to ensure this man knew her language. Addressing Night Thunder, she said, “Do you want me to kiss you?”
Despite his stately demeanor, Night Thunder looked suddenly sheepish. And Rebecca could well understand why. Thus far in their relationship, Night Thunder had shown her nothing but the utmost respect, keeping a careful distance from her. Even during those times when the two of them had been alone, he had rarely spoken to her, Rebecca coming to understand that in his society, their association with one another—that of an unmarried woman with a man—would have been strictly taboo. Rebecca could only wonder at what else had been said among these Indians to cause Night Thunder to ask her for her embrace now.
“Why is it that you would be asking me this?” She put the question to him gently.
“I have told these people that you are my wife in order to save your life,” he replied to her, his voice deep and strong, yet with a hint of chagrin. “They are demanding some…proof of our union. But I can say no more on it now. I can tell you only that you are being asked to choose one of us. Either myself or my cousin who stands here beside me.”
She glanced from one man to the other, her gaze coming back to settle upon Night Thunder. She held out her wrists. “If someone would untie me?” The old man stepped forward, the knife in his hand, cutting the rawhide bonds.
Several pairs of eyes watched her as she paced toward Night Thunder. She glanced up at him warily and raised her eyes to his. “Could you help me with this…kiss, now?”
She glimpsed no emotion on the man’s countenance before he said, “This is a thing you must do on your own. I can only tell you what you have to do. You must choose either myself or my cousin.”
“With all these people here watching?”
“It cannot be helped.”
“And will this act truly make us man and wife within the eyes of your people?”
An embarrassed, almost bashful look stole over Night Thunder’s face, though his voice was strong as he said, “Only if we consummate the union as a man and a woman who are truly married are bound to do.”
She was certain her face filled with color. She stammered, “And…and must we do this in front of…?” Her hand swept out in front of her.
“No, just one kiss should be all that is required.”
She sighed. “It is little enough that you ask in exchange for my life.”
With this said, she came right up to Night Thunder and put her hand on his shoulder, reaching up on her toes to place a kiss on his cheek.
As soon as he received the kiss, Night Thunder stepped immediately back from her, and in his own language, said something to the others.
Chuckles were heard from around the circle surrounding them, and after some moments, Night Thunder said to her, “They say a kiss on the cheek is little enough proof.”
She paused. “Then let them deny this,” and she threw herself into Night Thunder’s arms, placing her lips against his.
When her lips met Night Thunder’s, something unexpectedly stirred to life within her. What was it? A warmth. Aye, surely, and yet more.
She felt her blood surge with newfound exhilaration. It made her want to curl in closer toward him, though she curbed the inclination to do so.
The faint scent of him engulfed her and she found it pleasing. He smelled of grass and smoke and prairie, yet more…There was another, almost indefinable aroma about him, too, something very male, and very arousing.
And there was an almost soft texture to his skin, his lips. She wondered, how would the rest of his skin feel beneath her fingertips? She brought her hand up to trail her fingers down his arm, only half aware of what she did.
He moaned in response and his reaction, far from causing her to reevaluate her actions, made her lean in closer.
His lips were full upon hers, making her feel warm, protected. Making her aware of her femininity. She became conscious of her breasts pushing forward against her dress, suddenly sensitized, and that area of her body most private to her began to ache, as though that part of her had awakened to life, too. The whole effect caused her to utter a soft sound, deep in her throat.
Rebecca heard another groan from Night Thunder and then all at once his arms came around her, pulling her in so closely to him that she could feel the evidence of his masculinity against her belly.
She could barely think.
For the past two months, she had grown accustomed to the company of this man as he had watched over her, guarding her. She had observed him within this time, had become used to the look of him, the sound of his voice, his quiet humor. She had even come to admit a fair amount of respect for him.
But this? What was happening here between them was more than mere respect. This was…well, it was…sexual.
Ah, yes. Pure and simple. This kiss was communicating more than words could have, that she might…fancy him…and he her.
Had he felt this pull all these months? Had she? Surely not. Or were they both only realizing this now?
She barely heard the footfalls of the other men in the camp, as they moved away, uttering words she didn’t understand. She was only aware of this one man whose arms held her securely, whose touch roamed even now up and down her spine, causing her to shiver.
Someone spoke from beside them, jarring Night Thunder’s sensual exploration.
“Soka’piiwa,” someone said. What did that mean?
His arms fell from around her, and she lowered her head, looking down at the ground. Without his arms around her, Rebecca felt suddenly embarrassed. She had meant to give him only a chaste little kiss. It should have been a simple affair. Yet the kiss they had just shared was anything but modest.
What did one say to a man who had affected her in such an unusual way? How did one act?
“Come,” said Night Thunder, taking hold of her arm and causing a tingling up and down that arm where he touched it. “The others are convinced of our union and are erecting a niitoyis, a camp lodge, for us. It seems we are to be left alone for the night.”
Shoot first. Ask her name later.
Wild Burn
© 2013 Edie Harris
Wild State, Book 1
Infamy weighs heavy on Delaney Crawford’s broad shoulders, first as a supposed Confederate turncoat, then as a relentless hunter of Cheyenne dog soldiers. Summoned to the small mining community of Red Creek, the exhausted, embittered Del is doing what he does best—ridding the town of its savage scourge—when one of his bullets misses the mark.
Ex-nun Moira Tully has been working with John White Horse for months to integrate a band of peaceful Cheyenne with the local townsfolk. Now he’s hurt, and she’s been caught in the crossfire. There’s only one man to blame for her simmering anger and the inexplicable attraction that tilts her heart on its axis. Del.
When Del is forced to acknowledge the truth that the Cheyenne are no threat, his task just gets more complicated: fighting a wild attraction that catches flame at the most inconvenient times, and figuring out the treacherous motives behind his hiring.
But the most heart-wrenching challenge could be overcoming sordid pasts that won’t stay in the past—pasts that threaten to bury all hope of happily ever after.
Warning: Features a trigger-happy Southern gen
tleman, an ex-nun gone rogue and consistently thwarted desires that frustrate them both.
Enjoy the following excerpt for Wild Burn:
The door opened slowly to reveal her, limned in the warm light of the hearth flickering behind her. Glorious dark red hair fell in thick, loose waves past her shoulders to stop at the top of her rib cage.
His fingers twitched. Just…glorious.
“Mr. Crawford.” Her gaze flicked over his features, summer-blue eyes wary. “What can I do for you?”
“Mornin’, Miss Tully.” He swallowed. He was a stupid man. He knew better than to be here, talking to a lady—a schoolteacher—when he was in Red Creek on business. If he needed a woman, he could go to the Ruby Saloon. Not the second cabin from the end, with its garden and its gray stone chimney, its tidy golden glow streaked through with the homey scents of biscuits and coffee. “Just stopped by to see how your ear is doing.”
Her brows lowered in a sharp frown. She was always frowning at him, it seemed. “It’s fine, thank you.”
“I see you’re not wearing a bandage.”
She shook her head as she pulled a black woolen shawl tighter around her shoulders. He could see where her bodice met the simple skirt of her brown calico dress. There were no telltale bumps of a boned corset beneath the light fabric, no sign of a metal-caged crinoline or bustle at her hips. She was achingly dressed—achingly in that he hurt with the desire to dance his hands over her body and learn every inch of her slim shape. The gown was so worn it would prove no greater barrier than a thin bedsheet, and he could fall to his knees before her and curve his fingers around those slender thighs, part them with his thumbs as he fisted her skirts and—
“Is that all?”
No, no, that wasn’t all. He wanted her to knock his hat off his head while he stayed on his knees, grip his hair in her long fingers and steer his hands, his mouth, from the back of one knee and up her inner thigh. It would be so soft. She would be so soft, that pale skin…and probably freckled too. Oh, Christ, he—