White Flame (13 page)

Though he was a grown man and chief of their tribe, Striking Thunder felt like an errant boy about to be shamed. But nothing she said would change his mind. Though she wasn’t happy about Emma and the circumstances in which he’d brought her to the village, she would just have to accept it.

“You should be ashamed of yourself for what you did—and for what you did to her earlier down at the river. You should never have brought her here. I ask you to release her; return her to her people and forgo this plan of revenge. It is not right.”

Striking Thunder clasped his hands behind his back and unlike most Sioux men, he met her gaze squarely with his own. “I respect you, Mother. You are wise, but the white girl is none of your concern. I am chief. I will decide what is right.”

Keeping his features impassive, he winced inwardly at the look of fury on her face. From the corner of his eye, he saw his father and sister ride away. He wished he dared to ride after them. He stifled a sigh. Chief or not, when his mother was determined to have her say, nothing stopped her.

“I am disappointed in you, my son. More violence and killing will not bring your wife back. The white woman had nothing to do with the killing of her or the others.”

He sighed. “I know this and for that, I have promised no harm would come to her. She will be returned to her people unharmed.”

“And that will put her mind and heart at ease when she knows you plan to use her to kill her father? What if her father is innocent of the crimes Yellow Dog accuses him of committing?”

“I know the truth.”

“Do you? And if you are wrong? What then? What of her?”

Tired of having his judgment questioned by the women who surrounded him, he held up his hand. “Enough. I will not release her or be swayed by emotion. I am a warrior. I have responsibilities to our people. We are fair. I will give the white woman’s father a chance to prove his innocence. If he cannot, he will die. The needs of The People will be met.”

White Wind’s gaze held a hint of troubled sorrow. “And what of your needs? When will you tend to those?”

As he’d done, she held her hand up when he opened his mouth to remind her that avenging his wife’s death was one of his needs.

“Do not say it.” Her gaze softened. “Think you that this mother does not know you married Meadowlark to appease the council who wished to see their young chief married and settled? Though you found some happiness with her, she did not lay claim to your heart. A mother knows this, so do not try to tell me otherwise.”

Striking Thunder didn’t bother to deny it. She was right. “That has nothing to do with the girl or what will be.”

“True. I cannot force you to change your mind, but I will have your promise that you will keep her from harm. At least you had the good sense to give her to Star. I’ve heard Waho’s grumbles. He and his sister are very angry about your decision.”

Striking Thunder reached out to tug gently at one of his mother’s long braids. Always, the color—or lack thereof—fascinated him. “My mother will not worry. This chief will deal with Waho and will keep the woman called Emma safe. He has already given his word.”

White Wind’s gaze sharpened. “Do not think I haven’t seen you watching her with that same hunger as many other warriors in our village. I expect my son to keep her safe from all,
including himself.” They stared at each other in silence. Finally, without another word, White Wind walked away.

Striking Thunder turned his glare toward the white woman. Her hair, bright in the afternoon light, lit a fire in his loins. He hated to admit, even to himself, that his mother was right. He wanted nothing more than to take Emma to his sleeping mat and make her his. He was grateful his mother had not extracted a promise from him. He wasn’t sure he would have been able to give it.

Sitting in the cool shade, Emma leaned against the side of a tipi, her stomach still queasy from the discovery that she’d had her hands up to her elbows in boiled brains. Drawing her knees to her chest, Emma hugged them tightly, feeling weak and washed-out after her hysterical bout of tears.

Frowning, she fought both embarrassment and humiliation. She’d never fainted and seldom cried. But since leaving the
Annabella,
everything had changed. How could she endure this? She wasn’t cut out for this sort of life. Despair brought fresh tears to her eyes. How would she make it until March? She couldn’t scrape flesh and hair from hides, skin animals or—she shuddered—rub brains into the skins. And God only knew what else they’d ask her to do.

Her resentment toward Striking Thunder grew. He’d known perfectly well she didn’t have any idea what she’d been rubbing into that skin and had purposely set out to shock and humiliate her. Her gaze shifted to where he and a woman with white braids argued. Who was she? Like the other women, she dressed in a simple, unadorned dress made from softened hides but her hair held faint traces of pale yellow. She wasn’t Indian. Was she a captive, too? Observing her and Striking Thunder, Emma could tell neither was happy with the other.

The woman spun away and Striking Thunder glanced over his shoulder and speared Emma with a look of displeasure. Whatever they argued about concerned her. Good. Emma hoped the woman made his life difficult. He deserved it for doing this to her. She sent him a pleased smirk and had the pleasure of watching him stalk off.

Her stomach settled, and her resolve returned. She’d survive—somehow. Turning her thoughts from the horrible experience, she took the opportunity to study her surroundings. The village was alive with activity. Several women sat and gossiped while grinding nuts and dried berries, others stooped over the funny-looking pouches that hung from tripods. Steam and aromatic scents rose from them. Earlier, she’d watched a woman bent-over with age add water and hot rocks to one of the pouches. This was apparently how they cooked their stews and heated water. Emma grimaced and decided she didn’t want to know where the elastic pale pouches came from.

But what amazed her were the children. Even in the cooling weather, most ran around naked. From one group of women or men to another they would hurry. Some reached out to sample food being fixed or just plopped into an empty lap. No one minded. Three small naked boys ran in front of her. They stopped as one and stared at her, their eyes wide. Hesitantly, she smiled. Their round brown faces split into huge grins. The bravest one came close. He reached out and touched her braid, then jumped back as if afraid he would burn himself.

Finding relief in such innocence, Emma laughed softly and held out her long braid. The other two bravely stretched out their arms to touch the red rope. All three broke into excited speech then ran off, shouting to a group of older boys. But when she spotted Morning Moon and three other girls playing with miniature tipis and dolls, she thought of Renny and her two favorite dolls, the ones that had once been Emma’s and were locked in the trunk aboard the
Annabella.
Renny would love to have an Indian doll and tipi to play with.

“Where are you, Renny?” she asked quietly. “Are you well?” Was her sister being taken care of? Fed? Treated well? From what Emma saw here, the Indian people cared a great deal for children—but what about a white child? Would they treat her as a slave and mistreat her?

Morning Moon glanced up. Emma stared into her wide, far-too-serious dark eyes. The girl stood and came to Emma. She removed a long beaded necklace from her neck and silently slipped it over Emma’s head. With one last solemn look, she ran back to her friends.

Fingering the beaded gift, Emma studied the design. A round leather medallion with two stick figures beaded into the center hung from a narrow strip of leather. The figures, one tall, one shorter, stood with their hands clasped. Emma felt her throat clog. It reminded her of a mother and daughter. Or two sisters, one older, one younger. She stroked the intricate patterns of color circling the two figures, and felt a strange sense of hope and peace steal over her. One day, she and Renny would be reunited.

Startled by the thought that seemed to come from nowhere, she glanced back at Morning Moon. How had the girl known? Staring at the gift, Emma shook her head. Of course she hadn’t. It was just wishful thinking on her part, the need to believe that she’d find Renny. The two figures hanging between her breasts must represent Morning Moon and her mother. Emma decided later she’d make sure that the girl hadn’t given away something she shouldn’t have.

A shadow fell over her and destroyed her moment of peace. “The white girl is weak. Lazy. Cannot do woman’s work.” Tanagila stared down at her with contempt, then said something to her companion, a girl of the same age but several inches shorter and a lot rounder. The two laughed and walked away.

Emma glared after her. “I do plenty of woman’s work,” she muttered, thinking about the town house and all it took to run it with only two trusted servants: a housekeeper and cook who were more family than hired help. But even with them, Emma had done her share of housework, shopping and planning the meals. And she hadn’t had a nanny. Care of her sister had fallen to her. Careful not to think about how she’d failed at that one, she focused on her fainting attack. “I just never had to do this kind of disgusting work.”

Though Star Dreamer had told her not to worry, that someone else would finish the hide, Emma felt guilty watching the other women working hard in the sun. She tried to tell herself she wasn’t one of them, that she didn’t have to do this kind of work, but some spark of pride took hold. She’d never been accused of being lazy in her life.

Across the way, Tanagila stopped at the hide Emma had been working on. She threw another contemptuous look at Emma, tossed her head and picked up the wooden bowl holding the boiled-brain mixture. The message was clear: Tanagila was pointing out to the others that Emma couldn’t do her job, couldn’t pull her weight.

Emma stood. Darned if she’d allow that hateful girl to think she was superior just because she could stick her hands in a bowl of icky white stuff. She’d show them that she, Emma O’Brien, was no pampered white woman. She could do anything they could.

Overhead, a loud caw sounded. Glancing up, she spotted a raven perched on one of the poles sticking out from the top of the tipi. It flapped its wings and cocked its head, its beady eye fixed on her hair. She shook her finger at the bird. “Don’t think it.” For some reason, Striking Thunder’s bird liked her hair and when it got the chance, it tried to yank strands from her head.

Reaching Tanagila, she snatched the bowl from her. “I finish what I start.” Ignoring the girl and those around her, Emma drew in a deep breath, and willed herself not to think about what she was touching.
Pretend it’s paste,
she ordered herself. White paint, flour and water, anything.

Holding her breath, she dipped her fingers in, knelt and resumed her task.

Early the next morning, Emma rose stiffly when called. She ached from her neck to her calves from the hard work. Yawning, wishing she could have snatched a few more hours of sleep, she followed Star Dreamer and her children out of the tipi. There, they were greeted by two women, one older, one younger. Emma was surprised to see the white woman who’d argued with Striking Thunder yesterday. Her eyes were a startling deep blue.

Star spoke. “This is my mother, White Wind.”

“Your mother?” Emma’s jaw dropped as she glanced from Star, who looked like the other Indian woman, back to her mother. “That means you’re also Striking Thunder’s moth—” Horrified, she clamped her mouth shut.

White Wind laughed softly. “Yes. Striking Thunder is my son.”

At her side, a younger woman with hair the color of rich maple syrup grinned, her eyes a paler blue, sparkled with mischief. “I am White Dove, younger sister to Striking Thunder.”

She leaned forward to whisper, “I know it is hard to believe to look upon us, but white blood runs in our veins, though, I think my brother Striking Thunder rejected his white heritage, even in the womb. From the time he entered this world, he has denied that part of him.” At a frown from her mother, Dove stepped back with a shrug of her slim shoulders. “It’s no secret how he feels,” she said, not looking the least bit repentant.

“Dove, behave yourself,” White Wind scolded, her voice firm.

The three women fell into their native tongue, which was fine with Emma. It gave her a chance to absorb the fact that Striking Thunder’s mother was white. Maybe she’d be able to enlist the woman’s help. If she and her son had been arguing about Emma yesterday, then she couldn’t be too happy with him.

When they reached the edge of the water, the women removed their clothing. Dove ran out into the middle of the stream to greet her friends while Star Dreamer saw to the bathing of her children in the shallows. Emma hesitated, unable to imagine bathing so early in the cold water, let alone stripping down and bathing in a group. It seemed so strange and barbaric. And to bathe both mornings and evenings!

White Wind removed her fur-lined leggings. She smiled encouragingly at Emma. “It’s not as bad as it seems. You’ll get used to it.”

Not sure if she could go through with it but wanting to keep White Wind near to talk to, to find out where she stood, Emma sat and slowly removed her moccasins, wincing as each movement stretched her sore, stiff muscles.

“You are in pain?”

“Just a bit achy, that’s all.” Emma rotated her stiff shoulders and stretched out her arms.

“I’m not used to tanning hides.” She eyed the flowing river. “A hot bath definitely sounds much better.”

White Wind sighed. “Ah, yes. I do enjoy them still.”

At Emma’s look, she confessed, “When I go to visit my other son who lives in the cabin I grew up in, I do indulge myself in hot baths. But here, we bathe in the river. You will learn that nothing is wasted, not food or water or time and energy. These women wouldn’t think the time it takes to haul water and heat it and pour it into a tub worth the effort—even if they were willing to carry around a tub. Moving as we do from camp to camp makes it impossible.”

Emma studied Striking Thunder’s mother. “Are you here against your will?”

After a moment, White Wind sighed. “No, child. I’m here because I chose to be.” She spread her hands. “Understand that while I don’t agree with my son for bringing you here or even agree with his plans, I am Indian.”

At Emma’s disbelief, she smiled.

“My father is White Cloud of the Hunkpapa tribe of the Sioux. Many years ago, I, too, was brought here against my will. I know how you feel, but there is nothing I can do to help you.”

Emma’s shoulders sagged. “I understand.”

White Wind bent down to touch her shoulder. “No, child, you do not.” She waved a hand toward the women in the water. “These women are my family and friends. I may have been unwilling in the beginning, but I chose to stay and adopt the lifestyle of my father’s people. I am one of them. By choice.”

“I won’t stay. Striking Thunder is wrong about my father.” Emma said the words bravely, defiantly.

Removing her dress, White Wind’s blue eyes darkened. “Like his father, my son is a good man.”

Emma rejected the statement with a shake of her head. “I don’t believe you. He only cares about what he wants. He doesn’t care that my sister who is only nine years old is out there alone somewhere. If he cared, he’d help her, at least find her and bring her to me so that when I’m released, we will be free together.” Her voice broke and to hide her futile tears, she turned her head to the side.

White Wind sighed. “I truly wish I could help, child. I will give you this, and hope it brings some measure of comfort. My people revere children—all children, no matter the skin color. The horses Yellow Dog traded her for are Cheyenne. They, like the Sioux, treasure children. Be assured that your sister will be treated as any other child.” With that, White Wind waded out to join the women, leaving Emma alone with her thoughts.

“No one help you, white girl.” Tanagila laughed and walked past. After dumping her clothing in a neat pile out of reach of the water, she entered the river without hesitation and smirked at Emma as she ran her hands down her slender waist before submerging herself beneath the gently flowing river.

Though she hadn’t said a word, Emma felt the sting of her challenge. The other girl assumed Emma was ashamed of her white body. Well, she wasn’t. She knew enough of men to know they appreciated her curves and the size of her breasts. She’d show Tanagila and the rest. If they weren’t ashamed of their bodies, then neither was she.

She lifted her skirt, hesitating one last time, battling her shyness. Gathering her courage, she pulled her dress over her head. Fingers of cold air brushed her skin and puckered her nipples. Feeling conspicuous with flesh so pale and breasts much fuller than most of the women present, Emma ran into the water and quickly submerged herself beneath the freezing-cold river.

To her relief, no one paid her any mind. Around her, female chatter and laughter filled the air. There was a great deal of splashing and joking. Some of the women even swam, ducking their heads beneath the surface. Emma admired their oneness with the water.

Keeping to the shallows, she washed, dunking her head to wet her hair, then washed it using the root of the yucca plant Star Dreamer had swam over to give her. By the time she was done, her teeth were chattering so hard her jaw hurt with the effort to still them. Working up the courage to stand and leave the water, Emma was startled when a sleek, dark head surfaced unexpectedly near her. Tanagila rose from water. Leaning forward, she hissed, “You not belong here.” Hate filled the young maiden’s eyes.

Tired of the girl’s harassment, Emma narrowed her own eyes and stood, pleased she had several inches’ advantage over the shorter Indian maiden. “You think I’m here of my own free will?”

“Leave.”

Emma snorted her disgust. “I’m just going to walk out of the village and no one will stop me?”