White Eagle's Touch: Blackfoot Warriors, Book 2

by Karen Kay

  Still, he acknowledged, that as men and women reached a certain age, it was better to cover over those portions of the body which distinguished the men from the women. There were times that a man could not control the urgings of his body, and it was better to cover himself. But to do so, to wear clothing, didn’t mean he, or any other Indian, was uncomfortable with his naked body; nor was he embarrassed.

  In truth, the Indian looked upon nudity as a necessity, since the sun and its radiance were essential parts of life, not unlike food. And it would have been hideous, to the Indian way of thinking, to hide his body from the healing rays of the sun.

  That the white man wore so many clothes during the moons when the weather was warm, that the white man chose to block out the indispensable curing power of the sun, seemed as silly to the Indian as denying himself food or drink. And he looked upon the white man as being stupid because of it. In truth, many an Indian thought that it was this, and only this, that caused the white man to be so often sickly and to suffer so many different kinds of diseases.

  Further, to wear clothing during a race, or in war, was, to the Indian way of thinking, the height of recklessness. Did the white man not know that so many clothes only hindered one’s ability?

  White Eagle shrugged, thinking about it. It made no difference to him.

  He threw off his robe.

  Immediately, he felt an unusual beam of awareness upon him.

  A feminine awareness.

  He turned slightly so that he could scan the crowd, but he could find no source for this feeling. Indian men and women took no unusual note of him; the traders, used to the Indian way, spared him little attention. White Eagle turned back toward his horse. Still…

  As though guided to her, he slowly glanced over his shoulder, his survey at last coming to alight upon Shines Like Moonlight.

  She watched him, her concentration on him clearly feminine and…attentive. True, she pretended to be looking elsewhere, but he caught her watching him out of the corner of her eye.

  And he almost whooped aloud, realizing what this could mean.

  He then turned around completely, bringing himself fully into her line of vision. And though she tried not to show it, he felt her attention upon him increase. He grinned a little. That is, he smirked until he felt the full effect of her intention, and then he grimaced, not needing to look downward to realize the result her attention was having upon his body.

  Haiya, she was only looking at him. He shook his head. This was good; this was very, very good.

  However, this was not the state he wished his body to be in to race.

  He spun back around, then, and mounted his pony. Best to bring his passion under control before the race.

  As soon as he was mounted, there was a warning, from the white man with a gun, one more warning that the race was about to begin. And then the shot.

  White Eagle whipped his pony forward with his buffalo-hair whip; the white man followed suit.

  White Eagle felt himself become attuned to the movement of his pony as the animal galloped over the set track. This horse was his best mount, his buffalo pony, the fleetest animal, trained to obey White Eagle’s slightest command. This was the same pony who would carry him in toward the buffalo during a stampede, the horse coming to within a short distance of the animal, allowing his master a clear shot before turning quickly to rush away.

  This animal loved the excitement of buffalo hunting and racing almost as much as his owner. In truth, this animal had one other quality that would be hard to beat: He hated to lose.

  Onward the men sped, past the line of people who had gathered around the track, White Eagle’s pony keeping pace just behind the Englishman.

  Up the two of them raced, over one of the hills and down, across another, following along the route both the Englishman and the Indian had agreed upon earlier. And soon they were out of view of the spectators and White Eagle saw the Englishman glance behind him. White Eagle caught the look of astonishment upon the other man’s face. Clearly the Englishman had not expected the shorter, more stubby, Indian pony to be able to keep up with the clean lines of the white man’s larger steed.

  A grave miscalculation. Though the marquess’s horse was the finest the fort’s stables had to offer, the animal was no match for the Indian’s freer and more excitable buffalo pony.

  Onward the two men sped into the grove of trees.

  The Englishman caught ahold of a tree branch as he passed it, flicking it violently backwards.

  White Eagle’s pony darted away without command, while White Eagle crouched down low over the pony’s neck, easily keeping his seat.

  So, thought White Eagle, the Englishman intended to cheat; just as White Eagle had suspected he would when the white man had insisted that the course run out of view of the spectators and into a grove of trees. It was one of the reasons White Eagle rode so unencumbered, with no more than a short-hair bridle passed around the neck of his pony. Unhampered, he could easily outmaneuver the white man.

  The Englishman pulled back yet another branch, with another miss, as White Eagle’s buffalo pony neatly stepped around it.

  White Eagle suddenly grinned. The Englishman was reacting true to form, which meant that White Eagle was prepared for nefarious actions.

  White Eagle would win this race, there was no doubt in his mind and, he would win it honestly. Moreover, he would make himself a trophy of that cap that the white man wore. He promised this to himself.

  Through the trees they raced, back in the direction of the hills, the Englishman having gained none but the smallest of leads.

  The white man whipped his horse. White Eagle did the same.

  Up and over the hills once again, White Eagle gaining speed on the Englishman, coming up onto the man’s right side.

  They were just barely in sight of the others.

  The Englishman leaned over suddenly, a long tree branch in his hand. He aimed the branch, like a weapon, at White Eagle and tried to unseat him.

  But White Eagle had anticipated such a move.

  Suddenly White Eagle dropped down on the other side of the pony, his heel all that remained to be seen upon his horse.

  Dropping down into the loop of his short-hair bridle, White Eagle leaned his body weight onto his shoulder and hung there within that halter. In this position, from under his pony’s neck, he called out to the Englishman. “You cannot win, no matter how you try to cheat. Do you see this? You try to unseat me and still, I am in the race.”

  And then White Eagle laughed, easily restoring himself to an upright position on his pony.

  Using his knees, he drove his buffalo pony in closer toward the other man, so close the Englishman made to duck, losing the weapon he’d made of that branch. But White Eagle did not intend to unseat the gentleman. Instead, White Eagle leaned over and grabbed at the Englishman’s cap, more than a little startled and delighted when the man’s mousey brown wig came off at the same time.

  With a quick movement of his knees, White Eagle gave the signal for his pony to move, and, quickly, the pony pulled away, gaining distance and taking the lead away from the Englishman, White Eagle proclaiming his deed with a high-pitched trill.

  The finish line loomed only a short distance ahead and within seconds White Eagle crossed over that line, leaving the Englishman behind to do nothing more than breathe in the prairie dust kicked up by White Eagle’s pony.

  Cheers went up in the crowd for the winner, many people at once collecting payment upon their bet.

  But White Eagle hadn’t yet finished.

  Singling out Katrina in the crowd, he rode up to her.

  She looked so very proper and oh, so beautiful in her white man’s gown of a shiny blue material. Her hat, or what he had heard was referred to as her bonnet, framed her golden curls, and he thought he had never seen anyone or anything so pretty.

  Then, without a word passing between them, he offered her the Englishman’s cap and wig.

  She hesitated only a
moment and then, handing off her purse to her friend who stood beside her, Shines Like Moonlight took a few steps forward and reached up a hand toward him.

  And as she did so, she smiled at him.

  White Eagle was at once dumbstruck.

  It was the first smile that she had ever given him of her own free will and, because of it, White Eagle almost lost his seating upon his mount.

  But there was something more.

  Her hand, sheathed as it was in a flimsy, white glove, touched his leg where he sat upon his mount and, when she looked up at him, she had at first glanced at his chest, at his loins, but then she gazed straight up at him.

  He tried to read her thoughts, but he couldn’t in all this excitement. However, he could see that she appeared to like what she saw. In truth, she appeared to like him.

  It made him want to whoop and scream all over again just to think of it and, as their hands met, there, as he sat upon his pony, he thought he couldn’t have been happier. And then, without a word passing between them, he passed her the trophy of cap and a brown-colored wig.

  She took it, and she touched him.

  Instantly, he felt emotion flood his body; instantly, he felt himself stir to life.

  It made him want to take her in his arms and make love to her, right here and now, despite where they were, despite all the people who watched them, despite any reason they should not.

  Something was changing between him and this woman; perhaps it already had.

  Something very good.

  He couldn’t help himself, and he let go a war whoop, giving her hand a squeeze.

  And as he gazed down at her, he almost said, tonight, when there are no others to see us, meet me, but there were other people watching them, and he held himself back from saying it, not wishing to embarrass her in front of others.

  He willed her to understand, however. He willed it, hoping she could see into his thoughts.

  And then, with one final look at her, he rode his pony off and away, directing it into a run and riding across the prairie, others from his tribe joining in around him and following him until it looked as though he led none other than a victory parade.

  But his thoughts were turned ever toward Shines Like Moonlight and he hoped that somehow she had received his message.

  In truth, he prayed for it.

  Katrina watched White Eagle with something akin to amazement.

  When their hands had met, she was certain her legs would not hold her, so intense had been the sensation between them.

  And she’d known then, as she’d touched him, what exactly was happening between them.

  She was changing. No longer did she view White Eagle as a savage, nor even as an Indian. He was simply a man, a person, with beliefs and customs, goals and aspirations, the same as anyone else.

  Her gaze followed White Eagle as he paraded himself and his accomplishment throughout the Indian village. Never would she have thought it of herself, and yet, there it was.

  She admired him.

  Never had anyone accomplished such a feat for her.

  Never had anyone shown her so much care, so much attention; nor had a man ever come so readily to her defense.

  And she could not remember ever wanting anyone more.

  There it was: She had admitted it at last. She desired this man; she wanted his touch, his caress, his kisses. She wanted him, and all that went along with him.

  In truth, she was infatuated, utterly captivated by him.

  She raised her chin against the wind blowing directly in her face, her gaze never once wavering from him, as the veracity of her feelings struck her.

  It was that simple. She fancied him. She, who was engaged to marry another; she, who had never believed there was such a thing as passion. She now found herself enthralled, yea, charmed, by this man.

  She continued to watch him.

  He looked magnificent, as he sat atop his horse, his buffalo robe now thrown over his shoulders.

  He was Indian, and yet, at this moment, she simply didn’t see. Her heart yearned for him; it was all that mattered.

  And she wondered: How had the reports of these native people, their true nature and disposition, become so distorted, so inaccurate in the East? From the reports she’d read, she had thought to find beggars and thieves amongst these people. Instead she’d found honor, truth and a hero.

  She didn’t know what to do, about him, about herself, about her fiancé.

  But those things didn’t matter right now. All she could see at this moment was White Eagle, her champion.

  And she would remember the way he looked, proud, triumphant, jubilant, the rest of her life.

  And so it was that, as she made ready to tread back toward Fort Union, she barely noticed the Marquess of Leicester—a very bald and footsore Marquess of Leicester—chasing behind his horse and finally making his way across the finish line. But in truth, no one else took note of it, either.

  Chapter Eleven

  Moonbeams filtered in through the glass of her window.

  Katrina stood behind that transparent screen, gazing out into the courtyard of the fort. The moon was full and bright this night, painting all the objects, the buildings, the grounds, in unearthly shades of silvery light.

  She stared out her window, restless. She couldn’t sleep. She had been trying to do so for hours, tossing and turning, but sleep evaded her. And she knew why. She was too overwrought, too anxious and much too apprehensive.

  She couldn’t help wondering: Could she remain engaged to one man when she felt enthralled with another?

  She had been debating this with herself ever since the race.

  “Mistress”—it was Rebecca who had stolen up behind her—“is something the matter?”

  Katrina jumped, so lost had she been in thought. When she had recovered sufficiently, she said, “No, no, Rebecca, I just cannot sleep.”

  “I will get you some warm milk. I believe Mr. McKenzie keeps some here.”

  “No, thank you.” Katrina turned away from the window to stare at her maid. “It will be all right. I just need some time to think, I suppose I am a bit overwrought.”

  Rebecca didn’t respond for some moments, and when at last she did speak, it was to murmur, “It is the Indian, is it not?”

  Katrina didn’t say a word, just turned her face back toward the window.

  “I saw the way you looked at him today. I saw the way…not that I blame you, mistress. He is a handsome man and so gallant.”

  “Yes, he is,” said Katrina. “I think, Rebecca, that maybe I will take that milk after all.”

  “Yes, mistress.” Rebecca started to move away, but she turned back before she left, and said, “Do you love him?”

  “Oh, I don’t know.”

  “If you did, it would mean that you would have to cancel your engagement to the marquess.”

  “I must marry the marquess.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I have given the Marquess of Leicester my word of honor to do so. Such agreements are not lightly made, nor lightly broken. The value of my word, once pledged, my integrity, are at risk, and I fear that if I go against these things, it will only serve to break me. How could I ever trust myself again?”

  “But mistress—”

  “Besides, what sort of future would I have with White Eagle? He does not fit into my world. Can you imagine the scandal if I were to return to New York with him? Nor could I remain in his world.

  All I can foresee in such a future as that would be great unhappiness.” Katrina remained at her window, her gaze caught by a single moonbeam, and she whispered, so that it was barely audible, “Still, knowing all these things does not detract from the way I feel about him.”

  “Oh, mistress…”

  “I just don’t know what to do about it.”

  “Perhaps you should do nothing yet. Sometimes these things have a way of working themselves out.”

  “Perhaps.” Katrina turned around slightly so that s
he faced Rebecca as she said, “I have been thinking that mayhap, in time, I could learn to live with my feelings. Maybe I should just enjoy what time I have here with White Eagle, that I might have the memories of it for the rest of my life. For I cannot foresee changing my life so drastically.”

  Rebecca looked down at the floor. “You sound like one in love.”

  “Love?” Katrina looked away. “No, Rebecca, I told you once that I do not believe in such an emotion. But, I will tell you this, I do feel…enchanted.”

  “Mistress, I—”

  “I think I will have that milk now.”

  “Yes, mistress,” said Rebecca, and she turned away to go and fetch the needed sleeping remedy.

  But Katrina’s mind remained alert.

  There was no other solution for her, was there? She could not destroy her honor, nor all that she had established for herself, for a man whom she could never marry, or a way of life she could never encompass.

  Such would be the height of folly, would it not?

  Still…

  She couldn’t help wondering what the morrow would bring.

  She breathed in, and with a heavy sigh, she gazed out into the yard, fascinated by the light and shadows that the moon cast over the landscape. The tepees, which stood scattered around the flagpole, looked more welcoming than they did foreign, here under the spell of a midnight moon.

  Was he out there even now?

  And if he were, was he awake? And did he think of her?

  She admonished herself for pondering such a thing. And yet, she truly wished to know.

  It did occur to her as she stood here, watching, that she was acting as though she were waiting for something…or someone. She glanced down at her unshapely nightdress of white linen and wondered briefly if she dared to venture out there, into the night. True, she was more than well covered, but would it be seemly for her to step outside in her nightclothes?