White Flame (18 page)

“Me? Not a chance. I’m not going to have anything more to do with him.” She tilted her chin defiantly.

Star only smiled, which worried Emma. She knew about the woman’s supposed ability to see future events. While she wasn’t sure she believed in such things, Star Dreamer’s calm acceptance of her from the beginning made her uneasy. “Don’t even think it,” Emma warned.

The Indian only grinned more widely, then ducked her head to hide her expression.

“I’m serious, Star. I don’t plan on staying a moment longer than necessary.” Realizing she might sound ungrateful for the woman’s kindness to her, she added, “I do not mean any disrespect. You’ve been kind but this isn’t my world.”

She stared out toward the hills. “Besides, how could I stay with a man who intends to kill my father? No. There is nothing here for me. When the time comes, I will leave.”

Star laid a hand on Emma’s arm, her gaze serious once again. “Be careful, Emma. There are many changes to come. Do not act rashly.” She stood and walked away, leaving Emma alone.

With a few minutes to herself, Emma picked up her pad and a pencil whittled to a point. Already it was a short stub. With a sigh, Emma knew it wouldn’t last much longer. White Wind had given it to her. In return, as Striking Thunder had asked, she’d sketched Dove and Golden Eagle. She’d already done one portrait of Star, capturing her haunted pain. Striking Thunder had returned it so that Emma could present it to his mother.

Emma grinned. Dove, Star’s younger sister, had been easy and fun to draw. She found the woman to be high-spirited yet deep; there was a steel core that drove her to be constantly challenging the warriors. There was a complexity and a need to prove herself in this fashion that the rest of the women lacked.

Emma regretted that she would never meet Striking Thunder’s brother White Wolf, who was in Oregon. She’d have liked to meet the last sibling in this close-knit family. Willing her mind to empty, she sketched. And as the form took shape, she was disconcerted to recognize Striking Thunder’s features staring back at her.

Having put off drawing him, she allowed her hand to move across the page, stroking and shading. Perhaps if she drew him, she’d rid herself of his haunting image. Her mind wandered. She’d gotten little sleep the night before. All during the long hours of darkness, she’d replayed the scene beside the river, felt again his lips, hands and fingers moving over her body. Just thinking about Striking Thunder brought on the familiar throbbing. She shifted on the hard, cold ground.

“This is crazy,” she muttered. What was wrong with her? Something in him called out to a part of her she’d never known existed. Here, with these people, she’d found the freedom to be herself, to explore and discover who she was.

She recalled that young girl standing on the doorstep, calling out to her father, crying until her aunt had brought her back inside and told her she must not cry anymore. Young ladies had to be brave. They didn’t show the world their sorrow, they hid it beneath a cloak of dignity. And from that point, her life had changed, ruled by those who needed her to be strong. She’d been molded, trained to hide her feelings, ignore her emotions and follow the rules, even if they went against everything within her.

Until now. Here, away from the stifling confines of proper society, she was discovering just who she really was and what she wanted from life. And it wasn’t to be molded into what some boor of a male thought a woman should be. Forget being serene, always acting proper and ladylike, and the rule that a young lady should never challenge or argue with a man. She grinned.

Though she was a captive, that didn’t stop her from arguing with Striking Thunder. He challenged her as no other male ever had. When they entered a discussion, it was as equals—both with separate and defensible points of view. And like yesterday afternoon and last night, she’d stood up to him. It had felt good. Whether or not it had been wise to do so was another matter entirely. Which brought her full circle—back to last night and the knowledge that if he came to her now with the promise of more of what he’d shown her last night, she would go—willingly—and consequences be damned.

Like a butterfly emerging from its cocoon, Emma stretched her mental wings and with her transformation, came the discovery of a woman with dreams of her own family. She longed for her own child, yearned also for someone to love her and put her needs first. She needed someone to lean on and trust to be there for her, no matter what. Grimacing, she was truly afraid she’d found that person: Striking Thunder.

She, Emma O’Brien of St. Louis, was falling hopelessly in love with the maddeningly arrogant Indian chief who had freed her inner spirit and shown her there was much more to life than she’d ever imagined. Closing her eyes, Emma knew true fear. Somehow, she had to stop this from happening, for it was a dream beyond her reach.

Setting the pencil down, she opened her eyes and stared at the portrait she’d drawn without any real thought or effort. While she’d expected to see Striking Thunder’s stoic features, what she saw made her heart thump.

The features of the man she’d drawn bore little resemblance to the Indian chief she knew well. Somehow she’d captured Striking Thunder as he had looked last night. His hair, wild and loose, framed his face; his eyes, slightly hooded, promised total fulfillment. And his mouth… Oh, Lordy, just staring at those full lips stirred her blood anew and made her long to lose herself in his warm embrace.

He was right when he’d said all he had to do was touch her and she’d gladly give herself to him. Just thinking of what he’d done to her, what he’d made her feel and where those clever fingers had touched made her tremble. But it was more than that. It was
him
—Striking Thunder, a man loyal to a fault to those he loved—who called out to her heart. What would it be like to be put first by him, to be his top concern?

Heaven.

And she knew he had it in him. Lord help her, she wanted it. All of it. To love him and have him love her in return.

Standing, Emma ran to the tipi and hid the drawing. “This can’t be,” she whispered. Yet it was. She loved Striking Thunder.

The temperature dropped drastically. Grady braced himself against another bitterly cold gust of wind. Soon, the weather would force him to give the order to turn back. The search party wasn’t outfitted for heavy snows.

The idea of giving up, returning without his girls, sat like a heavy weight on his shoulders. It had been a month since he’d learned of Emma’s capture and left the fort under the temporary command of Captain Derek Sanders. He needed to get back to his duties, but how could he leave when his daughters were out here, somewhere? He had to find them.
I promise, Margaret Mary, I’ll find them. I’ll find our girls.
He closed his eyes against the tormenting guilt. He’d failed Margaret Mary with the greatest gifts she’d given him. And he’d failed Emma and the daughter he’d only seen once, the day he’d left to return to duty. No. He’d left to run and hide, using the army as a shield.

Only now did he admit that his sister had been right. He’d run from his grief, shut himself
off from the two most important people in his life. He drew a deep, shuddering breath. Oh, he’d meant to return. One assignment. Six months. That was all he’d planned to take. But one assignment had led to another and six months had bled into years. It had become easier not to return and face his loss. For not a day went by that he didn’t miss Margaret Mary and her sunny smile, twinkling eyes and contagious laughter. Not a night passed that he didn’t mourn the loss of her warm body next to his, cradled in his arms with the sweet scent of her luring him to sleep.

And now, faced with the results of his selfishness, Grady knew true despair. Not only had he abandoned his children, he’d selfishly denied his sister a life of her own by dumping his children upon her. He prayed for forgiveness. With nearly every breath he took, he prayed.

Please, God. Forgive me. Let me find my girls.

Please, God. Give me another chance. I’ll take care of them. I’ll never leave them again.

Please, God. Keep my girls safe.

Over and over, he prayed, but so far his search had turned up nothing. Day after day, they searched Indian villages but found no trace of them. Today had been no different. He glanced around the gathered Arikara Indians, mostly women and children. Some wept. Others huddled together. The warriors stood stoically, surrounded by his soldiers whose rifles were poised and ready.

His gut tightened as he stared into the wide, frightened features of the women and children. He was a peacekeeper by nature. Now he’d become the aggressor. Rage filled him. These people had stolen more than his daughters. They’d ripped out his heart and soul. He gripped his reins. His horse snorted in response. Taking hold of himself, he relaxed his fingers and banked his fury.

He would not take out his anger on the innocent, especially women and children—though many under his command wouldn’t hesitate to destroy the village, steal what they could and kill every “savage.” But Grady was nothing if not fair. He’d mete out justice to only those responsible. Grady narrowed his gaze, his jaw tight. Yellow Dog would pay dearly for this crime. The return of one of his men drew his thoughts back to the ongoing search.

“They’s not here, Kern’l. No sign of ’em neither.” The speaker, a soldier with no front teeth, sent a stream of tobacco onto the ground. “Whaddya want us ta do now?” One by one, each soldier rejoined him. He motioned for Zeb. “Ask again.”

Zeb stepped forward and spoke to an old man with long, flowing white hair. There was much hand gesturing. Finally Zeb turned back to him. “Says he knows nothing about any white woman or child with red hair.”

“Damn. See if he knows where to find Yellow Dog. Make sure they understand that no one here will be hurt. I only want Yellow Dog. He will hang for slaying my soldiers and taking Emma and Renny.”

Once again, Zeb turned to the Arikara chief, but before he spoke, a woman stepped forward and chattered at the old man. After several minutes, Zeb, his features drawn with worry, returned to the colonel.

Grady’s chest tightened with fear at the look on Zeb’s face. “Well, what happened? Tell me!”

Zeb pointed to a woman. “She says Yellow Dog was killed by the Sioux. She, along with the rest of the women and children escaped. The next morning when they returned, it was to find all their men, including Yellow Dog, dead. This is the tribe of her husband’s family. She has returned here to raise her children.”

“Did she see my daughters?” Excitement warred with fear. Oh, God, how would he live
with himself if anything had happened to his little Emma?

After Zeb repeated the question, the woman turned to him, her voice earnest, yet frightened. “Says Yellow Dog returned with a woman with hair the color of fire, but she never saw a child. And after the attack, the woman was gone.”

A young boy stepped forward. He showed no sign of fear as he spoke to the chief. “Now what?” Grady demanded.

“This boy is the woman’s son. He says he knows who killed his father and the rest of the Arikara warriors.”

Grady turned to the boy. “Speak, boy. Who?”

At a nod from his chief, the boy said,
“Waagliheya Wakiyan.”

Zeb glanced at Grady. “Name means Striking Thunder.”

Grady knew that name, knew of the young chief who was determined to protect his land from the white man. At the thought of the fierce Sioux holding his daughter, his heart plummeted. He turned his gaze toward the west, toward Sioux land. His hopes of finding Emma and Renny alive dipped. The Sioux were the fiercest and most feared tribe in the region. They would be the hardest to subdue if it came to a battle to free Emma, even supposing he found her.

The Sioux traveled and lived in small groups during most of the year, spreading themselves out across the plains and at the end of summer, they gathered in great numbers for celebrations and to conduct their sun-dance ceremonies. With winter approaching, they’d be even more spread out. Even the individual clans tended to separate along rivers in the winter, which made gathering them together for searches difficult.

Grady scanned the sky, noting the dark, ominous clouds. Another blast of cold air stung his cheeks. “We’ve got to find them.”

Zeb frowned. “Beggin’ yer pardon, Kern’l, but the snows are comin’. We don’t have much time left and we’s nearly out of rations.”

He considered his options and realized Zeb was right. Grady motioned for the soldiers to mount and when they were a safe distance away, he called a halt. His contingent of forty soldiers were bone-tired and cold. Culling out ten of his best men, he sent the rest back to the fort.

He pointed his horse to the west and motioned the small group forward.

On foot, Striking Thunder wandered for a day then headed into the Black Hills, toward the towering Great Gray Rock jutting from a thick nest of pines and spruces. There, he would seek answers. It was there he’d had his first vision and learned that his sign in times of battle would be a flaming arrow.

Another more recent vision had provided him with his raven as a special helper. Now he returned to seek new answers with regard to the white woman. Here, he’d lament and beg the spirits to tell him how to cleanse himself of her strong appeal. Reaching the base of the rock, he started his climb. Buffeted by frigid winds, he scrambled for a hold, his fingers so cold that he no longer felt them.

At the top, he tossed down his bundle of supplies: a warm robe, his bow, his quiver of arrows and his shield—the only items needed by a warrior on the move. Inside the robe, he’d carried rocks. Taking them out, he set one down then placed the other four at points far around it, forming a large circle. Around his waist, he had his sacred medicine bundle.

Wearing leggings and a buckskin shirt made by Meadowlark in preparation for the forthcoming winter, he lifted his hands to the heavens. Fringe dangled from his arms, playthings for the wind to toss and tangle. He turned in a circle, stopping at each direction to give a prayer, his voice loud and true as he lamented.

After an hour, he went to the edge of the cliff and surveyed the land that stretched out into eternity. As far as the eye could see, prairie, broken only by the occasional rolling hill or flat-topped mesa, met his gaze. Plumes of smoke from several campfires drifted toward the heavens.

Returning to the circle formed by the four rocks, he untied his medicine pouch. From inside, he pulled out some sweet sage, crushed and sprinkled it across the rock that was inside his rock-formed boundary. Then he donned the newly tanned robe he’d brought. He’d painted it with white streaks of clay to signify purity.

His hands held up he continued to lament, asking
Mahpiya,
the spirits of the heavens, to honor him with another vision. As he did so, he walked slowly from rock to rock, staying inside the bounds he’d outlined. His feet moved painfully slowly. One full circle took him nearly an hour. When darkness fell, he sat but still chanted.

For the next two days, he alternated between walking, sitting and standing. He took no food or water. His voice grew hoarse. Cold, exhausted and hungry, he refused to let up. He had to prove to the Great Spirit that he was worthy of a vision.

Emma fretted over Striking Thunder’s absence. It had been several days. How long would he be gone? She seesawed between wanting to see him one last time and the need to escape before he came back. “You are quiet these past few days, Emma.” Starting guiltily, Emma glanced over at Star. She truly liked the woman; she had become the older sister Emma had never had. If only circumstances were different. “I must be tired,” she offered as an excuse. The last thing she needed was for Striking Thunder’s sister to learn of the turmoil she fought.

Star gave her a penetrating look but didn’t question. Instead, she packed her and her children’s belongings, as Emma did the same with her own. Once again, the tribe was moving to a new location. Within minutes, the tipi was dismantled, their poles tied to the horses to form travois on which all their possessions were carried. Emma trudged alongside the horse.

At her side, Morning Moon slipped her hand into Emma’s. Emma’s heart tugged for the bittersweet relationship she’d formed with the girl who reminded her of Renny. She missed her sister—missed her terribly—and not a day went by when she didn’t think of and pray for her.
How could she ever have thought she could turn the girl over to their father? Only now did she realize just how important Renny was to her. And when she found her, she’d never let anything separate them. Fighting tears, she took a deep, shuddering breath.

“You are sad.”

Emma glanced down into Morning Moon’s intense brown eyes. Her first reaction was to lie and make excuses but she couldn’t. Though the girl was just a year older than Renny, there was something mature about her. She was a quiet and reserved child, but at times, like now, those young eyes held a world of wisdom in their depths.

“Yes, I am sad.”

“You miss your sister.”

Again Emma nodded. “Yes, I miss Renny.”

Morning Moon tipped her head to one side. “I’d like to know more about her. Tell me about her.”

Star joined them. She spoke to her daughter. “You must not ask questions. You made her cry.”

Emma brushed back the tears. “No. It’s okay. I’d like to tell you about Renny.” Star already knew how her father had left her and Emma’s devotion to Renny. So she pulled from her heart anecdotes of her sister’s escapades. They headed north. The Black Hills were on their left and the river to their right. At the split in the river, they changed course, heading west. Emma kept track of their position.

A halt was called near the base of the hills, the site for their new camp. But this time, instead of forming several circles within circles, each family set their tipi up along the banks of the river. That evening, they had visitors in the form of a group of warriors on horseback, who were greeted warmly and with much enthusiasm. Emma turned to Star Dreamer. “Who are they?”

Star was evasive. “They are Cheyenne.”

“Are they friendly?”

“We are friendly with the Cheyenne.”

Emma, her time with Yellow Dog still fresh in her mind, looked doubtful. One warrior glanced at her and when he came near, she refused to cower though she wondered what would happen should he decide to claim her and take her from the absent Striking Thunder.

When he reached out to finger one of her long braids, she stepped back. Forget being brave. She’d run like mad if she had to. No one was taking her anywhere. But to her surprise, he turned his attention to Star Dreamer and said something, using hand gestures as well. He pointed to her hair several times, then returned to the fire where his warriors were eating the meal being served to them.

“What was that all about?”

Star Dreamer didn’t answer. Her manner turned evasive once again. “He just made a comment on your hair.” Standing, she hurried to her parents’ tipi to help her mother serve hot stew to their guests.

Emma, relieved to have the visiting warrior occupied, stood. Perhaps she’d spend the evening in the tipi. Striking Thunder’s warning of tribes was ringing in her ears. But before she could slip inside, a resentment-filled voice stopped her.

“Star does not tell all.”

Recognizing the spiteful tone of Tanagila, Emma was tempted to keep going and ignore the troublemaking girl. She was tired of being taunted every time they came face to face. Yet,
something in the girl’s voice made Emma glance over her shoulder. “If you have something to say, Tanagila, say it. I do not care to decipher your riddles tonight.”

Something in the girl’s features changed. Her gaze shifted, turned sly and calculating. “This maiden knows what you do not.” Grabbing Emma by the arm, she pulled her away from the camp. “Come.”

Emma tried to stop but was dragged along. Finally, Tanagila stopped next to a tree. The dark shadows concealed them. “Star Dreamer not tell you Night Hunter has captive with red hair.”

Emma eyed Tanagila. “So? What does that have to do with me? I feel for the poor woman, but there is little I can do?”

“Ah, I never said it was a woman.”

It didn’t take but a split second for the words to sink in. Emma closed the distance between them. “It’s a child?”

Tanagila smirked and walked past Emma. “Now you understand.”

Emma grabbed her arm. “Wait. Tell me. Where is his village?”

“I do not know.” With a shake of her head and a slyly cast glance, Tanagila smiled coyly. “I could find out.”

At that, Emma snorted in disbelief. “Why would you help me? Do you expect me to trust you?” Thinking furiously, she knew this could be her chance. So far, there’d been no hope of escaping. The horses were too well guarded. But if she had help?

Intense, all coyness gone, Tanagila lowered her voice. “You have no choice but to trust me, white girl. I want you gone.”

She was right. There was no choice for Emma. If Renny was safe, and in Night Hunter’s village, she had to go after her. No matter the risk. “How am I to get my sister from Night Hunter’s village?”

Tanagila shrugged. “I will give you a horse. You will go. That is all I care about.”

Emma knew the girl was threatened by her presence. It was no secret Tanagila turned down other warriors’ bids for marriage because she wanted the chief. But to consider Emma a threat? She flushed, recalling what had happened between her and Striking Thunder and conceded that the girl had every right to be worried—not that Striking Thunder would marry a white captive.

That desire, that hope that she shared with this girl gave her the courage to accept her offer. “All right. You find out, but I will decide when and how I leave.”

The girl nodded. Emma hurried back to the tipi. Inside, she paced. She had to leave immediately, before Striking Thunder returned. Even then, what she planned was risky. She knew only too well she risked capture again, but she had no choice. She had to find Renny.

Staring out into the night, she considered several plans. The village was spread out, which meant there wouldn’t be as many watchful eyes. And though the weather had turned cold, she had warm clothing and a thick buffalo robe. She grew warm. It was the one they’d nearly made love on.

Pacing, ridding herself of that memory, Emma focused her attention on what she planned to do. Though the dangers were great, there was no choice. To die trying to rescue her sister was better than to live with the guilt of betrayal if she did nothing.

Hugging herself, she knew once she left, there would be no turning back. She’d have to find Renny and get them both back to the fort safely on her own. Her mind turned to Striking Thunder. He’d come after her, of that she had no doubt. Her only hope lay in getting a large lead
on him. Though her mind was made up to leave before he returned, the thought of never seeing him again sent black despair seeping into her heart. But once again, family must come first.

For two days, Emma hoarded food, careful to take only her share and eat little. Tanagila had given her a general idea where to find Renny and she was anxious to leave. But she cautioned herself to do it carefully and methodically, so she watched, learned the routes of the guards and studied the layout of the land when she went to gather wood. The only thing that worried her was acquiring a horse. Stealing one was out. Not only were they well guarded but stealing was a severely punished crime. Of that, she’d been warned.

But, there was one horse, the one she’d stolen from Yellow Dog. Technically, it was
her
horse. Just because Striking Thunder had taken it from her didn’t make it his. So be it. She’d find a way to get it. Passing the small lodge reserved for women during their monthly bleeding, she glanced inside.

It was empty. She’d spent one week there, in the company of several other women. Rather than feeling ostracized, the women used that time to gossip, rest and work on whatever they wanted. Other women brought food and water. Returning to the hut, she studied it. Smiling, she went to find Tanagila. They had plans to make.

That afternoon, she packed the belongings that she would take with her and moved into the women’s lodge. All the next day, she went through the motions of a woman having her flow. Star brought her food and she accepted it but declined any company, pretending to be in pain. She felt terrible for deceiving her, but it couldn’t be helped.

That night, when no sound came from the sleeping village, Emma dressed warmly and pulled a dark buffalo robe around her shoulders and head. Taking a deep breath, she slipped out of the hut and into the dark. Around her waist, she’d tied bundles of food, and on her feet, she wore her lined moccasins. With silent steps, she followed the river east. As arranged, Tanagila had left her horse with added supplies tied to her back. Mounting, she kept the horse at a walk, glancing constantly over her shoulder. In her mind, she replayed the directions she’d been given.
When the river splits, follow it to the south, keeping the Black Hills to your right.
Night Hunter’s camp was located farther south from where they’d last been camped. Though Emma worried about finding it and freeing her sister without being captured herself, she had to try. Even if she were caught, then she’d be with Renny. Together she’d find a way for them to escape.

When she deemed she was far enough from Striking Thunder’s tribe, she urged the horse into a steady gallop. She had to put as much distance between them as possible. Her only chance lay in having Striking Thunder’s people believe she’d ridden east, toward the fort. They wouldn’t look for her in the west.

Striking Thunder sat in his circle atop Great Gray Rock, palms up, eyes closed, facing east, waiting for the appearance of
Wiyohiyanpa.
Today, the spirits would talk to him, guide him. After two full days with no food, water or sleep, his body was pure, cleansed. And spending those days walking within the confines of the rocks, praying and lamenting, never stepping out of the circle, his mind was now ready to receive a vision.

Standing on weak legs, he swayed in the wind. He continued to chant, his voice low and hoarse. The hours passed. The sun rose into the sky and still there came no vision. His vision blurred, his mind wandered and his legs shook. By afternoon, the air had turned bitterly cold, promising snow, yet he persevered.

But by nightfall, he had no choice but to sit, cross-legged, the backs of his hands on his knees, palms up. His lips moved, yet no words sounded. He closed his eyes, focused his mind on that to which he sought answers: the white woman and her hold over him. Why did she affect
him so? Why could he not put her from his mind? Even now, images of her danced behind his eyes: her head tilted back, exposing her long, slender neck, her mouth, slightly parted, her eyes closed, her red-dusted lashes brushing her cheeks. Her hair spilled down her back and swayed against her buttocks.