White Flame (9 page)

For years she’d convinced herself she didn’t need Grady O’Brien, didn’t care about him, but deep down, she desperately needed his love and approval—as much now as when she’d been
eight. But after this, even if he rescued her and Renny, she’d destroyed all hope of ever receiving those precious things. She’d failed him.

Emma stood, grabbed a handful of stones and threw them into the water with enough force to create loud splashes. “Fool,” she berated herself, ignoring the sting of her tears. Whatever had possessed her even to dream that things between her and her father could change? If he truly loved them, he wouldn’t have left, let alone stayed away. Grady O’Brien loved only himself and his career. She’d spent a lifetime craving something she’d never have, no matter what the circumstances, and for that, she could only blame herself.

She steeled herself. Who needed Colonel Grady O’Brien?

Gingerly, Emma wiped the tears from her sunburned cheeks then sat back down on the rock, her head bowed. “I do,” she whispered. “I need you, Papa. I need you to find Renny.” Thoughts of her sister brought forth a fresh wave of anguish. Where was she? Was she alive? Warm? Cared for?

Striking Thunder’s voice intruded on her thoughts. “Our meal will be ready soon.”

Startled, Emma nearly fell from the rock into the water. How could anyone move as he did, without making a sound? She glared at him over her shoulder, then wished she hadn’t done so. He stood directly behind her, his golden-brown thighs mere inches from her nose. Lifting her gaze a smidgen, she stared at the bottom edge of the leather flap. Swallowing, she didn’t dare lift her eyes further. Heat infused her cheeks. Looking back out toward the fast-moving river, she tried to ignore the man standing so close behind her, whose heat she felt through her dress.

The scent of a roasting prairie chicken reached her and made her stomach rumble loudly in anticipation. Though her mind rejected all thought of eating, her body craved a hot meal. Turning sideways so she could keep her wary gaze on him, she wrapped her arms around her knees. “I’m not hungry,” she lied.

Striking Thunder folded his arms across his chest. “You will eat.” A frown deepened the creases between his eyes and along either side of his mouth as he stared at her.

Emma felt self-conscious. She was filthy, her dress in tatters, and her hair matted and tangled beyond help.

As if he read her mind, he indicated the shallow stream. “You have time to bathe before we eat.”

The idea appealed. The water, while cold, looked inviting. How she longed for a bath, but she refused to take off her clothes to go into the water. And with the autumnal prairie winds, it was just too cold to spend the night in wet clothes. Glancing back at the water to dismiss him, she shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t wish to bathe.”

Striking Thunder went to the water’s edge. “If that’s your wish. Go tend our meal. I have no desire to eat until I am clean.” With no warning, he pulled the leather band from around his waist and let the strip of leather he wore between his legs fall.

Emma squealed in shock at the sight of his naked buttocks and drew in a ragged breath. Common courtesy dictated she turn her back on him but she couldn’t. She watched, eyes glued to his backside until the water rose and concealed flesh as golden brown as the rest of him.
For shame,
she berated herself.
You’re a lady, not some common strumpet!

Emma turned to the side and forced herself to look elsewhere—at the smoking fire, his horse, anywhere. Suddenly, her attention zeroed in on the unattended horse with the black raven still perched on its back. Emma grew still. A quick glance to the left confirmed Striking Thunder was still in the stream, his back to her. She held her breath. Did she dare? Her eyes narrowed with determination. Yes, she dared. This might be her only chance.

As soon as he submerged his head beneath the flowing water, she was up and running. Grabbing the rope bridle, she shooed the bird off and mounted. A shout from the stream warned her that he’d seen her. From on top of the horse, she glanced toward the water.

Striking Thunder waded out. “Get down,” he ordered softly.

The sight of him naked held her for long moments. His backside had been impressive enough but oh, Lordy, his front… His body was a masterpiece of raw, wild splendor. She’d never imagined that a man would look so—so breathtaking. Waves of embarrassment washed over her followed by shame. Why was she was wasting precious seconds ogling the man! Defiantly, she lifted her gaze and gave him a glare of triumph before digging her heels into the horse’s sides. The animal took off. The joy of success sang through her veins. She’d done it. She’d escaped!

A shrill whistle pierced the air. The horse Emma sat on responded by tossing its head. With ears pricked forward and nostrils flared, the mare obediently made a hard turn to the left. Too late, Emma recalled how Striking Thunder had called the horse to him by whistling.
“No,”
she cried, struggling to regain control of the animal.

But the horse didn’t stop until it had reached Striking Thunder. No emotion disturbed the hard planes of the Indian’s face but in his eyes, the storm of his fury reached out to engulf her. Her shoulders slumped in defeat. Without speaking, he reached up and yanked her down. She toppled into his arms, her feet slamming onto the ground between his wide stance. She struggled against the bands of hardened steel that crushed her against his wet chest, then stilled.

In silence, they glared at each other, lips tightly compressed; his to control his fury, hers to stop the trembling. Emma’s green eyes grew lighter in coloring, his browns dark and intense. Her softly rounded jaw tilted upward in defiance, his clenched tighter. Neither gave. Defiance challenged contempt. Chests rose in unison and fell rapidly with suppressed emotion.

With each passing second, the tension between them thickened. Water dripped from Striking Thunder’s long hair, soaking into the makeshift bodice of her dress. Moist heat rose between them. Against her palms, his skin felt hot, smooth as warm butter. Pressed against that hard, moist flesh, her breasts swelled. Emma held her breath at the subtle shift of tension in his body. His grip relaxed and the anger in his eyes dissolved. His gaze released hers, his lids lowering as he glanced down at her ragged clothing. Though he couldn’t see them, her nipples tightened in response to his seeking gaze.

She gasped, mortified by her body’s traitorous response. This abrupt shift of mood from anger to desire frightened her. “I’m sorry. Please let me go,” she whispered. Nervous, she moistened her lower lip with her tongue, but when she noticed his heavy-lidded gaze lingering on her mouth, she clamped her lips shut.

His arms shifted. One hand moved to her jaw, the other to the back of her head. His head lowered, slowly. Unable to move, her protests died beneath the warm hardness of his mouth closing over hers. He held her lips captive as easily as he held her body. Emma turned her head but he brought her mouth back to his.

To her surprise, his mouth softened and his kiss turned gentle. His lips played over hers, coaxed her into accepting what he offered. Though she feared this warrior, feared the warmth of him that was stealing away her will, she held herself immobile. When his tongue snaked out and teased her mouth into opening to allow him a quick foray inside, she moaned, mortified to discover that she liked being kissed, liked the heady sensation of his mouth mating with hers.

Breaking off the kiss, he gazed into her eyes, then groaned and bent his head once more. She leaned into him, gave herself over to his expertise. Her blood pounded, and her heart raced wildly against his chest. She pressed closer, seeking the easing of an unnamed aching need. He moved against her. She felt his throbbing hardness against her belly. Fear broke through the languid haze cocooning her. From her married friends, she’d heard about a man’s tool and the pain it caused. Fresh panic rose in her. She twisted and pushed but he ignored her protests. Desperately, she bit him on the lower lip. His head jerked up and a startled curse left his full, moist lips. Emma, her breathing ragged, tilted her chin. “You’re no better than Yellow Dog. I won’t let you rape me.”

Faced with Emma’s incredible spirit, Striking Thunder’s senses sharpened. To subdue her would be a challenge, one eagerly accepted and anticipated. He drew his throbbing lip into his mouth, tasted no blood then chuckled. “Ah, my spirited prize, this warrior does not need to force a
woman.” Pulling her closer into the cradle of his hips, his hand applied just enough pressure to the small of her back to keep her where she was. Tangling the fingers of his other hand in her hair, he pulled her head back.

“There are other ways to subdue a stubborn filly than violence.” Ignoring her squeak of a protest, Striking Thunder slanted his mouth over hers, and teased her lips with his tongue once again before claiming them in a masterful kiss. Her lips softened on a sigh. The blood in his veins sang in anticipation but when he felt her jaw tighten, he eased back, keeping his hand firmly at the back of her head to stay her from inflicting further damage. Frustrated when she found she couldn’t bite him again, she opened her mouth. “I won’t give in,” she panted.

“No?” Capturing her lower lip between his, he suckled, nipped. With his tongue, he teased the crinkled corners of her mouth, traced the full, swollen flesh.

“No,” she said again, but this time, her voice lacked conviction.

Leaving her mouth, he trailed his lips along her jaw and down her throat, lingering on the wild pulsing in the soft hollow. Breathy sounds of pleasure vibrated against his lips, her fingers fluttered against his chest. Feeling her acquiescence, he slid one hand up and down her spine then over the curve of her narrow waist. Emma’s head fell back, her lips parting. Striking Thunder needed no further invitation. Consumed by his own need, he reclaimed her mouth with a savage intensity.

To his intense pleasure, she kissed him back, her mouth moving with his, accepting all he gave, giving in return. A low moan filled the air. He was startled to find that it came from him but he couldn’t stop. An aching need consumed him, made him forget why he’d kissed her to begin with. His tongue found entrance. He stroked and wooed her until she accepted him and allowed him to explore her mouth’s inner sweetness. Her arms lifted, her hands moving shyly around his neck and her lower body leaned hard into him, sucking him deeper into the swirling need obliterating all but that of satisfying the thrumming hunger clawing within him.

His hands slid downward to cup and caress her nicely rounded bottom. Lifting her so his turgid manhood lay throbbing against the center of her heat, he nearly cried out with the need to lift her skirts and slide inside the warmth of her moist sheath. So lost was he in this woman’s magic, nothing else mattered. Desire. Lust. Neither had ever been this all-consuming before. Mating with Meadowlark had never resulted in this wild abandon. Theirs had been a tender act, prompted by duty and the expectations of producing a child.

Duty.
He stilled. Lifting his head, shame filled him. He’d lost his wife at the hands of Yellow Dog who had claimed that this woman’s father had paid him to murder her. All thoughts of duty, of his people and their needs had fled with just one taste of this woman’s sweet lips. His people suffered, grieved, yet here he stood consumed by the desire to make love to the enemy.

Emma pressed her fingers to her kiss-swollen lips. He stared into her eyes. They’d darkened to forest-green pools of innocence. His nostrils flared. He shoved her from him in disgust, wanting nothing more than to jump on his horse and ride away, leaving her forever. But he couldn’t. Not only was she to bait his trap, he had a duty to her as well, one she’d forced out of him before cleverly letting him know who her father was.

He glared at her through narrowed eyes, just now realizing how shrewd and cunning she was. She was wily, like the coyote, tricking him into lowering his defenses. But now he was on to her. From now on, he’d keep his distance. But his body still yearned for release, which further darkened his mood. Standing over her, unable to hide the evidence of his desire, he glared down at her. “Do not challenge me again, foolish white woman. Next time, I may not stop with a kiss.” Turning his back on her, he strode back into the cold water.

Emma pressed the back of her hands to her hot cheeks. Shame made her want to curl up and die. How could she have allowed him to kiss and touch her as he had? He was an Indian, a savage,
her captor.
She groaned and squirmed from the remembered feel of him pressed hard against the part of her that ached the most. How could she ever face him again? Sinking onto the dried grass with the horse grazing a few feet from her, it pained Emma to admit she’d enjoyed the kiss and had wanted more. Much,
much
more.

A shrill cry from above caught her attention. Glancing up, she watched the return of one golden eagle. The raven left the water’s edge and flew to the mare’s back with a shrill cry. But the eagle ignored the blackbird as it circled across the blue heavens. Then, without warning, it dove toward the earth, wings folded back, claws out. Lightning-quick, the bird snatched up a squealing field mouse. Watching the majestic bird of prey fly away, Emma felt as though she herself were caught in the grip of some powerful force and was every bit as helpless as the eagle’s doomed prey.

Hundreds of miles away, another pair of eyes scanned the sky, frowning at a flock of circling birds. Buzzards. Dozens of the ugly, revolting things. Grady grabbed his rifle and shot it into the air until every last one of them scattered from sight. “They’ll take nothing more,” he roared, furious yet sickened.

Behind him, death permeated the air and soaked into the earth. Though Captain Sanders had told him of the massacre and the cloud of dark birds had warned they were near, nothing could prepare him for the grisly sight, nor the overwhelming smell. No matter how many times he faced the ravages of death, it always left him feeling helpless. Many of the soldiers who fell in the line of duty were young men cheated out of long, full lives.

Grady shifted the rifle in his hands, keeping it ready in case of trouble. Scanning the area, he watched his men, with handkerchiefs tied around their noses and mouths, dig shallow graves while three of his best scouts scoured the scene. Grady glanced down. In his hands, he held what was left of his Emma’s valise. Reaching inside, he pulled out a single letter. It was the last letter he’d sent to her. Carefully, he tucked it into his pocket, then withdrew a small silver snuffbox, the last gift Margaret Mary had given him. He stared at it for a long time. No longer was he that gentleman, and nothing could ease the stench of death or the feeling of failure weighing him down. Weary and worried, he fought against the unexpected feeling of helplessness. He was a colonel in the U.S. Army, a man of action. So why was he frozen, unable to move or help his men with the unpleasant job of burial?

His hand formed a fist around the pewter box. Never had his job taken on so personal an aspect. This time, it was
his
daughters in danger. When he’d first arrived at the scene where his men had been slaughtered, the thought of finding them among the dead had nearly driven him wild. Gone was the cold and controlled colonel who’d driven his men hard to reach this spot. Long-buried emotions resurfaced with a vengeance as he’d searched among the bodies.

Though relieved they weren’t among the dead, it brought on a new, agonizing worry. Where were they? The thought of Emma and Renny captured by Indians left him trembling anew. Fresh waves of guilt plagued him. If only he’d given in to Emma’s plea to come home. But he’d been afraid to face her after all these years. And his cowardice, his failure as a father may very well have cost them their lives.

A shout drew his attention. The demeanor of a cold, forbidding military man replaced that of the fearful father. Putting away the snuffbox, he joined Zac. “What have you found? Was it Yellow Dog as Captain Sanders said?”

Zac, born to zealous missionary parents who’d baptized him Zacarias Cristobal Chavez,
looked old as the hills in his well-worn deerskin breeches and shirt. His unkempt gray beard hung in tatters down to his chest and nearly obscured the four-inch silver cross hanging around his neck. But his movements were agile and sure-footed, his gaze clear and intelligent. He held up a fistful of arrows and pointed to the nocked ends. “These belong to them Arikara savages, Kern’l.”

Grady pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. His ears rang with the rhythmic clunks and clangs of shovels striking the hard-packed earth. “Are you sure?”

“Yep.” He pointed to the bodies of three Indians. “They’s Arikaras.”

Grady thought of Captain Sanders, the only survivor of the massacre. The search party had come upon him near the river, unconscious and injured. After reviving him, he’d told his story of how Yellow Dog had ambushed him and his men. With pain weakening his voice, he’d begged the colonel to forgive him for failing to save Emma. Out scouting the way, he’d returned but been outnumbered, so he’d ridden for the fort to get help. According to the captain, one of the savages had spotted him and had followed, resulting in the loss of Derek’s horse and his injuries.

Sanders had nearly passed out during his recounting of the attack until Doc Gil had stepped forward, insisting on taking the injured man back to the fort. Reluctantly, Grady had no choice but to halt his questions.

Zac, who had gone back to his study of the arrows, cleared his throat. “Kern’l? Sanders was right. See here?” Zac pointed to several crude marks along the shaft of three arrows, near the feathered end. Anger hardened his gruff voice. “These are Yella Dog’s marks. Them others, I don’t recognize.”

Yellow Dog had given Grady and his men at the fort nothing but trouble for the past few months. When they’d first taken over the fort, the Indian had offered his services as a hunter and scout in return for goods, but he’d been banished after they’d caught him stealing guns and liquor. Now he harassed the soldiers.

Staring into Zac’s worried eyes, Grady knew true fear. The outlook for his daughters was grim—even
if
he found them alive. Fury mingled with apprehension and guilt. He strode away, filled with determination. No matter how long it took or where his search led, he
would
find his daughters.

Emma received her first glimpse of Striking Thunder’s village two days after her attempted escape. Cone-shaped tipis sprouted from the golden prairie, stretching upward to lend the flat, rolling land a bit of color and depth. From the tips of the tipis, plumes of smoke drifted toward the sky to merge with the dark roiling storm clouds gathering overhead. The scene was so dramatic, it had her fingers itching for a paintbrush and canvas, or even a piece of charcoal so she could capture the wild beauty on paper.