Savage Heat (29 page)

Gentle Deer talked and talked, telling Martay something of her people’s heritage, and while she did, she sewed beads on Peaceful Dove’s wedding dress, her gnarled hands as deft and sure as if her vision were perfect.

Martay quickly grew fond of the wise old woman and little by little as the days went by, Martay, without even realizing it, began to adjust to life in a Lakota Sioux village. She still missed her home, her father and friends, but the luxuries she’d cut her teeth on seemed less important with each passing day.

It was no longer distasteful to eat the thin strips of meat that had hung in the sun to dry on racks. She was learning to like the bison jerky and often nibbled it while she listened to Gentle Deer speak of the old days. Gentle Deer taught her how to make pemmican. Seated under a shade tree, Martay enthusiastically pounded the jerked beef with a rock and then watched as Gentle Deer mixed the pounded meat with hot grease and dried berries. It was really quite tasty, and Martay was proud of her day’s work.

With Peaceful Dove and Gentle Deer she went into the woods to pick wild grapes and chokeberries and raspberries, and upon commenting what a pretty day it was, heard Gentle Deer say, “In the autumn, when the Indian summer is upon us, there is no more beautiful place on earth than our beloved Powder River Country.”

While Gentle Deer dozed on the banks, the two young women, kicking off their moccasins, jerked their dresses high and splashed out into a cold, clear stream, squealing and laughing like little girls.

And astride his gleaming black stallion, on a high point above on the river bluffs, a flint-faced Night Sun watched. Eyes only for the gilt-haired girl with the pale, perfect legs, he silently rebuked himself for coming here. He couldn’t pretend he didn’t know she would be here. He had visited his grandmother at sunup, long before Martay was awake, and Gentle Deer had told him she and the girls were going to Cave Creek to pick berries in the cool of the morning.

Night Sun shifted in the saddle.

Martay danced merrily about in the water for several minutes, going on and on about how glorious the cool water felt on her hot body. Feeling the heat in his own tensed body, Night Sun watched her climb out and, not bothering to lower her dress, spin dizzily about and collapse on the bank. She grabbed up a basket of the freshly picked berries, set it on her stomach, and choosing a huge, red raspberry, popped it into her mouth.

A sensual nymphet of the woods, Martay lay there in the grass, enjoying to the fullest the taste of the ripe, red berries and the heat of the hot Dakota sun on her face and bare legs.

Her long golden hair swirled about her head like a gleaming satin fan. Her luscious lips were stained red from the berries, and her pale, slender legs glistened with beads of water.

Night Sun, his dark gaze never leaving her, wasn’t sure which he most longed to kiss.

The silky golden hair or the succulent red mouth or the bare creamy thighs.

26

“Y
ou know why I summoned you here this morning?” Windwalker spoke in the Lakota tongue.

“Yes,” said Night Sun, he, too, using their native language. “I have expected it.”

Windwalker studied him with flat, dark eyes. “I have known you since the full-moon night of your birth. In all those summers, never have you behaved foolishly, as the other young braves.” He let his words fall flat, the accusation in what was left unsaid.

Night Sun looked the aging tribal chieftain straight in the eye. “Now I have been unwise,” he said. “I should not have brought the white girl here.”

Windwalker slowly nodded. “This is true, my son. In so doing, you have put the entire Sioux nation in great peril.” As he spoke, he lifted his arms and opened them in a wide encompassing gesture.

Night Sun suddenly felt a crushing sadness overwhelm him. Not because the Mystic Warrior was upbraiding him for his thoughtlessness, but because there was no longer “an entire Sioux nation” to be put into peril. Save for Windwalker’s small band and one or two others hiding out in the hills, and Sitting Bull and Gall’s people in Canada, all the mighty Sioux chiefs were dead or on the reservations, dancing to the white man’s tune.

“Forgive me, Windwalker,” Night Sun said, “I have acted as a white, not as a Sioux. I am sorry. What would you have me do to right this wrong?”

The older man’s eyes softened with affection. “Do not look so sad, my son. The girl is unharmed; take her back to her people.”

Night Sun swallowed hard. “I will do so. I can leave tomorrow at first light and …” A broad hand on his shoulder caused him to fall silent.

“No, Night Sun. Not tomorrow. Give her white father a couple of moons to worry. Then take her back.” His dark eyes held understanding. “It is he who must suffer, not the girl. Do not harm her.”

“No harm shall come to her.” Night Sun paused, then added, “You know all, then?”

“That she is the child of the bluecoat who blinded Gentle Deer? I know. The gold hair, the green eyes. Is it not she?”

“It is.”

The old chieftain opened his mouth as if to say more, decided against it, and abruptly brought the council to a close. “Go now and watch over the golden-haired one as if she were family. And when two moons have gone by, return her to her own family untouched.”

“I will return her,” said Night Sun, “just as she came to me.”

“My heart is glad to hear you say so.” Windwalker almost smiled then, and added, “The child-woman is handsome to look upon. As a young buck of only twenty-four summers, I am not sure I could have been trusted with her.” He lifted his massive shoulders in a shrug.

Why do you think I stay away from her as much as possible? Night Sun silently replied. Aloud: “Again I offer my apology for putting our people in jeopardy. I will take the golden-haired one safely back and alone pay the price.” He rose to his feet.

The old chieftain, looking up at him, said, “The price you pay may be a broken heart, my son.” Night Sun looked at him questioningly, but he knew not to ask what the Mystic Warrior meant. “Go now,” said Windwalker. The interview was closed.

It was late afternoon. A Saturday. The twenty-third of August. Martay Kidd’s nineteenth birthday.

Alone in her silent tipi, she sat hugging her knees, trying very, very hard not to feel sorry for herself. It wasn’t easy. Birthdays, from the time she was old enough to know what they were, had been very special to her. There had always been parties and presents and cakes and surprises.

There would be none this year.

No one even knew it was her birthday. She prided herself on the fact that she had told no one; counted it as a mark of maturity that she realized, without resentment, that these different people had no reason to celebrate her birthday. Here, unlike the world she came from, she was no more important than anyone else in the village.

Strangely, it didn’t bother her too much. She was treated with kindness and respect, just as they treated each other, and she found herself treating others the same way. And there were times, at night when she was alone in her bed and thinking back to the old days, when she cringed recalling what a vain, foolish girl she had been.

Vanity had no place here, and that was odd, since these people—these proud Lakota Sioux—were universally conceded to be among the handsomest, most intelligent, and bravest of the Plains Indians. Physically and mentally superior, they were modest regarding their many attributes.

Martay found their attitudes unbelievable and refreshing, and strove to be more like them, although she had far from mastered it yet. She was, after all, white and wealthy and used to admirers paying court.

Especially on her birthday.

So Martay was melancholy as she sat there alone in her tipi with no parties or presents or anyone to know or care that it was her nineteenth birthday.

Martay’s head lifted from her bent arms when a shadow fell over the tipi opening. And her heart speeded when Night Sun’s dark head appeared. Naked to the waist, he stood, for a long moment, looking down at her, an odd expression in his black eyes.

Then he said, “Come see what I’ve brought you.”

Unable to believe her ears, Martay foolishly said, “You … you brought me something?” She remained seated there below him.

He smiled then and, bending from the waist, put his hands on her upper arms and effortlessly lifted her to her feet, which were bare. Looking down at the cute, naked toes, he said, “Where are your moccasins?”

Martay had no immediate answer. Used to servants, she had learned that keeping up with her own personal items was a hassle and more than once a hard-faced Night Sun had brought from his bed or from atop his chest or hanging on his lance an article of clothing she had carelessly tossed there.

Expecting him to be annoyed, she was relieved, and surprised, when he good-naturedly went in search of the missing moccasins. Finding one atop his fur bed, the other on the floor beneath his long-feathered war bonnet, he carried them to her and, ignoring the hand she reached out, crouched down before her.

“Give me your foot, Martay,” he said, and his voice was level, pleasant.

She gladly obeyed. But when his long, warm fingers wrapped around her ankle and he lifted her foot, she grew so light-headed, she had to grab hold of his smooth bronzed shoulders to keep from falling. If he minded, or even noticed, he said nothing. He unhurriedly placed the moccasins on her feet, his dark head bent in concentration, his lean fingers brushing her sensitive skin, causing sweet sensations of pleasure.

Reflexively, her clasping hands tightened on him, sliding up closer to the curve of his neck and shoulder. Beneath her fingers the tendons tensed and corded and slowly Night Sun raised his head to look up at her. His hands circled her ankles, then slid slowly up her legs. In seconds his warm fingers were wrapped around the backs of her trembling knees.

“Night Sun,” she managed weakly, her heart pounding furiously.

His black, tortured eyes slid closed and a strange sound came from deep inside his bare chest. He jerked her to him, and Martay cried out with shocked pleasure when he buried his dark face against her stomach and his questing hands moved up to cup the cheeks of her bottom.

He held her for only a second. One short never-to-be-forgotten second he clung to her as though he would never let her go, and Martay’s assaulted senses recorded all the fleeting wonder of that moment.

Her hands went up into his silky black hair as she pressed his face more closely to her quivering belly, feeling the heat of his breath burning through the dress she wore, loving the way his big strong hands had moved intimately under her satin underwear to possessively clutch her bare, tingling buttocks.

As swiftly as it had happened, it was over.

He released her and rose, a faint residue of heat remaining in his beautiful black eyes.

“Sorry,” he said, his voice as controlled as ever. “I’m sorry.”

“But it’s all right, I wanted …”

“No,” he broke in, and vigorously shook his dark head, stepping away from her. “Come outdoors.” He exited the tipi, not waiting for her.

Martay lingered for a brief time, puzzling over what had happened, and why he had stopped. Before she had time to come up with any answers, he was calling to her. She took a deep breath and hurried out.

Stone-faced, Night Sun stood between two horses. One was the magnificent black he rode, the other a shimmering sorrel. While the big black nipped playfully at his bare shoulder, Night Sun, holding the reins of the sorrel, said, “It’s yours, Martay.”

Martay stared at him. “You mean it? You’re giving this beautiful horse to me? Why?”

His face softened at last. “Mare. It’s a mare.”

“I knew that,” she said, coloring. “But why would you give me a mare?” She eagerly stepped forward to stroke the mare’s velvet muzzle, smiling happily.

“Happy Birthday,” he said softly.

Her eyes flew from the nickering mare up to Night Sun’s dark face. Extremely pleased that he’d remembered and had surprised her with such a wonderful present, Martay impulsively threw her arms around his neck and thanked him.

“I love her! Oh, Night Sun, thank you, thank you!” Her cheek pressed to his, she couldn’t see the mixed emotions reflected in his black eyes; was too excited to notice the minute trembling of his tall frame against her. Giving him one last eager squeeze, Martay kissed his smooth jaw and released him, saying, “May I ride her now? Where shall we go? Oh, I can’t wait to …”

“I am busy, I can’t …”

“Busy? But it’s late afternoon.” She gestured toward his bridled stallion. “If you didn’t mean to ride with me, why did you bring the black?”

“I … ah … there’s somewhere I must go.” He didn’t tell her that she had guessed correctly. He had meant to ride with her, but now he knew he couldn’t trust himself. What had happened inside would happen again if he didn’t stay away from her. And next time he had his arms around her …

“Let me go with you, Night Sun,” she said. “I’ll be no trouble, I promise.” Her emerald eyes held a soft, pleading look.

“No,” he said. “Beginning tomorrow you may ride each morning if you like. Speaks-Not-At-All will escort you.”

Disappointed, she toyed with her new mare’s bridle. “And will you ever ride with me?”

Night Sun didn’t reply. He took the reins of both horses and led them away while Martay looked wistfully at him.

Sighing, she went back inside and flung herself down on her bed. And then it struck her. Night Sun knew it was her birthday. How? She had told no one. What else did he know about her? And where had he learned it? Who was this strange half-breed and what did he want from her?

She closed her eyes, opened them, and tried not to think about how she felt when he had knelt before her and crushed her anxiously to him. And could think of nothing else. Smiling dreamily, her senses stirred, Martay rightly surmised that if only she could find a way to be around Night Sun more often, something similar might happen again. Like the light of a new day dawning, it was suddenly clear to her that Night Sun stayed away from her on purpose. And she knew the reason why.