White Flame (11 page)

The Indian girl advanced, her face contorted with fury. But before the confrontation could continue, Striking Thunder entered.

“
Henakeca!
Enough! Leave us, Tanagila.”

Emma didn’t flinch from the glare the girl sent her before leaving in a swirl of shiny black hair. Instead, she shifted her feet and faced Striking Thunder. For long moments, he said nothing, just watched her, his features impassive. Nervous, she licked her lips and shifted her grip, her palms damp with sweat. But when his gaze latched on to her mouth, she took an involuntary step back.

“Come with me.” He stepped out, glanced over his shoulder and waited.

Emma didn’t move. “Why? Are you going to allow those women to stone me?” Her grip tightened on the handle of the skillet, her knuckles turning white.

He pointed to the iron pan. “You have no need of a weapon. You will not be harmed. Did I not give my word?”

Emma took a deep breath. She had no choice but to trust him. Dropping her weapon, she stepped outside, her heart pounding. Instinctively, she braced herself for the impact of stones. To her relief, nothing was thrown from the crowd of watching women. When Striking Thunder moved away, she followed, staying right behind him.

Groping fingers reached out to tug at her hair and dress. Fighting her panic, Emma bit back her cries of protest, unwilling to show these women her fear. With each breath coming in shallow gasps, she forced herself to walk like a lady, with her head held high, shoulders straight and her arms at her sides. She might be here against her will, but she refused to cower before these mean-looking women.

Striking Thunder led the white woman through the village, his thoughts dark as the sky above. He had but one pressing need: rid himself of his unwanted captive—and fast. Moving among his people, seeing the strong, healthy brown bodies of the children who ran alongside, strengthened his resolve. His people came first. Their health, happiness and survival depended on his ability to lead. And in order to be a good leader, he needed a clear mind. Once he gave the woman over to Star, no unbidden thoughts of her would distract him from his duties.

A gust of wind swirled around him.
Emma,
the spirits seemed to whisper. He pressed on, refusing to think of her by name. She was a white woman, his captive, nothing more, nothing less. But he made the mistake of glancing over his shoulder to see if she followed and found himself staring into eyes a fascinating shade of green, somewhere between spring grass and tree moss. Fear made them nearly translucent. He scanned the rest of her features. Her skin, where not burned by the sun, was pale except beneath her eyes; there dark smudges signaled her true state of fatigue. She looked fragile, vulnerable.

Yet her exhausted state did nothing to dim her beauty or ease the sudden tightening of his loins. Had he been too hard on her? Pushed her beyond her limit? Part of him regretted her trauma, wished he could have released her as he’d originally intended. But then she wouldn’t be here where he could gaze upon her beauty or further explore the passion he’d sensed in her, had unleashed for a short, brief sampling. Angry with the direction of his thoughts, he glanced away and lengthened his stride. His nostrils flared. He was a warrior, in control.

The spirits had led him to her, given her over into his keeping and now, they sought to further test his worthiness by tempting his flesh with her beauty. Pride squared his shoulders as shouts of praise from his people followed him. Their faith in him strengthened his resolve. Taking a deep breath, he accepted the challenge the Great Spirit had put in his path. The white woman’s hair, the color of flames raging across the prairie, would fuel his need for revenge, and
her eyes, green as new growth sprouting after the desolate winter, signified hope. Renewal of life. A better life for his people. And her lips, full, pink and tempting—

His blood pounded painfully in his lower region when he recalled those lips’ texture and taste. Grateful to reach his sister’s tipi and put an end to his tormenting thoughts, he turned in relief.

Behind him, Emma stopped. For a split second, time stood still as they faced each other. He stared at her mouth, felt her lure, fought her magic. The words of his people broke the spell. Soon, he’d be free of her unsettling presence. Staring down at her, he ignored the fear and uncertainty in her eyes. “You belong to me. You are my captive, my slave. You will live here with my sister, Star Dreamer, and help her. Remember what I said or you will suffer. How you are treated will depend on your own actions. Our way of life is harsh. Work hard and the women will treat you with respect.”

Emma’s eyes snapped wide, the dark center shrinking, the outer circle of green brightening before they narrowed to furious slits. Defiant, she thrust out her jaw. “I’m to believe that, after what I’ve seen? Listen to me, Striking Thunder. I am no one’s slave. I am a victim, innocent, and what you have done is wrong.” The wind whipped the long tangled ends of her hair over her shoulder.

The golden-red strands reached out to slide across his throat, a soft, enticing caress. He stopped breathing and clenched his fists, fighting the urge to reach out and rub the soft silk between his fingers. His nostrils flared, caught her scent. That, too, he fought. He pulled the tipi flap wide and motioned for her to enter.

Emma passed him then spun around, her eyes snapping with fury. “I will find a way to warn my father of your evil plans. It is you and your people who will suffer, Striking Thunder, if you do not release me.” Glaring at him, she waited.

When that gently rounded chin rose, Striking Thunder couldn’t help admiring her spirit and loyalty. Though he resented feeling any compassion toward her, wanted nothing more than to leave her unsettling presence, he was glad to see that she wasn’t beaten. Remembering her words, he vowed to keep a close watch on her—from a distance—as he knew she spoke the truth. Loyalty to her father would force her to resist captivity and try to escape. When she did, he’d show her who was master.

Unwilling to allow her the last word, he yanked her back against his chest, his blood flowing fast as some inner part of him warmed to the challenge. “Remember that we are not the only tribe out there. There are other warriors who’d treat you as Yellow Dog planned. So be very careful, white woman. Here, though you are a captive, you are safe.” He glanced at Star. “Do not give this woman any trouble.”

Without another word, Striking Thunder released her and left the tipi. Outside, the clouds burst open and in seconds, he was drenched. The people of his village had already disappeared, preferring to seek their dry tipis and warm fires. Striking Thunder returned to his. Somebody had lit a fire and set a bowl of stew near it to keep warm. Heat from the fire stole over him yet he felt chilled inside. He glanced around, but nothing had changed. Everything was in its place—left by him or Meadowlark—yet something was different.

He picked up his meal and lowered himself to his thick sleeping mat to eat. Emma’s scent, one of sunshine, prairie and woman, tantalized him, surrounded him. Frowning, he moved to another pile of furs. It did no good. The memory of Emma sitting on his bed danced before him and the image of her in his tipi, brief though it was, overshadowed the lingering presence of his deceased wife. He tried to call to mind Meadowlark brushing her long black hair in the
evening. He closed his eyes, remembering how she would wait for him to come to her mat but instead of strong, brown limbs reaching out to embrace him, pale white arms beckoned.

The vision of Emma lying atop his mat, her mane of red curls spread out over the dark furs, drove him back out into the stormy elements. Thunder crashed overhead, lightning flashed, but Striking Thunder embraced nature’s display of fury. Wading into the stream, his breath caught as the frigid, churning water pelted against him. He ducked his head under, welcoming the shock, the clearing of his mind.

Soon, the first snows would fall. There was much to be done to ensure there would be enough food to last the winter. But even while he should have been planning another buffalo hunt, all he could think about was the woman named Emma.

Outside, the gusting storm darkened the late-afternoon sky, and rain pelted the outside of the tipi with soft patters. A fire crackled in the center of the tipi and the warmth felt inviting. Emma was tempted to kneel and warm herself. Uncertainty held her back. What now?

Though Striking Thunder frightened her and she didn’t trust him completely, she had an inkling of what he might or might not do. But the woman sitting and watching her from across the fire was unknown. Their gazes locked. Emma’s, wide and apprehensive; Star Dreamer’s hauntingly sad. Looking closely, Emma’s throat tightened in response to her ravished features: eyes swollen from crying; her hair, black as a raven’s wing, was butchered short, leaving ragged ends to frame her fragile, delicate face.

Seeing the inner torment reflected in her golden-brown eyes touched something deep inside Emma. She’d expected to be confronted with more anger and hatred, not this quiet sad-faced woman. After several minutes of silence, broken only by the snap of the fire and the gentle shower of rain, Star Dreamer stood. She was petite. Her deerskin dress hung from her slim frame and fell to her calves. When she placed a thick fur on the ground a short distance from the fire, her shoulders stooped as if weighed down. Lifting her arm, she pointed, indicating Emma should sit.

Emma didn’t move. She couldn’t take her eyes off the Indian woman’s hands, where long angry gashes scored their backs, cut across her fingers and disappeared beneath the full sleeves of her garment. Ragged trails of dried blood mingled with the still-seeping wounds of the deeper cuts. When she sat, crossing her legs, Emma saw the same wounds covering her calves.

Emma had read about cultures where grief-stricken women inflicted wounds on their bodies and brutally cut their hair. She’d never seen it firsthand. Studying her, taking measure of the new circumstances she found herself in, Emma realized this woman had suffered a great loss at the hands of Yellow Dog. Her heart went out to the woman even though she knew nothing of her. With her own loss of her beloved aunt still fresh in her heart, compassion stirred. But even as she felt the woman’s sorrow and pain, she couldn’t help but worry over what would happen to her. From what she’d seen of the women in the village, their emotions ran high and they were therefore very unpredictable.

“Taku eniciyapi he?”

The words were spoken softly in a warm, slightly hoarse voice, minus the hatred and resentment she’d encountered earlier. Relaxing marginally, Emma lowered herself to the fur, nearly moaning in relief at the warmth of the fire.

Star Dreamer repeated her question in English. “What is your name?”

All anger toward Striking Thunder and his people faded in the face of this woman’s bereavement. Though Emma refused to believe her father had anything to do with what Yellow Dog had done, she couldn’t bring herself to add to Star Dreamer’s pain and grief. “Emma.” Her voice came out hushed and subdued.

“I am Star Dreamer, sister to Striking Thunder.”

Looking close, Emma saw the family resemblance. The knowledge that he’d placed her with his sister eased some of her apprehension. Her gaze fell to Star Dreamer’s hands.

Star Dreamer held up her arms and turned them in the firelight. “You cannot understand, but here, it is the custom of our people to mourn in this fashion. In some tribes, a woman mourning the loss of a husband or son will cut off her fingers.” The first spark of emotion brightened her eyes. She shrugged, humor threading through her voice. “My mother abhors that custom and forbids it of her children.”

Emma shuddered at the thought of hacking off one’s own digits. But she understood the pain of loss. Though it had been six months since her aunt had passed away, she still missed her, still mourned her deeply. “Who—I mean—?” Feeling like she was intruding where she had no business, she let her voice drift.

Star Dreamer closed her eyes. Tears streamed unashamedly down her cheeks. “My husband.”

Emma laced her fingers together tightly, unsure of what to say or do. If this woman lost her husband and Striking Thunder his wife, how many more of those other women had lost a loved one? The true extent of her situation, of what her father was reputedly responsible for, hit her. “Do you blame
me?
” Though she feared the answer, she had to know where she stood if she were to survive until March—assuming Striking Thunder kept his word and released her.

Star Dreamer stared at her for a long time with eyes gone suddenly dark and blank as if she no longer saw Emma. Just when Emma feared she was going to faint or have a fit, she spoke, her voice whisper-soft.

“No. You had no part in this.” She fell silent and with obvious effort, pulled herself back from where she’d gone.

Putting Star Dreamer’s strange behavior down to grief, Emma vowed to learn all she could while she had someone willing to talk to her in English. Over the course of traveling with Striking Thunder, Emma had learned that most of his people spoke some English. Like her brother, Star spoke fluent English. Later, she would ask how they’d learned and from whom. Smoothing her skirt out in front of her, Emma bravely asked, “If you do not hate me or hold my father responsible, why do the others?”

Star Dreamer stood, fetched a small tin coffeepot, dumped in what looked to be herbs, then added water. She set it at the edge of the fire, on top of a thin layer of glowing embers. Resting on her heels, she stared into the red-and-yellow embers. “They do not understand that you belong. In time, they will learn this. The spirits never lie.”

A chill darted down Emma’s back. What did she mean? She belonged in her home in St. Louis. “I think you misunderstand. Your brother promised to return me to my people after—” She couldn’t say it. Just thinking it made her feel ill. “He’s wrong. I know he is,” she whispered, her chest tightening with fear.

Star Dreamer removed the pot from the fire. She poured some of the brown liquid into two cups, and held one out. “Then you must not lose faith in your father. Time will tell. But for now, you are tired. When
Wi
rises to show her face, I will instruct you in your new duties.”

Taking the tin cup, Emma took a cautious sip. The brew was strong and sweet, and utterly unexpected. Her brow lifted in surprise. “Tea?”

A faint smile crossed Star Dreamer’s lips. “My mother’s favorite.”

Emma closed her eyes and savored each sweet, wonderful swallow. When she was done, she cradled the warm tin cup in her hands. This small kindness wasn’t what she’d expected. If she were to accept her status as a slave, which she did not, she’d have expected anger and blame.

Watching the fire die down, she felt mesmerized by the orange-red flames. It had been a long day, one filled with emotional upheaval. Setting the cup down, she fought a yawn and lost. With the warmth of the fire surrounding her, bathing her in its cocoon of warmth, all she cared about was laying her head down to sleep. Her vision blurred. When Star Dreamer touched her shoulder, Emma started.

Placing a wooden bowl of steaming water beside her, the other woman spoke, “You will feel better if you wash first. I will be back.”

From the water, Emma took out a small beige cloth and rubbed it between her fingers. It wasn’t woven material but it was incredibly soft. “Thank you,” she murmured. As soon as Star Dreamer left, Emma roused herself. On her knees, she patted her sunburned face carefully, then applied the same care to her arms and the scabbing wounds around her wrists. Whether they healed with or without scars, she knew she’d never forget the days of brutality and the sheer terror of Yellow Dog’s torturous game with his knife.

The shudders rose from deep inside her. Her fingers trembled and her throat tightened with remembered fear. She closed her eyes and fought the feeling. “He’s dead. Gone.” Speaking the words aloud gave her an enormous amount of comfort but the damage of those horrible days was irreversible. Breaking free from the despair sliding over her like a dark cloak, Emma removed her soiled and ruined stockings and scrubbed her legs clean from her thighs down to her toes harder than was needed.

Staring at her raggedly torn skirt and pieced-together bodice, she hesitated. If she took off her dress, there was a good chance she’d never get it back on and secure. As it was, she’d had to tear more strips off her hem to keep the bodice secure as the material continued to tear downward. With a sigh, she adjusted the tied strips and washed the best she could without removing the dress.

Not knowing when Star Dreamer would return or where she was to sleep, Emma turned her attention to her hair. With no brush, she used her fingers to comb through the hopelessly snarled strands. It didn’t do much good. There was just too much dust and dirt in her hair. She needed to wash it.

The flap opened, letting in a stream of cool air. Emma scrambled to her feet, but it was only Star Dreamer returning. The woman handed Emma a long dress made of softened deer hide. “This belongs to my sister. I will leave you to change. Tomorrow, you can bathe in the river and wash your hair.”

Emma stroked the dress in her arms. Like the washcloth she’d used, the garment was butter-soft, pale brown and absolutely beautiful. She held it up, loving the way the fringe dangled from the hem, the yoke and from the sleeves. She fingered the various lengths of fringe then traced one finger along the scalloped yoke. She longed to shed her dirty and disreputable dress and slip into the incredible softness in her arms. Yet, she couldn’t. To accept it, and wear it in favor of her own dress, meant accepting her role as a captive, a slave. That she would not do. Her dress might be in shreds but not her pride and dignity. No one could take that from her.

She handed the dress back then clasped her hands behind her back. “Thank you, but I cannot accept this.” A long silence filled the tipi. Fearing she’d hurt the other woman’s feelings after receiving nothing but consideration and kindness, Emma softened her rejection by adding, “It’s very beautiful.”

Star Dreamer stared at her for long moments. Emma stood her ground. Finally, Star turned aside and set the dress down. “As you wish.” Quickly, she spread a pile of furs along one side of the tipi. “Lie down so I may tend your face and wrists. Then, you will sleep. We start our day early.”

Emma stretched out on the soft cloud of fur beneath her. While Star Dreamer gently massaged a brownish ointment onto her wrists, she told Emma what to expect come the new day. Barely listening, only bits and pieces penetrated the thickening fog closing in on her. “Preparing the buffalo hides, filling water pouches, gathering firewood, grinding cherries, caring for children—”

It all swam together and made no sense to Emma who could not focus on what Striking
Thunder’s sister was saying. By the time Star Dreamer finished her wrists and arms, Emma, unable to remain awake, fell into a deep sleep, hardly aware of Star’s gentle fingers smoothing healing salve over her face.

When she’d done all she could to ease Emma’s injuries, Star Dreamer pulled a thick buffalo-fur robe over the white girl whom she’d seen in her visions. Fetching another thick fur, she draped it around her own shivering shoulders as she stared down at Emma. One day, she’d be family; her
tanke,
sister-in-law. Thinking of Striking Thunder, she smiled. The attraction between them was there. But accepting his future, his fate, ah, that would not come easily or without pain. Moving back to her spot near the fire, she sat huddled beneath the fur’s warmth. As the quiet of the night descended, her gaze darted around the shadows of the tipi, seeing past images of her husband. Fresh waves of grief oozed through her veins.

She closed her eyes but quickly opened them when the familiar and nightmarish visions of the past few weeks replayed themselves: the attack of the hunting party, her own husband’s death and, finally, the white girl with red hair riding free across the prairie.

Moaning and rocking, she wished Two-Ree were there to comfort her. She hated the gift of sight, fought the onslaught of visions, but most of the time, it did no good. And as the event they warned of grew closer, the visions grew in intensity, came uninvited and without warning. And often, by the time she figured out the hidden meanings, saw what the spirits were trying to tell her with her heart and mind, it was too late.

Like Yellow Dog’s attack. By the time she’d warned her brother, it’d been too late and as a result, she’d lost her husband. Guilt mingled with grief. She’d failed. Not only herself and her brother, but her people. If only…

Star dropped her head onto her updrawn knees as silent tears streamed down her face. How could she ever hope to make up for the loss of her children’s father? Two-Ree had been a loving, kind and gentle father and husband. Turning her face to one side, she glanced at two small, empty pallets near the back of the tipi. Her children were with her mother and father. She wished they were here. She needed to hold them close. Thinking of Morning Moon and Running Elk, a new worry plagued her—raising them alone.

Perhaps she should accept her brother-in-law’s offer to take her as his second wife. It was oftentimes the custom when a woman lost her husband. But as quickly as the thought entered, Star discarded it. She had no desire to marry ever again. She had her children, had already seen them as strong, healthy adults and knew she had nothing to fear for them. But her heart? She’d never risk losing her heart to another, not as long as she retained the gift of sight.

How she longed to be like everyone else. Other women had the advantage of being blissfully unaware of their husband’s, son’s or daughter’s deaths. Not her. She’d seen her husband’s mortal wounding, felt his pain and the loss of his spirit leaving his body. A cry tore at her throat. No. Never would she go through that again.

Her gaze fell on her sleeping guest. While her visions of this woman were sketchy, she’d known that Emma would be important to their people—and not just for revenge as her brother thought. For that reason, she hadn’t said anything to her brother, choosing instead to confide in her husband. If Striking Thunder had known that Emma would one day become his wife, he would never have gone after her. The thought made her smile and forget her own problems for a few precious moments.