by Karen Kay
Inhaling, she caught the aroma of his musky fragrance, which only added to the cacophony of her thoughts. And beneath her, the log upon which she sat felt more solid than it had only a few moments ago, and she realized that her senses had become acutely attuned to the world around her.
Was it because of him? Was it because of the heightened affinity between them? Whatever it was, Carolyn’s resolve thawed a little.
But maybe it was for the best. In the last few minutes, there were two things that had become clearer to her. One was the raw strength of the love she felt for this man; the other was an intense awareness that he, too, had feelings for her.
Was that enough to overcome the barriers between them? Not quite, she told herself.
And yet in the last eight and one-half years, while she might not have been aware of her feelings for Lone Arrow, there had never been another man in her life. Why not?
Carolyn glanced skyward, noticing without really seeing that the storm which had threatened in the distance had moved on; that the multitude of stars and the moon, which shone straight above her, had effectively taken over the midnight sky. She inhaled deeply, more than aware of the humidity in the air which filled her lungs. Hoping against hope, she thought that the breath she took might give her a few moments in which to think.
But it was not to be.
Gazing up at him, she took note that he sat silently, watching her. And although his arms were folded over his chest, although he did not touch her, he might as well have been holding her in his arms. For she was more than aware of him…in a sexual way.
Clearing her throat, she began, “Lone Arrow, you compliment me, I think.”
He remained silent, not making so much as a single movement.
And she went on to say, “For many people, what we have would be reason enough for marriage.”
He nodded.
“But not for you and me, I think,” she said. “As you say, there are too many differences between us. And I don’t simply mean that you are Indian and I am not. There is a great divergence in the way we think. There is one thing that I could not forgive, and you know what that is.”
“But you might think differently,” he argued, “when you become aware of the amount of work that would be expected of you.”
“I don’t think so.”
Yet as though he hadn’t heard her, he said, “You are good friends with Pretty Moon. What if she were one of my wives? You would still like her, would you not?”
“I…no. Besides, there is more to it than this, and you know it.”
He did not say a word.
And she uttered, “Understand me well. As you desire to change me, so, too, would I desire to change you. And you must admit that this is not the way in which to enter into a marriage. Perhaps it is because I do love you that I feel we must not take that step. In truth, I have no desire to change you. Not really. I love you as you are. But because I do love you does not mean that I could live with you.”
He did not utter a word for several moments. Alas, all he did was reach out a hand to touch her, his fingers softly caressing her cheek.
When at last he did speak, he said, “You are so wise, so beautiful, in spirit as well as in body. Know that I would not seek to change you in any way.”
He would not? Truly? Despite herself, she melted.
But he was continuing to speak, and he said, “Know that I would do all I could to remain with you and only you all of my life. But I cannot promise you this.”
It was the last sentence that broke the spell. And all she could think of to say was, “I know.”
After a time, she started to add, “It is why I think that we should—”
Again he brought that finger to her lips, and he said, “Do not speak it. To say the words might make it so.”
Bending toward her, he brought his forehead next to hers, and he said, “To say the words would be as to take away all hope.”
She groaned. “Never,” she whispered, “never would I want to do that.”
“I know,” he said, and then softly, so very softly, he murmured, “If we must part, as you say we must, then I think that we should do so with a kiss.”
A kiss?
Dear Lord, no, she thought. Not a kiss. A kiss might strengthen his cause, might weaken hers.
But as though the forces of nature were, after all, conspiring to seduce her, the moon lit Lone Arrow’s countenance in silky, gossamer-like beams. He looked so good, so masculine, so virile, and she was so very much in love with him.
Her defenses crumbled. Why did she keep up this fight? After all, it seemed so pointless, especially when his face was close to hers—so very, very close. And the wind kept whispering at her, seeming to tell her that it would take nothing on her part, nothing at all, to bridge the distance between them.
But there were reasons—good reasons, she reminded herself—why she had to stand firm, and at the last minute, when he would have kissed her, she turned her head away from him. His lips met the hollow of her cheek.
It should have been nothing. It should have done nothing to her. She would have been a fool, however, if she believed that.
With his touch, cascades of longing swept through her, and she shut her eyes as overwhelming waves of passion overtook her. Still, she swallowed, trying to count off the reasons why she should hold herself back from this man. But like a frightened shadow in the night, her well-thought out justification fled beneath the brightened aura of Lone Arrow’s nearness.
His face swam closer to her, so close that when she breathed, she inhaled his intoxicating, musky scent.
And then he ran his lips over her cheek, her chin, her ear, his tongue nuzzling her there. In a heartbeat, raw hunger filled her soul, and her body turned to putty. Alas, like a sun-starved flower, she tilted up her face toward him in silent invitation.
Raising up slightly, he glanced down at her, and as he did so, she espied the yearning which burned there within the depths of his eyes. And with that recognition, her stomach dropped and exhilaration filled her being.
Slowly, his head descended toward her. Slowly, as though each moment dragged by, she awaited the touch of his lips upon hers.
Truly, she barely dared to breathe, so that when at last, his lips touched hers, she shivered with need. In the next instant, his breath mingled with hers, and with it, she became lost to the power of him.
It was a simple enough kiss, and yet not. The reality of it said that it should have been no more than lips touching, caressing, loving. And yet, it was so much more. More, because surges of pure joy swept over her being.
He shifted position so that he became a little separated from her, and though the movement was infinitesimal, she felt immediately bereft.
So it was that when he lifted his head to stare down at her, she collapsed against him. She let out a brief sob, realizing the futility of it all. One kiss was not enough. It was simply not enough.
Kiss me again, she pleaded silently as she gazed up at him.
And as surely as one day follows upon another, Lone Arrow reached out for her, bringing his head down to hers, repeating the caress.
She sighed against him, scooting forward and entwining her arms around his neck. It was as though she had been awaiting this moment all her life. And although something within her demanded that she protest, “We shouldn’t be doing this,” she kissed him back, giving him everything that was in her to give.
And he accepted it all. In truth, he accepted her.
At some point, she mumbled, “I love you,” against his lips.
She felt the quiver which ran through his body. Felt his hard muscles against her as he took her in his arms, and she heard him say, “I know.”
Nothing more; nothing less. And yet, those two words had the effect of telling her all she wanted to hear.
She surrendered…
Chapter Twenty-Two
Lone Arrow closed his eyes and sighed.
It was within him to tell her that
he loved her also. But he could not do it.
He might care about her more than he had ever cared for another human being. It might even be true that he loved her. It certainly appeared that this was so. Yet he could not say the words.
Alas, he felt pulled in two different directions. As a lover, as a man, he bestowed upon this woman a trust that was implicit, that was complete. Yet as the protector of his people, of the sacred mountain and the treasure cave, he knew he had no right to pass this responsibility to her.
Yet he wanted to trust her. Truth was, he desired her in many different ways that were not at once understandable to him. It was as though he wished to merge his being with hers, and to do it so thoroughly that neither of them would be able to see where one of them ceased to be and the other began.
But, he reminded himself, he could not do this. He might admire her, yes. He might even love her, but duty to his people, to his clan and to the god of the mountain would not allow him the freedom to put words to his feelings.
Yet how beautiful she looked. How wise and how lovely she was. And he was here. She was here, and above them was a moon that demanded he take her into his arms, that he love her…
And so it was that he brought his lips to hers again. As he did so, his head spun. He could not get enough of her. Not when she tasted of sweetness and spice. Not when the womanly scent of her upon his lips drove him half mad.
She murmured, “We must stop this.”
He nodded, knowing she was right, but he could not quite let her go. Not yet.
She turned her face away from him, and he sighed.
“Dance with me,” she said.
Dance? Now? Lone Arrow groaned. It was not that he was unaware of the white man’s mode of dancing. He had witnessed it often enough at the white man’s forts. No, it was more that he was ready for her, ready and aching for her.
He clenched his jaw. It would be sweet agony for him, to be so close to her, and yet hold himself back from her. With some desperation, he tried to remember why he should keep himself from her. But at the moment, all his well thought-out reasons escaped him.
He said, “I do not know the white man’s steps.”
She turned her head toward him and exhaled, her breath creating a mist in front of her face. She said, bringing a finger to her lips, “Shhh. Do you hear it?”
He frowned, yet he listened.
And she continued, “It is as though the wind were singing a song. Can you hear it?”
He paused, giving his full attention to his sense of hearing. After a time, he said, “I do.”
But he wondered; he wondered about her, about how she knew. Was it by instinct that she should come to realize this? Was she aware that his people believed that the wind did sing?
All at once, he felt closer to her. Not physically, but rather spiritually.
“Please,” she said. “Please dance with me.”
He groaned. Could he do it? It would be an exquisite torture for him—to hold her so close, yet to be so far from her. Still, the opportunity to feel her body’s imprint against his own was practically more than he could resist. After all, who knew what might happen in these next few days?
And they had the night before them.
He said, “I do not know the steps.”
“You need no steps to dance the white man’s dance,” she responded. “And the music of the night is calling to me. All you need to do is hold me.”
Lone Arrow knew when he was lost, and nodding, he stood. Holding out his hand to her so that she might willingly come into his arms, he said, “I will try.”
She took his proffered hand, and as she did so, she murmured, “Do you remember dancing with me once before?”
“I do,” he responded, pulling her up and into his arms. Greedily, he enfolded her into his embrace.
As he did so, he heard her moan, the sound of it high-pitched and suggestive. Unwittingly, he heard himself echo her need; heard himself groan.
For the moment, she was his; he was hers. In truth, her soft curves fit him so well that she might have been created for him alone. And when she seemed to melt into him, he knew he was in trouble. Ho! Why did he fight her so much?
If the truth were known, he was becoming tired of resisting her; tired of telling himself why he should stay away from her. Certainly, he was tired of pondering the reasons why he could not put his faith in her.
But she was speaking, interrupting his thoughts, and she said, “We danced so long ago. Do you remember? It was that time when you brought me to Fort C.F. Smith.”
“I remember,” he murmured against her ear.
“But you walked away from me afterward.”
He did not move. It was true. He had done exactly that.
And she said, as though she pleaded, “Don’t walk away from me tonight.”
He took a deep breath. “I will not,” he said. It was a promise, too.
Until this woman said the words to sweep him out of her life, she was his wife. At least she was for tonight.
These next few days would be telling for them both. Not only did she have major decisions to make, he, too, had need to decide what he was going to do about her.
And he wondered, when all was unfolded, would she prove to be innocent of the doubts he leveled at her, or would she turn out to be as treacherous as he feared? Trouble was, either way, he was committed to her.
There it was, he thought. He was committed to her. And it did not matter her crime. In ways he did not understand, he did trust her.
Lone Arrow paused as the fullness of recognition came to him.
This woman was important to him; important in ways he did not fully grasp.
Yes, he realized that without her, he felt only half alive; half of a completed whole. This was not a new thought for him. But in the past, whenever he had considered this, he had struggled against the idea, thinking it to be no more than a weakness.
But was it weakness…or strength?
Perhaps he thought, he had been wrong. Maybe he had been fighting against the wrong thing.
It was a powerful revelation. Powerful because of its simplicity. Powerful because of its beauty.
Why had he not understood this before?
She was as much a part of him as he was of her. And because this was so, he would know her heart as well as he knew his own.
Ho! He did trust her. He did believe in her.
The realization had the effect of calming him, and placing his head against hers, a feeling of peace stole over him, as well as another sort of understanding.
She was in trouble; trouble, which up till now, he had chosen to ignore. Yet whatever had caused her to come here must be intense, if she could not confide it to him.
Maybe, he thought, it was time to be a little honest with her. Perhaps if he had been more so in the past…
And so he said, “Do you know why I left you all those years ago?”
She grinned. He could feel it, there as she rested her face against his shoulder. She said, “Because I annoyed you?”
He shook his head.
She took another guess, saying, “You were happy to be rid of me?”
Again he made a negative response. And though he could already feel the softness of her curves against him, he enfolded his arms around her even more tightly, drawing her closer into his clasp. And when in response, she twined hers around him, he thought he might die a little.
He said without thinking, “I want you.”
“What?” she asked.
“I wanted you,” he corrected. “At that time, eight and a half years ago, I was shocked by what I felt for you. You were a mere child of eleven winters. And I was a man; a man with no coups to his name. Had I a coup, I might have taken you back to my people and married you at once. I would have then watched you grow into the beautiful woman that you are now. But a man without a coup is a sad creature. He is not even allowed to marry until he is twenty-five winters old, and I was a mere sixteen.”
“You…you were thinking of marrying me?” Her tone was a whisper. “Back then?”
He nodded.
“I…I didn’t know,” she said.
“I know that you did not. I did not want you to have this knowledge.”
At these words, she went limp in his arms and he took her weight upon himself. She said, “There is something you might not have realized.”
“Ho, is there?”
She inclined her head slightly against his shoulder, and she said, “I had so hoped, so desired that you would take me back with you to your tribe.”
He held her slightly away from him, that he might stare down at her.
But she went on to explain, “I had no one in the world. No one but you. I would have been proud to go with you to your people. The truth is that I was hoping that you would take me there.”
He drew her back into his arms, hugging her. He said, “Perhaps we both made unwise decisions back then. But we were young, and I could not help feeling that your people were the white people. They still are your people.”
She sighed. “Yes, they are. And they, my people, are in trouble.”
There it was again, the reason why he might distrust her, why he had done so in the past. But these reasons were no more than shadows now; that doubt gone from within him. In truth, at this moment he felt only the urgency of her need, and he said, “Soon we will be at the cave and your troubles will be no more. But before we go there, let us settle what has been between us. The night is yet before us, and there are many things we should say to one another, many things we could do.”
“Yes,” she followed his lead as he took a single step upon their dance floor of pine needles and wet earth, the crunching of the needles a welcome sound. After a moment, she asked, “We are that close to the cave?”
“We are.”
“But didn’t you say that the others will not be going to the cave with us?”
He inclined his head. “They will be leaving us within the next few days.”
“They will?”
Again he nodded.