White Flame (7 page)

Unfortunately, she spoke the truth. He
had
given his word to return her to the fort. And though it had been before he’d learned that the colonel was her father, he was honor-bound to keep his promise. Biting back an oath, Striking Thunder stared up into patches of star-studded sky, seeking answers, for he could not release her. Without revenge, the sweet innocent spirit of
his young wife would roam forever, caught between the two worlds. Yet by his own words, killing Emma to set Meadowlark’s spirit free was not possible.

He’d have to kill the colonel and captain. To do so would take much planning and thought. A sharp breeze swept across his bare back, signaling summer’s retreat and winter’s approach. Time was short, for once the snows fell, he’d be forced to wait until spring for his revenge.

Time,
the spirit of the winds whispered in his ear.
Time.
Striking Thunder held himself still and listened. Could time be his ally? The colonel would soon discover Yellow Dog’s ambush of his soldiers and daughters’ capture. At first, the soldiers would concentrate their search among the Arikara tribes. That afforded him and the council plenty of time to formulate their plans. When spring arrived, his people would be ready. That settled, his only problem lay with the woman. What to do with her? Honor demanded that he keep his word. He studied her, pretending to himself that he felt no relief at not having to kill her.

The distant howling of a wolf pack drifted on the night breeze. The wolf was smart, shrewd and wily. Closing his eyes, Striking Thunder asked for the spirit of the wolf to advise him. Seconds later, the corner of his mouth twitched.

He’d never said
when
he would return her to the fort, nor had he promised to return her to her
father,
which left him free to keep her captive for the winter, use her as bait to lure her father and captain into his trap. Only then would he release her to the soldiers at the fort. In the meantime, he was honor-bound to keep her safe and unharmed. Pleased with his cunning, he stood and pulled her up. “I’ve changed my mind. I choose to keep you for now.”

His words sent her into a panic. Her cries tore through the night. “Please, I need to go to my father. My sis—”

“Enough!” He lifted his head and pursed his lips. A shrill whistle echoed across the prairie. From a distance, his horse answered. Moments later, the animal halted before them, snorting and pawing the ground. Gripping Emma’s wrists behind her back, Striking Thunder ignored her cry of pain and shoved her forward.

Emma half turned to stare at him with teary, reproachful eyes. Her hair spilled to her waist in a tangled mass of silky strands. The shimmering color seemed to have a life of its own in the pale moonlight as it fell across his arm, the soft, satiny strands caressing him with feathery kisses. Fascinated, he watched one wispy curl fall across her throat and unfurl, luring his gaze downward.

Once again, his gaze latched on to the flesh exposed to the white light from above. Silvery moonbeams rippled over her young, pert breasts, each capped with a blooming rosebud. Her sharp intake of air lifted those generous swells high, thrusting them forward. His manhood throbbed with the need to have her, now. Never had he felt this wild urge to bury his face between a woman’s breasts.

Sharing Meadowlark’s mat had been pleasurable; they’d found mutual release but she’d never roused him to this feverish pitch, which had been fine. Passion clouded one’s vision; it led to loss of control. He swallowed his groan of lust and thrust her aside. “Cover yourself.”

Emma moaned in shame, turned her back and tore off a long piece of her skirt. She wrapped it around her chest to hold the tattered bodice in place. By the time she’d restored her modesty, Striking Thunder had a short length of rope ready. He grabbed one of her wrists. Once more, she cried out in pain. Frowning, he held one thin wrist up for his inspection, then the other. Raw wounds gleamed in the moonlight.

He released her hands and held the rope up. She cringed. “I will not bind you unless you
run. The choice is yours.” Though he harbored hatred toward her father and the captain, he saw no reason to make her suffer needlessly.

Emma cradled her wrists close to her body. “I won’t run,” she whispered, her voice filled with defeat.

He mounted his horse, then stared down at the woman. The thought of having her soft breasts pressed against his back sent arrows of desire darting through him once again. Furious that she affected him so, he thrust out his hand. When she complied with his silent command, he pulled her up behind him and rode off, his mind at war with his body.

Derek Sanders lay on his belly near the river, his body wracked with pain and fever from the self-inflicted knife wounds he’d been forced to give himself. Moving carefully to avoid additional pain from a deep cut in his upper left arm and one in his side, he drank greedily then splashed the soothing liquid over his burning face. Soaking a strip of his torn uniform, he gritted his teeth and forced himself to his feet. The throbbing in his thigh kept beat with his heart. He’d gotten drunk off a flask of liquor tied to his saddle before he’d inflicted the wounds. His knife had slipped, slashing into him deeper than he’d intended.

He breathed deeply and slowly to ease the pain. Damn, he hurt. At the time, his fear of hurting himself had outweighed his fear of the colonel’s reaction to his arrival at the fort unharmed and without his daughters.

Glancing around, he figured he still had a good two days’ walk before he reached safety. He’d planned to arrive at the fort before infection set in, but his horse had bolted, ruining his dramatic return and forcing him to walk. Following the river, he cursed with each painful step. “Damn double-crossin’ Indians,” he raged. If not for Yellow Dog, he’d have been at the fort already, basking in the colonel’s praise.

Blinking his eyes, he eyed the setting sun and calculated the passing time. By now, the
Annabella
would have arrived at the fort and the colonel would know that something had happened to Emma. Derek’s only consolation was the certainty that a search party was likely already underway.

Derek grimaced. He dreaded facing the colonel. He’d failed to protect Emma. As sure as the sun rose each morning, he knew that Yellow Dog had taken her and her bratty sister captive. The thought of that savage touching Emma made his blood boil.

Exhaustion overwhelmed him. Derek made his way to the shade of a cottonwood and eased himself down. Leaning against the rough bark, he closed his eyes and considered his options. He winced as he tended his wounds with an alcohol-soaked rag. Old Doc Gil would patch him up; he wasn’t worried about dying. No, he’d live. But all his carefully laid plans were in ruins. What was he going to do now? He had to secure command of the fort before the colonel left for his next assignment.

He opened his eyes and took stock of the sun’s position. It would be dark soon and he just didn’t have the energy to go another foot. Maybe he’d remain where he was and let the search party come to him. He lifted his brows. That was not a bad idea—let the colonel find him and believe he’d collapsed from fever and loss of blood. If he appeared sicker than he was, his recuperation time would give him a chance to form a new plan, discover what happened to Emma and judge the colonel’s reaction. After all, Doc Gil wouldn’t allow anyone, not even the colonel, to browbeat a sick and injured soldier. Yes, he had to appear worse off than he was.

Gritting his teeth against the forthcoming pain, Derek deliberately reopened some of the already healing surface cuts on his chest and arm, then took his knife and made a few shallow cuts on his chest, knowing they’d bleed and scab quicker but make him look worse than he was.
Then he did the same to his thigh, ripping the pants even more. But when he used his fingers to pull apart the jagged edges of the gash on his thigh, white-hot shards of agony shot through him, leaving him gasping and shaken. Warm fresh blood trickled over his fingers.

“Damn,” he moaned. Breathing heavily against the throbbing pain, he welcomed the graying of his vision. He leaned down to lie in the mat of leaves and grass near the river. As he allowed sleep to claim him, he reminded himself that a little pain was nothing compared to what was at stake.

Streaks of light elbowed through the darkness, chasing away the shadows and warming the air but Emma appreciated none of it. It was all she could do to concentrate on the horse beneath her and keep from falling off. The steed, plodding along, rocked her, luring the edges of consciousness to close around her. But to close her eyes and sleep meant leaning against the savage in front of her, something she refused to do.

Striking Thunder had pressed onward throughout the night, allowing only brief rest stops for his horse. Emma, unable to remain awake seated on the hard, cold ground, had dozed reluctantly, until Striking Thunder had woken her with orders to remount. The short snatches of sleep left her feeling sick and nauseous.

It had been days since her last decent meal. And to add to her discomfort, she ached all over from the beatings she’d endured and the long hours on horseback. Her muscles screamed for rest but she stayed tense, fighting against the movement of the horse in order to hold her body away from Striking Thunder as far as she could. With Yellow Dog, she’d had her hands tied around her waist, leaving no choice but to lean against his filthy, sweaty and smelly body.

But Striking Thunder was different. He was clean and his skin was smooth, not sticky. He had bathed in the river at their first rest stop. And his scent didn’t repulse her. In fact, he smelled rather pleasant. It all added to the temptation to lean her head against him and close her eyes.

But she forced herself to stay awake and try to concentrate on her surroundings. Though she’d promised not to run, she planned to escape the first chance she got. As they traveled farther west, she noted landmarks: to her right, a lone tree, gnarled and long dead, and to the left, prairie grass blackened by fire.

There were also the many rivers. Some branched off the main one they’d crossed earlier. The water flowed from west to east. If she found the river, she’d be able to follow it to the Missouri, then from there to the fort. Another landmark for her was the towering black hills in the distance.

Rubbing her eyes, Emma gave up trying to focus them on objects in the distance. Instead, her attention wandered back to her captor. During the dark of night, she’d only had to deal with the closeness of his hard-muscled back mere inches from her, the feel of his long hair whipping across her cheeks and the outdoor scent of wood and smoke that surrounded him. But in the cool light of day, his proud features and nearly naked body took turns assaulting her senses.

Emma tried not to stare at his bare flesh, but it was difficult with his broad back so near to her face. How could she not notice shoulders wide enough to shelter a woman from danger and skin richly bronzed and warm to the touch? Her gaze slid downward. Embarrassed warmth seeped through her. He wore only a thin flap of animal hide around his waist, which did little to hide what no civilized man would dare bare. And with each forward movement of the horse, those naked rock-hard buttocks nestled between her thighs rolled forward, revealing taut golden skin before slamming back down to once again press into the cradle of her pelvis.

With each jostling bump, each contact of his flesh grinding against her, a strange ache filled her lower body. She squirmed self-consciously. As if sensing her thoughts, he glanced over his shoulder, his dark eyes flashing with amusement. Her face flamed and she scooted away from him. In her haste to put some measure of distance between them, she slid too far back and felt herself slip.

The horse, disliking her weight on his hip, crow-hopped, throwing her forward. The movement slammed her into Striking Thunder’s back.

He reached around and pulled her tight against his back. “Put your arms around me.”

Emma did as told, but at the feel of his hardened muscles and smooth flesh, she let go, holding herself as far from him as she could without falling.

“Do not be foolish, woman. Hold on to me or I will bind your hands around me.” Striking Thunder’s voice brooked no argument.

Emma gingerly grasped his hips with her fingertips, careful only to touch the thin thong of rawhide circling his lean, narrow waist.

Striking Thunder growled and yanked her arms fully around his waist, which pulled her entire front to rest against his back. “Leave them,” he ordered.

Emma gave in and leaned against her captor. Though he’d so far kept his promise not to harm or mistreat her, she didn’t trust him.

He’d been friendly only until he’d learned the identity of her father. His accusation replayed in her mind. Striking Thunder’s wife had died and he blamed her father and Captain Sanders. The idea was preposterous. Colonel Grady O’Brien might be many things, but he was no murderer. Of that she was certain, even though she hadn’t seen him in nine years.

His military career revolved around his communication and negotiating skills with hostile Indians. Fighting against the thick haze of exhaustion, Emma wished she had the packet of letters her father had sent over the years. Each was full of compassion for the Indian people and would prove to Striking Thunder he was wrong. But her letters, her most treasured possessions, were in her trunk aboard the
Annabella
—all but the one she’d tucked into a pocket in her valise, which was more than likely scattered across the prairie by now.

If she could convince him to take her to the fort, she could show him those letters, prove to him he was wrong. She would promise not to allow her father to cause him harm, let her father know he’d rescued her. Maybe he’d even give him a reward. She lifted her head from the warmth of his shoulder and took a deep breath. “My father is no murderer.” Striking Thunder nudged the horse into a canter. Emma tightened her grip around his waist, her frustration mounting. Desperation lent her courage. “I can prove you wrong.”

His head swiveled around and his gaze confronted her. “We will not talk of this.” Striking Thunder clicked his tongue and the horse leaped into a fast gallop.

Emma grasped him tightly to keep her seat. Her breath came out in jagged gasps, but she refused to back down. “Tell me what happened. You’ve kidnapped me because of some crime my father is said to have committed.
I have the right to know!
” she shouted in his ear.

Striking Thunder drew on the leather reins, bringing his mount to a sudden halt. He twisted his torso around with such speed that it nearly unseated her. “The man you claim as your future husband paid Yellow Dog to kill my people—under your father’s orders!”

The blood drained from Emma’s face. “It isn’t so,” she whispered, more to herself than to the furious warrior. Her heart pounded. For the first time, doubt crept in. She recalled the kind captain, his gentle nature and gentlemanly behavior aboard the
Annabella.
Even after they’d left the boat, he’d remained solicitous, even if he was more demonstrative than she was comfortable with.

But a murderer? And so underhanded? No. She refused to believe it. Derek might be a coward, but he was not a murderer. “Derek would never do such a vile thing.” But as soon as the words left her mouth, she recalled the heated exchange between Yellow Dog and Derek the night before they were attacked. Derek
had
known Yellow Dog. Could the captain have had underhanded dealings with the savages? Had that been the cause of their argument?

Striking Thunder narrowed his stormy gaze. “I see in your eyes that it is so.”

Emma cringed inwardly then raised her chin, feeling guilty for allowing herself to believe
Striking Thunder, even for one moment. For if he spoke the truth, that meant she, in her innocence, had endangered her sister by trusting the captain with their lives. She couldn’t face that, refused to believe it. Yellow Dog had attacked for one reason: to obtain her. The fault lay with her and her eagerness to leave the
Annabella.
Had they remained and chanced another delay, none of this would have happened.

“I believe Yellow Dog killed your wife and if not for you, I would have been next. But do not ask me to believe my father or Derek had anything to do with his vile actions. You have no proof to back up your claims.”

“Proof! You want proof?” Anger spiked his words. Striking Thunder dismounted and yanked her down as well, uncaring when she stumbled and fell at his feet. Emma swallowed her cry of pain at his rough handling. He towered over her, his eyes snapping with restrained fury. Removing a long, narrow leather pouch from around his waist, he threw it down at her.

“Open it,” he commanded. “There you will find your
proof.
” Folding his arms across his bare chest, he waited.

Fear, icy cold, traveled up her spine. Slowly, she got to her feet, feeling less vulnerable standing. Pulling open the mouth of the pouch, she reached in and withdrew a cold metal object. When the sunlight struck it, she gasped. “Where did you get this?”

“Yellow Dog. It was his payment.”

The world tilted beneath Emma. In the early-morning sunlight, the silver belt buckle winked at her. She recognized it. How could she not? She and Renny had sent it to the colonel last winter for his birthday. Her mouth went dry. How had this Indian come by it? She shook her head in vehement denial. “No, there’s a mistake. My father wouldn’t—”

Striking Thunder snatched the belt buckle with a spate of angry-sounding words. Turning on his heel, he led his horse down to a stream a short distance away. Emma followed slowly, more worried and confused than before. What was going on? How had Yellow Dog come to possess her father’s buckle? Her heart stopped. A horrible thought came to her. Was her father alive? Had Yellow Dog killed him? She refused to believe Grady O’Brien had paid Yellow Dog to kill the Sioux.

Running up to Striking Thunder, she stepped in front of him, her hands clasped tightly in front of her as she pleaded, “Take me to the fort. I can prove my father had nothing to do with the killing of your people. I’m sure there’s a simple explanation of how Yellow Dog came to have my father’s belt buckle. Please. Let me prove his innocence.”

Striking Thunder shoved her out of his way, his glare full of contempt. “You think to fool this warrior, white woman? The minute your father lays eyes on you at my side, he will shoot first and ask questions later. No. You are mine until after
siyo istaheapi wi
has passed.”

Emma stared at him. “What does that mean?”

“It means,
moon when the frost covers the prairie chickens’ eyes.
It is our name for your month of March.”

“March! I can’t stay with you that long. You must return me.
Now.
”

Striking Thunder knelt at the water’s edge and drank, ignoring her.

“Why can’t you let me go now?” Emma cried out in frustration.

Standing, Striking Thunder pulled back his shoulders and lifted his head proudly. “After I have dealt with your father and the captain, I will release you.” Eyes black as a moonless night held hers. His lips curled in disdain. “You will learn from your father’s mouth that I speak the truth before he dies.”

Frustration turned to horror when Emma realized, for the first time, that this warrior
planned to lure her father into a trap—using
her
as bait. “You can’t do this,” she whispered, shocked and horrified.

“Please—”

Striking Thunder slashed the air with his hand. “No. Do not ask for release again or I will remove your tongue.”

Emma hugged herself. Tears of hopelessness and fear gathered in her eyes and spilled down her cheeks. “What of my sister? She’s only nine. Yellow Dog traded her for horses. She’s out there somewhere, alone and scared. Please—”

“No more! Your sister is no concern of mine.”

The true extent of her situation slammed into her, leaving her breathless. Without her father’s help, she’d never find Renny. Emma clamped her trembling lips together. She doubted Striking Thunder would carry out his threat to remove her tongue but refrained from pushing him too far.

Wiping the tears from her face with the hem of her dress, she tried to gather her shattered courage. She’d need all her wits about her if she were to find a way to stop him from carrying out his plan to kill her father. Striking Thunder went back to his horse and returned with a square of rolled-up leather. From inside, he pulled out a flat, square piece of dried meat. Biting it, he tore off a hunk with strong white teeth. He held the other piece out to her.

The thought of eating anything after learning what he planned turned her stomach. She shook her head and backed away, swaying from the wave of nausea sweeping over her.

Striking Thunder followed her retreat. “You will eat. You are of no use to me dead.” He thrust out the jerked meat.

Emma slapped away the offending piece of food. It flew from his hand and landed in the short grass. “I don’t want any of your food. I’d rather starve.”

Striking Thunder took one menacing step forward. He pointed. “Pick it up.”

Emma ignored the fury darkening his features. “No.” She had nothing to lose at this point. She stood mute and defiant, even dwarfed by his commanding height. They stared at each other, one resolute, the other rebellious.

He narrowed his eyes. “You will do as you are told.”

Tired of being threatened, Emma tossed her head. “What will you do if I refuse? Kill me?” She waved her arms. “Do it, I say! Then you won’t get my father.”

When he lifted his hand, Emma closed her eyes and cringed, bracing herself for his blow. Heartbeats later, when there was no physical form of retaliation, she opened her eyes and found him watching her, his arms folded across his naked chest and an unreadable expression lurking deep in those nearly black eyes of his.

His gaze hardened. “This warrior does not strike women. Now, do as I asked. Much hard work goes into preparing food. We do not foolishly waste it. Pick it up or there will be no food until we reach my village.”

Emma scowled. Unlike Yellow Dog, who’d meted out his punishments with physical blows, Striking Thunder’s methods were more subtle. The choice was hers. Already, her body felt weak: her head spun from lack of food and her throat felt dry. She could refuse. If she perished, he’d have no bait to lure her father into a trap. But then she thought of Renny. If she died, who then would rescue her sister?