Elaine Barbieri (9 page)

Miranda smiled as the darkness abruptly embraced her.

Shadow Walker paused when he reached the wooded copse at last. It was cool in the shadows, but he had no thought for the relief it afforded him. Instead, he thought of the girl trailing far behind him, who would soon feel its balm.

He turned to scrutinize the terrain to his rear. He waited for the girl to come over the rise. His heart began a slow pounding as an eternity passed without her appearance. Unwilling to wait any longer, he unfastened the lead of the horse behind him and nudged his mount into motion.

His concern increasing when he had ridden a distance without finding the girl, Shadow Walker kicked his mount into a gallop, then drew him to a sliding halt when he saw her lying motionless in the long grass.

Beside her in a minute, Shadow Walker turned the girl over. Relief flooded his senses when he saw life throbbing
visibly in her temple. He did not hesitate to examine his actions when he swept her up into his arms and propped her astride his horse, then leaped onto the animal’s back behind her. He wasted not a moment when he slipped his arms around her and turned his mount back toward his intended camp.

“I’m all right.” Miranda raised her chin with meager defiance as Shadow Walker stood over her, his expression somber. She had awakened in a glade beside a stream a few minutes earlier. Shielded from the rays of the setting sun, she felt immediate relief She touched her cheek. The burning temperature there had lessened and her skin was cool and damp—the tendrils at her hairline were cool and wet as well. She looked at the water pouch lying beside her, then up at Shadow Walker. No, that merciless Cheyenne could not have bathed her face to reduce her discomfort. He had not the heart.

Unable to remember how she had gotten there and unwilling to ask, Miranda knew only that the stream a short distance away beckoned with an unrelenting appeal. She attempted to stand, but failed when her legs would not support her.

Miranda did not protest when Shadow Walker swung her up into his arms and carried her with a few long strides to the stream. Her relief when he sat her on the bank and her swollen feet sank into the cool water robbed her of
speech. When she looked at Shadow Walker at last, he was frowning.

Miranda’s lips tightened. Did he really expect her to thank him, when he was the cause of her distress?

Seeming to react to her thoughts as he had before, he crouched beside her unexpectedly. He waited until she turned toward him, then said, “I will leave you here to regain your strength.”

Responding instinctively, she grated in a shaky voice that belied her words, “There was nothing wrong with me. I was just—”

Shadow Walker raised his hand briefly, halting her denial as he said, “Refresh yourself. I will return when the hunting is done.”

Miranda’s reaction was a sudden anxiety that choked her throat, to which Shadow Walker replied intuitively, “You need not fear. I will return.”

“Fear?” Incensed that he had read her moment of weakness, Miranda spat, “I’m not afraid, not of you or anybody else!”

Turning away from him, she refused to look back as Shadow Walker stood, then walked to the horses. She did not turn in the direction of the sound until the hoofbeats faded from her hearing—when she confirmed that he had taken both horses with him.

Both
horses.

Frustrated beyond measure, Miranda leaned forward
to splash the cool water on her legs, then on her face and hands. She stopped when she remembered that he had ordered her to refresh herself Realizing that she was again allowing rebellion to overwhelm common sense, she continued with her bath.

Daylight had faded in the silent camp, but despite her exhaustion, Miranda had no inclination to sleep. Partially responsible, she was certain, was the mouth-watering aroma rising from the prairie chicken that Shadow Walker had brought back from the hunt earlier, and the responsive gurgling of her stomach.

Uncertain whether she had simply been hesitant to walk on the sandy soil after her painful efforts to remove every particle of dirt from her badly cut feet, or whether she had not yet been ready to face the confrontation that another night around the campfire would bring, she had still been sitting at the edge of the stream when Shadow Walker returned. Realizing she might have dozed, she could recall only looking up suddenly to see Shadow Walker standing over her. Before she could say a word, he had swung her up into his arms and deposited her on a blanket beside a campfire that was already blazing. On the blanket lay a large piece of jerky.

She had eaten the jerky without a word of inquiry or thanks while watching Shadow Walker work silently around the camp—preparing the fowl for cooking, settling
the horses for the night, replenishing the water sacks, all with a soundless step that seemed somehow unnatural for a man of his powerful size.

But Shadow Walker had finished his chores, and the remote, safe distance that had been established during the silence disappeared when Shadow Walker started directly toward her.

Miranda’s heart was pounding when Shadow Walker crouched beside her. His sober face was level with hers, allowing her a rare moment to study the clear, pure symmetry of features that were sharp and strong before he removed a pouch from his belt, then took one of her bruised feet into his hands.

Miranda attempted to jerk back her foot, but Shadow Walker held it fast as she demanded, “What are you doing?”

Shadow Walker looked up at her briefly, his dark eyes void of anger. Maintaining his silence, he examined her foot before dipping his finger into the pouch to spread a clear salve on the lacerated skin.

Relief was instantaneous.

In response to her silent question, Shadow Walker responded, “This medicine was prepared by Running Elk, whose knowledge of healing is well known.”

Miranda made no attempt to keep the anger from her tone when she replied, “First you cause the injury, then you try to heal it. That doesn’t make sense to me.”

“You are mistaken. I did not cause these wounds.”

“Didn’t you? It wasn’t my idea to walk for miles in the wilderness with bare feet.”

“You were warned.”

“I was
threatened,
not warned.”

“You were asked to contribute to the camp, just as you were expected to contribute to the lodge of Rattling Blanket, a woman who shared equally with you although you would not respond in kind.”

“I told you, I’m a prisoner, not a guest!”

“You are a captive, one taken in honest conquest.”

“You have no right to take me or anyone else captive.”

“As your soldiers have no right to take our people captive.”

“Our soldiers don’t—” Miranda halted abruptly. She had heard the stories about the imprisonment of a Cheyenne warrior at Fort Lyon—an important war chief who had entered the fort under a flag of truce—but she had dismissed it as untrue.

“Your silence betrays you.”

Miranda raised her chin and snatched back her foot. “The Cheyenne have raided and slaughtered—and taken scalps.”

“As have your soldiers.”

“Our soldiers don’t take—”

Unable to complete that statement with honesty, Miranda saw the acknowledgment in Shadow Walker’s
gaze as he reached out, took a lock of her hair in his hand, and said, “This color is bright, the texture fine. It would adorn a scalp pole well.” Releasing the curl before she could draw back, he grasped a lock of his own hair, his expression darkening as he continued, “This hair is not as bright in color or as fine in texture, but it is valued far more by the soldiers who wager for it.”

“No, that isn’t true. There are only a few soldiers who think that way.”

“Did the soldiers who raided peaceful villages, killing all to the last child,
think
that way—or did they only do the deed?”

“That never happened.”

“Did it not?”

“If it did, it was a mistake.”

“A mistake paraded for all to see. A mistake hailed as great victories by your people.”

“No, only by
some
of our people.”

“Are you one of that ‘some’?”

“I’ve never killed any of your people.”

“Nor did those women and children kill.”

“So, is that it?” Her heart pounding and her throat tight, Miranda rasped, “If you kill me, that’ll make you feel that you’ve avenged the others?”

The intensity of Shadow Walker’s gaze deepened. Miranda felt its heat shudder through her as he whispered, “It is not my intention to kill you, little one.”

Shaken by his gaze, Miranda responded with instinctive defiance, “My name isn’t little one.’ It’s Miranda, and that’s what I expect to be called.”

His gaze abruptly hardening, Shadow Walker grasped Miranda’s chin with his hand as he had done once before. Forcing her gaze to meet his, he whispered, “You are my captive, and you belong to me.”

“I thought I was a
gift
to Rattling Blanket.”

“A gift she returned to my care, which I need give back to her only if I choose.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means that this time we will spend together is a time of learning. It is not yet clear what it will bring.”

Allowing his words to linger, Shadow Walker stood up and turned away, leaving Miranda silent and shaken behind him.

Shadow Walker returned to the fire and the fowl roasting there. Behind him the girl watched him intently. He felt the heat of those light eyes, just as he had felt the smooth texture of her hair and the torn flesh of her feet.

Small feet … delicate and pleasantly formed. Strangely, the ache within him had been almost physical as he had smoothed salve on the abraded skin. The fear in her eyes, so vigorously denied, had touched his heart with regret. Her words of accusation had injured him in ways he did not comprehend. The reality that another day
would dawn in which the girl would bring hardship upon herself again caused him pain.

He was startled from his thoughts when drippings from the fowl touched the fire, causing the flames to surge upward, further searing the fowl’s flesh. He sat back on his heels. Such were the conflicts between Miranda and him, flames that flared briefly out of control, searing them both with their heat. Determined to contain the flames and control what followed, he removed the bird from the fire and turned back to the girl.

Miranda watched as Shadow Walker approached her, the roasted bird in his hand. His dark eyes held hers as she scrutinized the sober, handsome planes of his face, unable to decipher his intent. She remained silent when he placed the bird on the blanket, then crouched beside her.

Miranda questioned boldly, “Am I to assume you’re offering me something to eat?” Without waiting for his reply, she snapped, “What will you do if I try to take some? Snatch it away again?”

Shadow Walker replied, “I do not play childish games.”

“No? Then why are you being so generous tonight when you let me go hungry last night?”

“Last night you did not receive what you did not earn.”

“And tonight?”

“The circumstances are different.”

“How are they different?”

Reaching for Miranda’s foot, Shadow Walker captured it in his hand before she could snatch it back. He assessed the torn flesh again, then looked up. She felt again the spontaneous heat when their gazes met, when he said unexpectedly, “It was never my intention to hurt you, little one.”

“I told you, my name is Miranda.”

“Miranda …”

Struggling to ignore the sudden breathlessness that Shadow Walker’s soft pronunciation of her name elicited, Miranda listened as he continued, “My anger and need for vengeance was great when our war party came upon you that first day. I saw in you retribution for the many injustices practiced against my people by the horse soldiers. I was surprised and angered to discover that the captive I had taken was female and young, for I had no desire for vengeance against children.”

“I told you, I’m not a child.”

Shadow Walker did not acknowledge her response. Instead, releasing her foot, he continued, “I saw only one use for a captive such as you.”

“Really? What was that? Servitude?
Slavery?
”

“I saw an answer to Rattling Blanket’s need—one that grew greater with her advancing age—a need that was not only physical, but one of the heart as well.”

Refusing to relent, Miranda snapped back, “I don’t
serve anybody’s needs. I’m my own mistress.”

Startling her, Shadow Walker responded, “In that you are correct. You are master of your own fate. Yet you fail to heed an important consideration.”

“Which is?”

“That you are my captive. That you will remain my captive.”

Angered by his unexpected response, Miranda snapped, “No I won’t. Someone will come and rescue me. You’ll see.”

“You are my captive.” Shadow Walker continued, more softly than before, “To accept that would be wise.”

Suddenly aware that she was trembling, Miranda rasped, “Yet you say I’m master of my own fate.”

Shadow Walker leaned closer, his gaze intense as he said, “Yesterday you chose your fate. You chose to sit idle while I prepared the camp and the food, then cared for the horses, and so you earned today’s harsh circumstances.”

“You enjoyed every moment of my discomfort!”

“I regretted that you had chosen unwisely.”

Miranda felt heat scorch her face at Shadow Walker’s response. She pressed, “Let me see if I understand you …” She took a shaky breath. “You’re letting me eat now because you starved me last night and tortured me all day today, and you think I’ve had enough … but if I refuse to work and do the chores that you think I should do tomorrow, you’ll torture me again.” Miranda’s voice was
trembling. “That’s it, isn’t it?”

“Miranda …” Shadow Walker unexpectedly took her hands. She was startled at the gentleness of his touch when he turned her palms upward and whispered, “These hands are not expected to serve. They are expected to share the labors of those with whom they live.”

“But I don’t want to live with the Cheyenne. I want to go home!”

“You are where you will stay.”

Despising the tears that suddenly welled, Miranda snatched back her hands and turned away from Shadow Walker, then heard him say, “Tears come because you are hungry and tired.”