Celine (28 page)

 

Amid the clouds of dust, thundering hooves, and the smell of blood, Wolf heard the woman's screams shift into something even greater than terror. This thing, this sound, penetrated the earth, and as it came upward, transformed the chaos into a haze of slow motion. The scream became a living entity, with no beginning, no end.

He tracked the scream through the blur and confusion. He knew instinctively to whom it belonged because Trevor's name was mixed in with her cries. He was close, so close now.

In a split second, everything happened at once—all around him. No separation of events or people, no sound, only the slow moving impact of the tomahawk's blunt end against Celine's already bloodied skull, an arrow penetrating Trevor's flesh, the slackening of bodies, the limp lifelessness of both Celine and Trevor.

As fast as it came, it was gone, this surreal chasm in time. Wolf found himself back amid the deafening chaos, dragging Trevor's body off Panther and over the front of his own saddle with a strength that came from beyond him.

Panther sprinted to Wolf's right, decoying five of the braves in fierce pursuit.

So, it had been the horses they were after, and not the women. But why were there three different tribes in the mix? He'd never seen the likes of it. Wolf worked his way outside the tumult, sensing fewer of them now, but he still could not position himself to get Trevor back to the wagons. Wolf didn't even know how much was left of the train or how safe it was. Instincts sharp, he headed north, toward the cover of the hills and woods.

When he was certain no one followed, he slid from the roan and pulled an unconscious Trevor to the ground. Wolf gave a light slap to the horse's backside, giving it free rein to graze, and then dragged Trevor over to a cluster of large boulders. He eased Trevor face down into a crevice between the rocks and a rotting log, and crawled in beside him. God help them both if they'd hunkered down in a nest of rattlers.

He waited.

The long silence told Wolf one story, Trevor's shallow breathing another. They remained in one spot for hours, until he was certain they were alone. He lifted his head off the ground and listened again.

The night sounds had returned to normal. He'd bet an Indian couldn't be found for miles around now, but he waited anyway.

What the hell had they all been doing in the same place? And fighting each other? He could understand running into Snakes and Dakotas. They'd been known to tangle. But Blackfoot? Something didn't sit right, especially about the Blackfoot. And they were all three tribes fighting each other as well as the whites. Didn't make sense.

Two Blackfoot braves had taken the women. And high rankers at that, judging by the way they were dressed and painted. Why the hell would they do that? Wolf chewed on his lip. The Blackfoot people were normally shy, peaceful. They stuck to themselves, didn't attack the trains. They'd steal from the Snakes, but only after the Snakes had stolen from them first.

“Oh, Sweet Jesus.” Wolf put the pieces together and spoke to Trevor as if he were conscious. “The Blackfoot took the women before the Snakes or Dakotas could get to 'em. I'd bet my life the arrow that went into the back of that kid watching over Celine belonged to a Snake.”

Wolf issued a hard, long breath. “Shit. They're heading up north. I can feel it in my bones.” He doubted anyone would ever see those two women again.

He moved his hand to Trevor's back, near the arrow's entry wound.

Trevor moaned.

“Trevor? Goddamn it, can you hear me?”

A weak sigh indicated he had.

“I've got to get some help. I'm going to leave for a while. I'll be back as soon as I can. Whatever the hell you do, don't move, and don't make a sound. Got that?”

“Can't.”

“Can't what?” Wolf hated what he was feeling, hated the panic gnawing at him. If he let the reaction overtake him, it would interfere with his instincts.

“Move. Can't move, anyway.” Trevor's cheek was still pressed to the ground. A deep gurgle mixed with his feeble words.

“You're numb from lying in one place,” Wolf said. “And you're weak.”

Trevor managed a whisper. “Dying.”

“Jesus Christ, Trevor, you've been through tougher shit than this. You know you have to set your mind to not dying. Trevor? Trevor? Crap.”

Wolf laid his ear close to Trevor's mouth. Shallow, labored breathing mixed with a wet sound. Damn it!

“I have to go right now, before dawn. It's our only—”

“Find her.” Trevor's slurred words interrupted him.

“What?”

Trevor's muscles trembled as he struggled to communicate. “Get her back ... you owe me.” A loud gurgling cough shook his body. “Take her home. Tell me . . . tell me you will.”

“I'll get her back,” Wolf promised. “Do you hear me? If it's the last thing I do, I'll find her. I
will
find her for you.” He closed his eyes, took in a deep breath, and then exhaled, slow and steady. “And when I find her, I'll take her to your father. It's a promise.”

Trevor's body went limp, and a rattling breath left him. Wolf fought a rush of black emotion, a powerful surge of despair, unlike anything he'd felt in a very long time. Not since he was six years old and watched his mother die at the hands of a murderer.

He put one hand on Trevor's back, bracing the arrow, and with the other, snapped the shaft off at fist-length. He wriggled out of their tight hiding place, and found the roan about fifty yards away. He only hoped he could get back to Trevor before the wolves got to him.

Dawn was breaking by the time Wolf reached the wagon train. The wagons had suffered no damage, and supplies were intact. The only deaths or injuries had been to those who'd ridden ahead to help. He'd been right—the wagon train had simply gotten in the way of a fight between the Snakes and the Dakotas, but as long as horses were to be had, they'd helped themselves.

Wolf took ten men with him back to the woods, to the crevice between the rocks and the log.

Trevor's body was nowhere to be found.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Something cool and soothing was being applied to Celine's head in gentle strokes, lessening the tight band of pain. A strong hand supported her back, steadied her until she sat upright on her own. Sunlight filtering through her closed lids told her another night had come and gone.

She could sense a slight moving about, could see the shadow play in front of her, could feel the rhythm of warm air hitting her cheek as a hand left her back and swept past her.

They were camped by a stream—she could hear the gurgling water. She'd caught the scent of a freshly cleaned body when her captor passed by. She did not want to open her eyes, did not want to see the fierce, black eyes and garishly painted face of the man. But if she did not open them soon, he would force her.

Was Sarah going through the same treatment? Was she even alive?

Initially, there had been nine warriors, but she'd made that count only after regaining consciousness. How many there were prior, she had no inkling. By their actions and their more elaborate dress, she judged the two who'd taken them from the stream to be the leaders.

All of them wore breechcloths, leggings, and shirts of a darkly tanned color, with black markings across the shirt and leggings. The two who'd captured them had bands of quills fashioned in ornate patterns running the length of their sleeves and across the breadth of their shoulders. Each wore a single braid instead of two like the others. The single, upright feather each wore in his hair was different from the others as well—they were pure white.

Celine could not tell how long they had been traveling, but it must have been a couple of weeks. At first, her captors had bound her wrists, tied her to a horse, and led it along. But she'd kept losing consciousness, and the wound in her head continually broke open, spilling fresh blood to run over her face. Finally, after a heated exchange between the two leaders, they stopped while one of them unbound her and pulled her roughly from her mount. The vicious pain in her head had made her reel, and she'd collapsed onto the ground, vomiting.

The other leader growled something at the one who'd handled her so brutally and knelt down to her. He cleansed her face with handfuls of grass, then carried her to his horse, and mounted behind her.

She'd ridden with him ever since. Tension reigned between the two leaders after that—the other man holding Celine in obvious contempt. His black eyes, through blue and red face paint, flashed violent messages. Frightened as she was, she felt that somehow the one who now rode with her had rescued her from something far worse than what she'd already been through. After the vomiting incident, the other had not touched her.

It was shortly thereafter that the group split up, going in different directions. She prayed whoever had taken Sarah would not violate her.

Her captor, the savage, as she mentally named him, had not hurt her. In fact, he continued tending her with the utmost care.

With just the two of them on one horse, they rode at night and slept hidden on the ground during the day. Many times, Celine fell asleep while riding, so exhausted, she wasn't even aware that she'd been removed and placed in a bed of skins on the ground until he—the savage—woke her.

She was startled out of her thoughts when a shadow flickered over her lids again, and she felt him sit down in front of her. He would be straight-backed and cross-legged, with a hand on each knee, staring at her with that garishly painted face. It was as though he could see right through her lids.

She gave up and opened her eyes.

A soft gasp of utter astonishment escaped her lips. Gone was the grotesque, painted face. He sat before her in the same proud, straight-backed manner as always, but now with a gentle demeanor.

She stared into familiar onyx eyes. They appeared softer now, somehow less remote, as though removing the paint had brought greater dimension to him. He was handsome, with smooth, sun-bronzed skin stretched firm over high cheekbones, and a square, set jaw. It startled her when his full lips parted in a dazzling display of straight, white teeth.

She burst into tears.

His smile disappeared, and he tilted his head in a questioning gesture. She wrapped her arms around her middle, and rocked back and forth, her weeping uncontrollable. “Don't you see? It was easier, so much easier, when you were not human.” Her sobs came harder, her rocking faster. Misery turned into acute, physical pain. “God damn you! You've become a someone now. A . . . a person. Someone who's purposely hurt me. How could you—how could you dare to . . . to . . . become
somebody?
”

She was gripped by a feeling of wretchedness. “What am I saying? You can't even understand me. You haven't a clue what I say—you just sit there with that stupid look on your face.”

God, how had she landed in such a predicament? All because she refused to sail on the same ship with the man she loved? Oh, to be able to lie safely in Trevor's arms right now. But it was too late. He was gone. How utterly cruel life could be.

Suddenly everything shifted inside of her and the absurdity of her life struck her. She laughed.

The man regarded her with a blank expression as her hysterical weeping turned into hysterical laughter. She rolled on the ground, holding her belly and laughing. And then as quickly as it came, the laughter died, and she went back to weeping. She wept and wept until there were no more tears, until she lay exhausted on the grass.

In the end, she no longer feared him. Instead, she glared at him. “No matter what you try to do to me, you cannot hurt me. I have lost everything and everyone I ever loved. Do you understand, you . . . you savage?”

Sitting up, she wiped her nose and eyes on the sleeve of the hide shirt he'd given her. It hung loose over her ragged chemise. She scrutinized him once again. “What about you? Do you have people you love? Who love you?”

One didn't need to understand a language to know when someone was angry, and her vehemence must have spewed out of her every pore, but he did nothing.

“Well, it's not true that I have lost everyone, because by God, I have my baby. He or she survived this battle, and I am damn well going to do everything I can to see my child born unharmed—even if it means killing you. Do you see it in my eyes that I will kill you in your sleep if I get the chance, you bastard?”

When she thought there were no tears left, she wept once more.

He sat quietly, watching her with onyx eyes filled with confusion.

 

 

The vast prairie, undulating like a green ocean in the wind, lay far behind them now. Celine was physically sound enough to ride alone, and no longer was there a reason to keep her bound or tied to his horse. She had no place to go, and she could not survive in the wilderness on her own.

Little, other than their ceaseless travel north, had transpired since her captor had removed the war paint and turned his head feather down in what must have been a sign of peace. But a kind of truce had developed between them.

Eventually, he gave her a small pouch with a drawstring made of rawhide, which she carried to hold food, mostly red berries and dried meat, although a rabbit roasted over a spit served them well every now and then.

She'd learned his name—White Eagle—through clever sign language. And by withholding food whenever she resisted, he forced her to learn his spoken language.

A crude communication took shape between them. From signing and pointing here and there, White Eagle progressed to repeating words in his native tongue, testing her until Celine could find a flower or plant on her own and repeat it back to him.

He was patient, and politely ignored her when she purposely mispronounced a word, either out of fatigue or plain irritability. At times, she thought she saw humor play about his face when she grew tired of the lessons, of riding, or both, and stubbornly refused to say a word correctly. He punished her by lifting her off the horse and onto the ground. She was forced to walk alongside him until she repeated the word properly, whereby he would matter-of-factly haul her back onto the horse.

Eventually, she got tired of walking.

She amused herself by speaking to him in her own language. Oftentimes, she even cursed at him in the most crude and unladylike fashion—all with the sweetest smile on her face that she could produce. And then she would laugh or giggle at herself. Crudeness brought a certain sense of freedom. Some days cursing was all that came out of her mouth.

What his intentions were after they reached their destination, she did not know. But she did know he'd had ample time and opportunity to harm her or rape her. Yet White Eagle had treated her with only gentleness and respect. She had come to trust that he would not hurt her, and he would keep her safe.

She quit rebelling.

In her yielding, something happened. Instead of relinquishing her freedom, she was surprised to find she had gained a new kind of control. A seed, deep within her soul, sprouted in a new and different way. The surrender had not been to White Eagle and to his ways, as she'd thought at first. No, it had been the letting go of the fear that he would hurt her. When she did so, to her amazement, a new confidence in acting on her own instincts surfaced.

A fine mist dampened Celine's face this morning and clung in tiny round beads to the tips of her eyelashes, laced shut from exhaustion. As usual, they'd been riding all night.

Dawn broke as the horse stepped through a clearing into a meadow. At the opposite end of a long emerald carpet of grass stood high mountain peaks, rising before Celine in breathtaking, majestic splendor.

A wondrous, almost painful sense of awe came over her, and she knew for certain she had changed. It was as if her travels through this vast unknown had mirrored a journey within. She saw and felt things completely foreign to the responses of her old self—a new pattern had emerged from her soul.

“Oh, my!”

Queenly crowns of pristine white snow ringed by thick, ermine-like fog peaked high in the heavens. A shroud of heavy mist hugged low, around the mountains' wide expanse. It was the first time Celine had seen such natural splendor.

Sunflowers and other colorful wildflowers filled the spaces between blades of thick, succulent grass. Large, graceful ferns nested thickly among pines and spruce. Elk and deer bounded from one spot to another and dotted the distance. The lilting songs of the meadowlark echoed from tree to tree.

She described it all out loud and then looked at White Eagle and smiled. “My babe survived so much to see this wonderful new land. I have to be his or her eyes for the time being.”

He studied her.

“Trevor's child lies peaceful and trusting in my womb until we can meet face to face.” She turned to gaze again at the splendor before her. “I wonder, does all that I am experiencing course right through me and into my babe?”

White Eagle gazed at the mountain with a reverence such as she had not previously seen in him. Could they be close to his home? Was this place so dear to him that he'd intentionally brought her to the edge of the clearing precisely at dawn so as to capture the overwhelming magic of the instant?

He must have known she would honor the moment or he wouldn't have brought her here. Had he felt the same reverence the first time he discovered this place? This was his gift to her then, a sharing of a very precious part of himself.

She stopped thinking of him as a savage.

They rode on for two more nights. On the third morning, they crested a butte overlooking a small green valley. A village formed by two circles of teepees, one inside the other, lay near the edge of a slow-moving river.

His home!

A sudden fear snaked through Celine. As they moved down the incline, drums began to beat out a pulsing rhythm. Within minutes, horses appeared from nowhere, their riders racing forward, shouting excited greetings.

A high-pitched buzzing in Celine's ears muffled the sound of children's laughter and the yelp of a small puppy tagging along. White Eagle shifted in his seat, his proud bearing filled with joy upon returning to his people.

He brought his horse to a halt and dismounted in front of a teepee in the middle of the circle. It was so tremendous in height and dimension as to dwarf the others.

All drumming stopped.

The riders disappeared. The people staring at her stepped back.

White Eagle pulled Celine off the horse, and forced her to walk by his side as they entered the teepee.

She quickly counted the people inside. Twelve in an open-ended circle, situated around a small fire in the center. But the teepee was so large the firelight did not reach its edges. As her eyes adjusted to the light, she moved toward the middle, then stiffened and let go a gasp.