White Flame (14 page)

“Tanagila help you. Meet here tonight. I bring you horse.”

Not trusting the Indian girl, Emma left the water to dry herself off. Tanagila followed.

Sending Tanagila a look of disgust, she asked, “Do you really expect me to trust you? Besides, Striking Thunder isn’t going to let me go. He’ll follow.”

A sly look came into the other girl’s eyes. “I will make sure he does not know you are gone. I will say that it is your woman’s time, that you are in the woman’s hut.”

Emma wanted nothing more than to make good her escape but when she did, it’d be on her own without anyone—especially a troublemaker—knowing. “No. I shall stay and convince Striking Thunder that he is wrong about my father.”

“You are a fool.” Her expression changed to one of malicious delight. “After he kills your father, he’ll sell you for many horses.” Tossing her hair, sending drops of water flying into Emma’s face, she stalked off.

Biting her lip, Emma watched her go. A small hand slipped into her own. Glancing down, she stared into Morning Moon’s troubled gaze.

“She lies, seeks to trick you like
sungmanitu,
the wily coyote. You are wise, like
sunkmanitu tonka,
the wolf.” A funny look crossed the girl’s features and for just a moment, her eyes went blank.

Worried, Emma bent down. “Morning Moon?”

The little girl started and pulled her hand out of Emma’s. “I will watch over you.” With that, she walked off.

What a strange comment for a child to make,
Emma thought. Morning Moon was so different from her own energetic sister. She fingered the talisman that the child had given her and wondered if she’d ever see Renny again.

Lying in bed, Derek cursed his carelessness. It had been eight days since his carefully laid plans had gone awry. So far, there had been no word from the search party. And when it came, he feared the news wouldn’t be good. Emma would never survive captivity with Yellow Dog. Derek shoved the rough, itchy blanket off him and stood. He had plans to make.

Doctor Gilbert O’Sullivan, a seasoned physician who had been with the army for more than thirty years, stopped him from walking out the door. “Captain Sanders. You have not been given permission to leave that bed.”

Derek frowned. “I’m fine. I need to be out there, searching.”

Gil’s features softened. “Now, boy, you can’t blame yourself. You did the best you could. You’re in no shape to ride out.”

“I can’t stay in bed a minute longer.”

Not one to overly pamper his patients, the doctor nodded. “Fine. But until your wounds have completely healed, I want to see you each morning.”

Derek nodded then left. After dressing in a new uniform, he left the fort through the open gate. When he arrived at a small group of soiled and tattered tipis, he stopped. From inside several came the sound of rutting men and squealing women.

The women who occupied these tipis relied on soldiers to give them work—laundry or prostitution—both appreciated by the lonely soldiers far from civilization. Some soldiers even went so far as to marry their whores.

His mouth hardened. Not him. Not like his traitorous father who’d left him and his mother to go to California with his squaw in search of gold. When
he
married, it’d be to a lady who had money or connections. Or both. Like Emma. He put thoughts of Emma from him when he reached Wild Sage’s tipi.

Grunts and moans came from within. Without bothering to announce himself, he strode
in, surprising a soldier in the process of bedding the tipi’s mistress. Derek fingered the bag of cheap baubles he’d picked up from traders traveling up the Missouri River then jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “Out!” he ordered the private.

A look of intense pain crossed the young soldier’s features. “Aw, Cap’n, not now—” he groaned, his hips moving faster, frantic.

Derek reached out and yanked the panting man off the woman bucking beneath him. “I said out. Now!” He tossed him out the door along with his trousers and boots and ignored the laughter that came from others who had witnessed the soldier’s plight.

Unbuckling his own trousers, but not removing them, he knelt over the woman. Reaching out, he squeezed one plump breast. At her moan of pain, lust fired his blood. “Have you missed me, Wild Sage?”

Her brown eyes widened when he pinched a dark-tipped nipple, but she nodded and knowing what he expected, she took his hard shaft into her mouth. Derek groaned; it’d been so long, he couldn’t stop the release that came almost immediately.

After he refastened his trousers, he reached into his shirt pocket for a pouch.

Emptying it onto the dirt floor, he watched Wild Sage’s eyes grow round with greed. But when she scrambled to her knees to take the cheap jewelry, he grabbed her pudgy fingers.

“Not so fast.” Scooping them up, he handed her a bracelet and pin. “Do as I say and I’ll give you the rest.”

Wild Sage nodded. “Wild Sage please Captain, Captain give Wild Sage many nice things.”

Derek paced. “I seek information on a woman captured by Yellow Dog.”

At the name, a look of fear entered her eyes. Though they weren’t of the same tribe, everyone in this area knew of the warrior. “Yellow Dog mean. He kill Wild Sage if I help enemy.”

He waved her fear aside and clasped his hands behind his back. “The woman is the colonel’s daughter. I will protect you, but I need to know where she is, if she is still alive. You will find out for me.”

When she still looked reluctant, Derek grabbed a handful of her hair. “Do it or I’ll see you banished from the fort.” His gaze hardened. “Without the protection of the soldiers, anything could happen to you.” His voice dropped, low and cold. “Understand?”

“Wild Sage understands.”

Laughing softly, Derek pulled her long stringy hair just hard enough to force her to look at him. “Good. Now understand this. You’re mine and I don’t share my squaw with anyone. You want to spread your legs, you spread them for me.”

Again she nodded but it wasn’t enough. He yanked, harder.

“Only you, Captain. Wild Sage please only you.”

Freeing his swollen flesh once more, he smiled and shoved her down onto the hard ground. Dropping his trousers, he shoved her legs apart. “Very good, bitch. Now would be a good time to show me how much you missed me.”

The land of rich, summer golds turned brittle and dull as fall prepared to give way to winter. Temperatures rose and fell wildly, as if Mother Nature couldn’t make up her mind as to which season she preferred.

Wandering freely around the village, Emma tipped her head back, seeking the warming rays. She suspected the first snows weren’t far off. The last couple of weeks had been rainy, cloudy and cold. Hugging herself, she stared up into the brilliant blue sky, finding in it a renewed sense of hope that one day, her life would return to normal.

She shivered as much from the temperature as from fear of what her future held. That morning when she’d gone down to the river to bathe, the dry grass had crackled under the thin layer of frost coating the prairie, and still they had bathed. To her surprise, no one, including her, had taken ill from the exposure.

And if she really were honest, she’d admit there was something invigorating about starting the day in this fashion. Unlike bathing in hot water, which tended to relax and leave her lethargic, cold water got her moving with a spurt of energy that seemed to carry her throughout the day.

In addition to her deerskin dress, she wore a pair of leggings lined with rabbit fur and her feet were kept warm in a pair of lined moccasins made by her own hands. The soft, pliable upper pieces came from the hides she’d prepared, as did her leggings, and the soles from an old smoked top of a tipi. Even the rabbit fur lining them came from her efforts. And if the fur was pieced together because she’d torn it during the skinning process, well, only she knew—and Star who’d had incredible patience in teaching her what she needed to know.

Passing a group of adolescent girls, Emma noticed they were studying a group of boys the same age. She smiled. Some things were the same no matter the language or lifestyle. This was her favorite time of day. Done with her chores until time to start the evening meal, she had the freedom to do as she chose—unless she wanted to ride.

She made a face. She wasn’t allowed near the horses. She stopped in front of a colorful tipi. So far, her favorite pastime was to study the paintings on the bleached rawhide. Some consisted of crude drawings, childlike in their form, while others were quite good, their painter a skilled artist.

Sighing, she wished she knew what each symbol meant, what story it told, but sheer stubbornness kept her from asking and taking advantage of the opportunity to learn about a different culture by experience rather than from a book or newspaper account.

Showing interest might make it seem as though she had accepted her role of captive—and that she refused to do. She did what was expected of her, mostly because Star was kind to her and Emma didn’t want to be a burden to the grieving woman. Many nights, Emma woke to the sound of soft tears. She also acknowledged that she could be treated far worse if she rebelled so she’d slid into the routine demanded of her, embracing the hard work so that each night, she fell into bed too exhausted to lie awake and worry over the future.

But most of the labor required of the Indian women was repetitious and mindless. It left her free to think—too much sometimes—while she worked. Stopping at the edge of the village, she stared across the prairie, praying her father would find her before the snows made searching impossible. That was her only hope. He had to find her before Striking Thunder had time to prepare his trap. Not once did she allow herself to question whether her father was out searching. For her own sanity, she had to believe he was.

The long afternoon loomed before her. If she were home, she’d have spent the afternoon
curled up in her favorite chair in front of a fire in her mother’s parlor, or if the day was particularly fine, she’d have spent a couple hours in the park with her paints. Even that option was out. She didn’t have a pencil or even paper to sketch with and wasn’t about to ask for the use of their Indian dyes.

Walking past a group of older men telling stories to children of all ages, she smiled. Some of the youngest ones had fallen asleep, pillowing their heads in the lap of an older child beside them. Too bad she didn’t understand enough of the language to listen from a distance.

Emma glanced around the quiet village. Different groups of women and girls of all ages chatted as they sewed or made sinew. Others sat around just visiting. She supposed she could join Star and her group and learn to bead and quill but she shied away from becoming involved any more than what was required of her. To join them in this social time meant encouraging friendliness, which risked forming attachments. And first chance she got, she planned to leave. She thought of the stash of dried meat and berries hidden among her things. Unlike Striking Thunder’s mother, she wasn’t going to be here long enough to adopt this way of life.

Pulling the end of her belt up, Emma counted the tiny lines she’d scored on one side. One for each day since Striking Thunder had found her. She figured it had to be near the end of October, now. Mentally, she ticked off the months. Six more to go before Striking Thunder released her. Six before he planned to kill her father. Six before she could arrange a search party for her sister.

Rounding another tipi, she came to an abrupt halt. Her absentminded meanderings had led her to the back of Striking Thunder’s tipi. And it was just her luck that he was there, painting a scene on the bleached hide. She grimaced. Though Star Dreamer wasn’t demanding, Striking Thunder made sure she was always kept busy.

Though he seldom spoke to her and never openly criticized her, his watchful silence spoke more than words when she did wrong; like the time when she’d torn a hole in the hide she was scraping because she wasn’t being careful, or whenever she burned a meal. And it wasn’t just him either. Others made their feelings known just by their silence. But as she improved, she’d also felt their unspoken praise.

This method of not openly criticizing one another was a major difference between the Indian world and hers. Being shamed and feeling humiliated among one’s peers was a far better tool than words raised in anger. It was much more subtle, and more compelling.

Leave,
she commanded herself. The last thing she needed was another encounter with the arrogant warrior. But she didn’t leave. Running Elk hurried up to his uncle and without any sign of impatience, Striking Thunder stopped what he was doing. The sight of him crouched down with his arms around his nephew held her enthralled. He was teaching the boy how to shoot his bow and arrows.

Emma grinned. Running Elk never put the bow down, he even slept with his prized possession. From the cadence of Striking Thunder’s voice, she knew he was telling the child another story, a form of instruction, she’d come to realize. Sliding into the dark shadows between two tipis, she watched. Despite her resentment of Striking Thunder, she admired his patience with the young and his concern and respect of the elderly.

Running Elk shot off an arrow. It flew straight and true, landing a short ways away. The boy ran off to fetch it, shouting his happiness. Striking Thunder stood, smiling. The love and pride on his face touched a deep chord within her. With a start, she realized that because he thought himself alone, he’d lowered his guard.

Her own pulse quickened. The softening of his features made him one handsome man to
look upon. Especially when he only wore his breechclout and left his hair unbraided as it was now. She loved his hair. Long, baby-fine, it fell in ripples halfway down his bare, golden back. Her fingers itched to go to him and feel its silky texture. Alarmed by the urge, she took a step back to beat a hasty retreat before he found her watching him. But without turning to face her, Striking Thunder spoke. “Do you not have work to do?”

Embarrassed to be caught staring at him, Emma’s good mood shifted. Her first impulse was to turn tail and leave before he found more work for her. No. She was fed up with his constant hounding. She did her share of work and was entitled to her share of free time. So she sauntered over. “Nope. I’m free to spend the afternoon as I like.
Star
thinks I work hard.”

Dipping one end of a slender bone into the paint, Striking Thunder returned to his work. “My sister is far too easy on you. As you have nothing to do but stand around, you may fill my water pouches and fetch more wood for the fire. That should keep you busy until time to prepare the evening meal.”

Narrowing her eyes, Emma decided it was time to play the game. She kept her eyes trained on the figures and shapes decorating his tipi. “Star Dreamer is kind, thoughtful and fair. Something her brother is not. He would take away this woman’s free time when she has earned it.”

Startled at her show of defiance and her method of turning the tables on him, Striking Thunder glanced at her. She meet his gaze. Green eyes clashed with brown. He grunted and went back to his work. “Then you will do as I’ve asked later.”

Pleased to have won that round even if it meant more work later, Emma walked around him to study another scene. She recognized his black raven and was impressed by the lifelike effect of the bird soaring over the taut hide with a herd of buffalo running below. She glanced up. The bird wasn’t in sight. Good. The stupid raven was always swooping down to try and pluck her braid.

Moving on to another scene, she lifted her brows at a brown hawk, eyes closed, its wings pulled back as it arrowed down the canvas from a gray cloud as if about to strike an unseen target. Next to it, Striking Thunder had painted the same bird with its beak wide open. And from brilliant golden eyes, jagged bolts of lightning flashed into the dark sky painted around it. The bird looked fierce and angry. She slid her eyes sideways. Much like the artist who’d drawn it.

“You’re good,” she admitted grudgingly, moving on to the scene he was currently painting. It showed two warriors. One with his fist held high in victory, the other, crumpled at the victor’s feet. Looking closer, seeing the yellow-painted face, she realized the slain warrior was Yellow Dog. She shuddered and stepped back as if the slain warrior could still reach out and do her harm. And in a way, he still could. Nightmares from those terror-filled days still haunted her. “Rather violent for my tastes, but good.”

Striking Thunder ignored her comment. Pointing to a fort surrounded by wagons and people, she asked, “What’s this one about?”

Expelling an exasperated breath, Striking Thunder glared at her. “Do you not have anything else to do?”

Emma glanced over her shoulder at him, pleased to have irritated him. Normally in her presence, he remained stoic and unemotional, barking out his orders. She held up one hand and ticked off her fingers. “Let’s see. No books lying around to read. No carriages to take me shopping. No balls to attend. No letters to write. No mail service, even if there were, and—” her voice broke slightly “—and no little sister to chase after. So no, guess there’s not much to do out in this barren, godforsaken land.”

Using the sharp bone he used as a brush as a pointer, Striking Thunder indicated various groups of women sewing or painting quills. “There is much you could do instead of asking questions of this warrior.”

Emma lifted her shoulder. “Why bother? By the time I master those skills, I’ll be gone. When I return to St. Louis, I won’t have need of deerskin dresses.”

Striking Thunder narrowed his eyes, a sure sign that she was pushing his patience. Good. How many times since her arrival had he driven her to the point of anger, knowing full well she couldn’t say anything?”

Setting the bone down, he regarded her with contempt. “No. You’ll return to a life centered on proving how much better you are than your neighbor. You’ll go about each day without realizing all you have to be thankful for in your quest for more. And you won’t care about the cost to the land or the people, as long as you have what you want in your search for happiness.”

His counterattack stung. “That’s not true.”

“No? How many dresses hang in your closet? How much material is wasted by clothing thrown out because the styles change each season? How many women wear a garment only once and discard it?

“Your people seek
things
to make them happy, to make them feel important yet most of it sits and gathers dust. Always, the white man has need for more. Bigger houses. More land. More wealth. Look around you. We only have what we need.”

Slapping her hands on her hips, Emma glared at him. “It’s not fair to compare us. We live differently. You can’t judge us because we don’t live as—”

“Savages?” He bit out the word. Placing his hands on her shoulders, he spun her around to face the rest of the village. “Look around you, Emma. We have so little, and yes, we live primitively by your standards, yet all we need is here. We are rich in our
lives,
not in our bank accounts. It is people and families we value, not objects. You think you live a superior life, but you are no happier.”

What he said was true. His people were not only happy but content. She shrugged free of his disturbing hold. “How do you know so much about it?”

Striking Thunder grinned and looked pleased with himself. “It is wise to learn all one can about your enemy. Do we not know how each animal lives? We study them, learn from them and use the knowledge they give us.” His grin turned wolfish. “With the whites, it is no different.”

Turning serious, he stared over her head, his eyes coming to rest on each of the people in his village. “My mother made sure her children were educated in both their Indian and white heritage. Each spring, my brother White Wolf, who lives among the whites, and I go to your towns to trade and buy supplies. There, I see your houses of wood and stores filled with goods and places where men drink your spirits and leave swaying on their feet. Are they happy with their minds clouded by alcohol?”

Emma paced. “Some may not be happy, but most are.”

“And you, Emma. Were you happy in your house of wood?”

The question took her by surprise. It was the first time he’d asked her a personal question. And it struck a raw nerve. For only here had she begun to see that in truth, she’d been very unsatisfied with her life. Out here, there were no restrictive conventions. Here one could, and was encouraged to, speak one’s mind. And for reasons she didn’t understand, though she was a captive, she felt free for the first time in her life.