by Karen Kay
“What are you doing?” she finally spit out at him, though she was careful to speak in no more than a harsh whisper.
“Keeping us alive.”
“I don’t see that—”
He turned back to her, and twisting around, whispered harshly, “If you say one more word, I will silence you in a way you will not like.”
“Is that a threat? How dare you speak to me in such a high-handed—”
She might have protested more, had she had the leisure to do so, but before she could say another word, he was pushing her backward, his body coming down to spread entirely over hers. She gasped, but the sound was lost beneath his hand. And then he did the unthinkable: He rolled over her, bringing her up and on top of him. Then again he rolled, and she was on the bottom; then on top, the entire process repeated until he had managed to maneuver them both into a small gully. When at last they lay still, he was once again positioned over her—that darned hand of his still covering her mouth.
She gagged. Muck and grimy sand clung to her clothes, her lips, the inside of her mouth, her hair. But this was the last detail that seeped into her consciousness. In truth, at this moment, Sierra forgot to breathe.
And though High Wolf immediately rose up on his elbows and set to work, pulling branches, leaves, small shrubs, anything available, over them to give them cover, he was much too close to her. In truth, he was so very close, she could witness every single pore on his face and breathe in the masculine scent that clung to his body. And despite herself, she swayed in closer.
Her heartbeat quickened, her eyes went wide, and she stared up into the dark depths of High Wolf’s regard, feeling as though she were a rabbit in this man’s lair. It was an agonizing moment, for she was more than aware that there was scarce clothing between them; she, in the thin material of her drawers and corset; he, in little more than breechcloth, moccasins and his weapons. Except for the strap of his parfleche, which angled over his chest, she could feel the hard angles of him fitting perfectly into her own soft curves.
A shiver took hold of his body, and conversely, she felt it to the depth of her being. Her heart pounded loudly in her ears, and slowly, so slowly that she barely noticed it, his grip over her mouth slackened, and a softness took hold of his expression. It was a look she remembered well: a demeanor that said he adored her.
Unreasonably, she felt as though she were an adolescent again, an adolescent with nothing on her mind but this man.
His hand fell away from her mouth, an action that brought too clearly to mind the fact that they were much too closely bound, and that she could too easily feel every motion of his chest. Even the simple act of breathing in and out became seduction. And they stared at one another, as though each one were hungry for the simplest of things: a mere touch, a passionate look. In truth, despite the chill in the air, Sierra felt so suddenly warm, she became certain that a fire had been lit within her.
No. This could not be. How could she react this way?
Yet, despite all logic, Sierra felt as though her spirit met with High Wolf on some mystic level that belied their physical existence. In truth, if she were to be honest, it had always been like this with them.
At that moment, something stirred in the bushes above them, and though it was barely perceivable—for High Wolf did not take his gaze from hers—Sierra sensed his attention shift away from her, to be centered on their environment. Illogically, she felt the loss of his regard as deeply as if she were losing the man all over again.
She wanted it back. She wanted him back.
The realization startled her, and she mentally scolded herself. This was not right. It could not be right.
Sierra exhaled forcefully. If these were her reactions to High Wolf, in so short a space of time, she must be careful to wield extreme caution with him in the future, and she must command herself to think and to respond more exactly as she had planned when she had first conceived the idea of venturing into the American West. For of one thing she was certain: She could not, she would not, allow this man back into her life, back into her heart.
Warily, she watched High Wolf draw in a breath as he lifted a hand and brought it down to her face. Lightly, he touched her chin, and she closed her eyes against the sensation sweeping over her, willing herself to feel nothing.
But alas, the attempt was in vain.
And she wondered, what sort of magic did High Wolf possess that he could start afresh with her? As though the last ten years had never been?
Well, she wanted nothing to do with it. What was more, she would ensure she had nothing to do with it, and opening her eyes, she tried to release her chin from his grip. But he held on tightly. And slowly, he commandeered her attention, turning her head and forcing her to look up toward a spot he was indicating. Unwillingly, because she had no choice, she lifted her lashes and gazed off where he pointed. And she gasped.
There above them and on all sides were Indians!
Sucking in her breath, she would have screamed aloud from shock alone, but the cry never had a chance to take form. High Wolf’s head had come down to hers and his mouth covered her lips before a sound ever issued forth. Alas, he was there, kissing her, silencing not only any noise she would have made, but also any attempt at protest at what he did.
But would she have objected?
Perhaps at first. However, when the kiss lingered, her body reacted against her will, and a surge of energy swept over her, weakening her…making her feel giddy. For a moment, if a moment only, her world rocked off balance, changing her conception of time and space, distorting it. And whereas before she had been viewing this man from the present moment only, her past came back to engulf her unmercifully. And despite herself, she melted into High Wolf’s embrace.
It was as though time had turned back on her, and she was again sixteen and he, eighteen. Of their own will, her arms wound around his bare neck, drawing his naked chest closer to her. Forget the past. Forget the present. For a moment out of time, he was hers to love, to nurture, to adore all over again.
Perhaps he was experiencing the same effect, she thought, for even as she surrendered to him, his lips prodded hers open and his tongue swept into her mouth, where he took what was given so very, very gladly. Indeed, whatever thoughts there had been of betrayal, of disloyalty, whether hers or his, were forgotten. It was as though none of it had ever happened. And for a very short space of time, her world, perhaps his, too, was as it used to be, as it should have been.
Swish! Thunk! Swish! Swish!
The sounds of arrows being let loose filled the air above them. Even still, it took them both a moment to recover. True, he drew up and away from her slightly, allowing them both a tiny bit of space. But his gaze still lingered over her, his eyes passionately boring into hers as if the two of them had been disturbed in the act of making love, not merely kissing.
And Sierra would not have been female had she not responded in kind. She wanted more.
She parted her lips, not to speak, but in open invitation. And he gazed at them, at her, as though he were a man demented.
And then something changed between them. It was a very fine alteration, to be sure. But whereas before he had appeared to be unable to withhold himself from her, he now couldn’t put enough distance between them.
And it didn’t take a genius for her to realize that he had not meant to kiss her.
All at once, the past fell back into place, while Sierra plummeted into the present, and in doing so, she swallowed hard, closing her eyes.
How could it have happened? How could she have let it happen? It wasn’t as though the conditions surrounding them invited a renewal of their love. Far from it.
Danger encircled them. Not only in the form of the fire from the boat or a watery grave, but from Indian warriors.
Yet passion had found them, as though only their love and the two of them were real, not their environment.
Slowly, she released her breath. It changed nothing, of course. She still hated him
, and if she were honest, she would admit that within his look dwelt what must surely be a hardy degree of loathing for her.
And yet…deep within her was a memory…a memory of a love that had once been so powerful, she had been willing to throw away most everything dear to her: her family, her friends, even her life as a princess.
But, as she had done in the past, so, too, did she come to understand that High Wolf could not have experienced the same feeling for her. Obviously. He had left her, completely, utterly, and with total disregard.
She must never lose sight of that fact. Not now. Not ever. As long as she lived.
Chapter 10
I hold you in my arms and whisper this:
You are my one true love. And then we kiss…
Excerpted from a poem by David Ziff
“Sonnets to a Soul Mate”
All was quiet until, off in the distance, came a blood-curdling scream, followed by the clash of knife against knife, the swish of arrows, the thrashing of water, the thud of an arrow finding its target; grunts, groans, even hysterical laughter.
Coming up, onto his knees, High Wolf peeked out cautiously from his position within the coulee. Quickly, he glanced around the environment. The enemy had moved out, swarming into the water and swimming out to join the fight. At the moment, both he and the princess were hidden by the branches and the scrub brush he had placed over them. But it would afford them precious little cover against the enemy if the princess should speak out again. Or worse, if she should cry out in alarm.
For the time being, however, they were safe. Horrible as it was, the fight gave him a few moments of reprieve. Moments he should use to his advantage.
Sierra shivered, and sitting up, High Wolf took her in his arms. But even this seemed to bring her little comfort, and he began to fear that there would be little he could do to disguise her fright from any perceptive warrior.
There was only one thing for him to do: He must secure a better hiding spot immediately, one that might mask Sierra’s alarm, were she to make some unknowing error. For if there were a scout with that war party—and High Wolf knew that chance was high—a scout would sense her panic and would not rest until he discovered its source.
Saaaa, he had little time, which meant he must work fast, securing them a place before that fight ended. Swiftly, High Wolf squatted back down into the coulee, and motioning to Sierra, gave her to understand that they were to leave—at once. Crawling out of the shelter first, he ensured it was safe before pulling Sierra up next to him. And even then he held her body down, close to the ground, until they were both lying flat out upon their stomachs. With another series of small, quick hand motions, he let her know that she was to do whatever he asked of her.
She opened her mouth, as though she might protest, but High Wolf sat up and reached out, and taking her lips between two of his fingers, closed them, effectively silencing her.
Shaking his head, he swept his right hand out in an arc to the right, the Indian gesture for “no.” And then he fell to the ground, where he proceeded to inch forward, toward the river. However, she held herself away from him, tapping him on the back. And sitting up, she refused to go forward, expressing herself with a series of gestures. To that end, she waved her hands in the air. A mistake. Quickly, he reached out to halt their movement.
Though he knew she could little understand it, a good scout would be able to sense such wild motions, and had it not been for the skirmish all around them, she could have betrayed them.
There was no time to explain, if, indeed, he ever would. For the secrets of the scouts died with the scout.
No, he would have to force her to do his bidding, at least this once, if only because their lives depended on it. Later, perhaps, he might try to bring her to understanding. Maybe…
Wrapping his arm around her waist, he held her to the ground, and using his forearm alone, forced her to scoot along with him toward the river. For it was the river, he realized at last, that would be their escape.
They had no more than reached the shores of the Missouri when the battle stopped. Suddenly all became quiet.
High Wolf paused. He had hoped to float some distance from the scene while the fight was still in progress, thus masking their exodus. However, that option ceased with the ending of the battle, for, although alone he could have easily slipped away from the enemy, the princess did not know how to disguise her movements. Not only would her awkwardness alert the very perceptive scout, but also any warrior, as well.
What he needed was a different plan. Glancing around, he could see that there was little but scrub brush for cover, except for an old, dead tree stump that was half submerged by the river. It stood perhaps seven feet tall and was about four feet across, being of the large cottonwood variety. High Wolf could easily discern that it had been hit by lightning, perhaps as long ago as five years. The force of the natural blast had split the tree in half, with part of its body falling off to the left, while the other section had dropped into the water, remaining there to rot.
But the center of that tree still stood and might be large enough to house two people—at least temporarily. The only problem was that the tree was partially immersed in the river. And while this might be of little consequence to High Wolf, he doubted that the princess would appreciate it.
Still, it afforded them a good cover, for the trunk of the tree would filter any movement, perhaps mask any sound that she made, also. Grabbing her again around the waist, he slunk toward the tree, and bringing her in close to him, whispered, “We will hide in that tree, but once inside, you must not make any movement, none at all. For anything you do will be carried by the water in concentric circles. It will also be sensed by their scout, and we will be too easily discovered, I fear.”
“What tree?”
He pointed.
“But it…it’s half flooded. There’s no telling what animals have nested there, and I’m afraid of—”
“It is our best cover,” he said. “And I will be there with you. Now, quiet, we must not speak again, for the erratic motions made by the battle have almost disappeared, and any other movement will be sensed.”
“But—”
He placed his hand over her mouth before returning to the ground, and as quickly as possible, while still gripping her around the waist, he slid toward the tree. At the river’s edge, he stopped briefly to pick her up in his arms, a necessity, since he did not trust her to leave no imprints in the sand.
Thusly, stalking much like a heron, he trod toward the tree until he could position himself on the side that faced away from the battle. Next he squatted down, sliding his arms and hands entirely around her buttocks, and without a word being said, he hoisted her up, over the highest part of the trunk and into the hollowed-out base, leaving no imprint of a climb into the tree.
“Stay here and do not move,” he said softly. “I will go and erase our tracks.”
“But there might be animals in here. High Wolf, please I—”
“I will be but a moment.”
“But—”
“If you are afraid, stand toward the middle once inside the trunk.”
“Yes,” she said, “All right.”
And then he was gone, heading back through the brush, erasing all signs of their progress, his mind half on what he was doing, half on remembering the impression of her soft and rounded rump within his grasp. Indeed, his hands still ached with the feel of her, his body wanting more.
But he suppressed the desire. This was not the time or the place, and she was not the right woman.
Or was she?
It took him little enough time to erase their tracks and to return to Sierra, and in less time than it takes to tell it, he had already climbed into the tree.
There was barely room for the two of them. She was standing within the center of the tree, and she was shivering. However, he was glad to note that the water rose only to knee level, and squatting down, his back against the trunk, he let out his breath, relieve
d for the moment. In faith, he had been apprehensive that the water would be too deep, forcing the two of them to either cling to the sides of the tree, or to tread water—both scenarios would attract attention.
Feeling a trifle more secure, he at last gave the princess his full attention, only to become alarmed. She trembled violently, an action that might send out waves in the water, or worse, motion waves through the air that would be sensed by the war party’s scout.
Coming up onto his knees, he reached out toward her and did the only thing he could think of: Slowly, he turned her around, and taking her in his arms, he pulled her back against him, placing her body between his legs while he squatted down, his rear and backbone against the tree. He let her crouch down so that her knees lay flat against the river bottom, supporting her weight. Then he brought his arms around her waist, while her head fit into the crook of his neck.
It was an impossible situation, an impossible position.
She was literally flattened against him, and he was wet; she was wet. Worse, the thin material from her clothes did little to hide her rounded curves, not only from his gaze, but from his touch. Alas, the two of them might as well have been sitting there together, entirely nude.
Against his better judgment, he noted little things about her. Her skin was as soft as doeskin; her nipples were hard, rounded peaks that thrust out away from him as though begging him for a touch. And how he longed to satisfy them.
But he could not.
Her scent filled his nostrils, while her hair tickled his nose pleasantly, and his head spun with longing. How long could he endure this?
Forget that he was a scout, a man who could survive hardships that could send another man into insanity; forget that he could best a raging river, a blizzard, a natural disaster, with little or no discomfort. All these were as nothing when compared with the control required to simply keep his hands away from her.