Savage Heat (46 page)
“My daddy is … Daddy … no. Dear God, no!” And she threw her arms around Night Sun’s neck and sobbed uncontrollably.
“I love you,
Wicincala,”
he said, tears wetting his bronzed cheeks. “I am sorry. Sorry your father is gone. Sorry my grandmother is gone.” His arms tightened around her.
“Yes, yes,” she sobbed. “Oh, my darling, I’m so glad that I have you. Promise you’ll love me always, no matter what. Swear that I’ll never lose you.”
The sobbing young woman had no idea how relieved the worried Lakota was to hear her say those words to him. “Never,” he promised, kissed her tear-reddened eyes, and drew her gently down onto his fur bed. Holding her on his lap, Night Sun rocked Martay as though she were a child. She cried out her grief on his shoulder while a cold rain pummeled the tipi over their heads.
When all the tears had been shed, the pair stretched out and talked quietly, exchanging favorite memories of the loved ones they had lost. It was Martay who, finally growing weary enough to be sleepy, said, “It’s so final, isn’t it, darling; Gentle Deer was your only family and Daddy was mine. Now both are gone and we have no …”
“We have each other,
Wicincala,
” he said, kissing the top of her golden head. “Together we will have a family, our family.”
Martay looked up at his handsome face, recalling Gentle Deer’s prediction that already she was carrying his child. She started to tell him. But she was not sure she was pregnant, so instead she said, “Yes, darling, we will. Make love to me, Night Sun.”
At dawn Martay stirred and wakened. Night Sun, exhausted from his long journey, slept on. Kissing her forefinger, Martay placed it an inch from his sensual lips, then withdrew it. Taking great care not to disturb him, she inched out from under the warm furs and, naked, shivered in the chill morning air.
Her buckskin dress lay beside the bed where she had hastily discarded it. Sitting on the furs, she pulled the dress over her head and rose to her feet. Pushing her tumbled hair behind her ears, she slipped her bare feet into a pair of moccasins and, casting one last look at the sleeping man, stepped out into the gray dawn.
The village was quiet, all the Lakota still sleeping warmly in their tipis. Martay was glad. She wanted, needed, solitude. A few moments to herself for a last good-bye to the father she had loved so dearly.
Agilely she climbed the bluffs overlooking the placid river, chose a soft grassy spot directly below a high shelf of rock, and slowly sank to her knees. Sitting back on her heels, Martay looked up at the gray dismal Dakota sky and felt the loss, the sadness, press down on her chest.
Before her lifted eyes was the well-remembered vision of a large, spectacularly-garbed silver-haired man of great strength and power, whose very existence had made her feel safe and cherished.
Martay, feeling lost and lonely, said aloud, “Oh, Daddy, how I shall miss you.”
Again her tears started. She let the tears slide down her cheeks unchecked as she wistfully recalled how protected she had felt with her father’s comforting arms around her. She bowed her head. Quietly she cried; a lost child.
A movement caught her eye.
Martay warily lifted her head. The sun was rising to dispel the last wisps of mist over the rocks. And from out of that mist stepped Windwalker, the slanting golden light of the new-risen sun lighting his broad, chiseled face. He was in full regalia. The fringed buckskin shirt pulling across his massive chest was decorated with narrow lines of beadwork and gleaming silver conchos. His graying braids were fur-wrapped and in his hand was an eagle-bone whistle.
There before her eyes was the welcome vision of a large, spectacularly-garbed silver-haired man of great strength and power.
The Mystic Warrior came silently down to her, put out his hand.
Looking straight into her eyes, he said solemnly, “In the far-distant past I had a beautiful daughter. She contracted the fatal disfiguring disease the white man calls the pox. She was taken from me to join the
Wakan Tanka.”
His broad, firm hand gripped Martay’s small one and his voice was low and soft when he said, “You will be my daughter now.”
His heartfelt words and his powerful presence brought a loud, choking sob from Martay’s tight throat. Gratefully she fell against his massive chest and felt herself quickly enclosed in a pair of strong, comforting arms.
A father’s safe arms.
It had been more than a week since Night Sun’s return. It had rained every day—a slow, drizzling autumn rain falling from a low, heavy sky.
Night Sun and Martay stayed secluded in their lodge, listening to the rain beat down on the taut skins of the tipi and discussing their future. Windwalker, like Gentle Deer, had urged Martay to convince Night Sun he should take her back to live in the white man’s world. She wanted to please the Mystic Warrior as well as the dear departed Gentle Deer, but most of all she wanted the man she loved to be happy, so she told him one rainy night, after they’d made love, that they needn’t go back.
Drawing lazy, teasing circles on Night Sun’s bare chest, she said, “There is actually no reason for me to return to the Gold Coast. I have no family there.”
Night Sun captured her roaming hand. “And there is no reason for me to remain here. Gentle Deer is gone.”
“But the Lakota way of life …”
“Is gone as well,
Wicincala.”
His black eyes held a wistful expression. “Our long, hard fight with the white man is ending. Most of the People are already on reservations. Windwalker told me yesterday he is weary of the struggle, of seeing the young ones without enough to eat. He’s taking his band in before the harsh winter begins.” He closed his eyes, opened them. “I can best help my people by living in your world, but promise me that every summer you’ll come with me back here to this place I love so much.”
Martay nodded. “I promise.” She bent and kissed Night Sun’s chest. Her lips against his warm, smooth flesh, she said, “But, darling, what of your safety? If we go back, they will arrest you and …”
“No, sweetheart,” he said, smiling boyishly at her. “Under the white man’s law, a wife is not required to testify against her husband. And you are the only person who knows that I kidnapped you.”
Martay began to smile too. “When do we get married?”
“As soon as we get back to your world.”
Martay’s smile turned to a frown. “You know, I suppose it’s foolish but … I …”
“What,
Wicincala?”
“I would like to be married here in the Powder River camp by Windwalker.” She looked closely at him to catch his reaction.
“A fine idea, but it won’t be legal in your world.”
“I know. We’ll get married again, but it would mean a lot to me.” She smiled at him, knowing he was pleased.
“Thank you,
Wicincala,”
said Night Sun. “It would mean a lot to us as well.”
“So? When do we marry?”
Night Sun pulled her down atop his chest. Kissing the shiny crown of her head, he said, “We should wait until the rain stops, don’t you think?”
“Mmmmm, yes.”
“Tell you what, we’ll keep an eye on the
mastekola.”
Martay lifted her head, her eyes questioning. “The lark,” he explained. “The lark is a weather forecaster, sweetheart. There will be good weather whenever it flies straight up.”
“Are you teasing me, half-breed?”
“Would I do that?” he said, his black eyes flashing as he pulled her back down and kissed her.
They lay quietly then, talking, planning, looking to the future ahead in Chicago, he assuring her they would often visit Windwalker and the band; that their going back would be best for his people. With his education he could help protect them from the one-sided treaties of the past. It was late when finally they fell asleep, the gentle rain still beating down over their heads.
When Martay awoke the next morning, she no longer heard the drumming of the raindrops. She quickly wakened Night Sun.
“Do you hear it?” she asked.
Yawning, he said sleepily, “Hear what? I hear nothing.”
“I know,” she said, jumping up. “Hurry, let’s go out and look for the
mastekola.”
Looking at the adorable naked woman whose emerald eyes were as wide and excited as those of a child, Night Sun grinned and obediently rose. In moments the pair, holding hands, stepped out of their lodge.
It was Martay who saw it first. A lark was sitting in the low bough of a conifer tree not ten yards from the tipi.
“See!” she said, pointing. “Now what?”
Smiling, Night Sun nodded and slipped his arms around Martay’s waist. Softly he said, “We wait.”
Martay, holding her breath, stared at the lark. The tiny bird gave a few jerky movements of its head as though it knew the humans were watching him. Then he flapped his wings and flew from the leafy conifer.
Straight up toward the clouds.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook onscreen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1989 by Nancy Henderson Ryan
Cover design by Connie Gabbert
This edition published in 2012 by Open Road Integrated Media
180 Varick Street
New York, NY 10014
FROM OPEN ROAD MEDIA
