White Flame (20 page)

Outside, the loud snap of a snow-laden branch breaking startled her. Her horse snorted and thrashed, trying to free itself. Fearing she’d lose the animal, her only form of transportation out of this harsh land, Emma crawled from her shelter and untied it. She needed better shelter for the horse. But where? The sudden loud wail of wind slamming through the treetops sent the mare into a blind panic. Already skittish from the storm, it danced and snorted in a circle around
Emma, finally pulling free from Emma’s icy fingers. Emma dove after her but fell. The horse ran off. “Oh, no,” she cried. “Come back!”

Scrambling to her feet, Emma quickly realized she had no hope of catching the animal. She needed to get back to her own shelter before the storm obliterated her footprints. Retracing her steps back, she crawled back into her shelter, distraught and sick with fear. Alone, scared and cold, Emma hugged herself tightly and listened to the wind howl outside.

Time lost all meaning. Cold seeped into her bones and her eyes grew heavy. Blinking rapidly, she rubbed her eyes and fought the urge to sleep. But after a while, she put her head down onto her knees and pulled herself into as tight a ball as she could in a futile attempt to keep warm.

Her eyes drifted shut. For a minute, she promised herself. She’d just rest her eyes for a minute.

Grady led his group of exhausted soldiers onward, toward the hills. Despite the turn of the weather, he pressed forward, driven to find his daughters. At every Indian camp, they stopped and searched then rode on to the next. But the results were the same. There was no sign of Emma or Renny, and no one who could or would tell him where to find Striking Thunder’s camp.

Frustrated, he stared out at the hills. Time was running out with the arrival of snow. They weren’t equipped to spend the winter on the plains. If only he could get someone to tell him where to find Striking Thunder, but the Indians were tight-lipped and protective of their own.

Two days later, the first snows fell, slowing their progress further. The Black Hills were still a fair distance away. Zeb rode up beside him. “The men are tired, cold and hungry. You’ve got to turn back, Kern’l. The storm is worsening. I know you want to find your daughters, but we risk starving. Our food is nearly gone and game is scarce.”

Grady rubbed his gloved hands over his beard, dislodging flakes of clinging snow. He knew the scout was right, but
damn!
Everything in him rebelled against giving up. His girls were out here, he knew it. He
felt it.

Lifting his pistol, he fired off five shots in a pattern. Nothing. No sound. No shouts. If Emma was nearby, would she recognize the old code they’d once shared? Memories flooded his mind. Whenever Emma got into trouble, his wife had punished her by confining her to her room. Dinner had been brought to her but without her favorite course—dessert. Grady, unable to deny his daughter anything, had always sneaked into the nursery late at night, using his secret knock. Together, he and his daughter had shared dessert and a glass of milk.

He knew Margaret Mary had known of his giving Emma dessert on the sly. She’d even seemed amused by his sneaking it to her, but she’d never said anything to him and he suspected that was why she’d punished Emma so. It was enough to get across to Emma that she’d done wrong, yet, it allowed him to reassure her that both he and her mother loved her no matter what she did. Bittersweet memories continued to wash over him.

No matter what it took, he’d find his daughters. Taking his field glasses, he searched the area. Nothing but white.
Wait.
Near the hills, he spotted movement. Disappointment rose when he realized it was only a horse. Reloading, he fired off five shots and waited. Using his binoculars, he scanned the area. No sign of movement. Even the horse was gone, scared off by the gunfire.

With tears in his eyes, he pulled his treasured lock of hair from his pocket. How could he leave, give up? How could he have left her in the first place? Defeated, he closed his fist around that lock of hair, and gave the command to turn back.

Emma dreamed. Once again, she was a young child. A soft knock sounded on her bedroom door.
One, two. Pause. Then the third, fourth and fifth knock in rapid succession. She giggled. It was her father, using their secret code. He entered, slipping inside with a finger pressed to his lips. In his hands, he carried a bowl of Mama’s apple pie, two spoons and a glass of milk.

“Papa!” she squealed, jumping up to hug him.

He set down his offerings, swung her up in his arms and crushed her to him in a bear hug.

“We must be quiet or your mother will hear.”

Emma nodded. She’d gotten in trouble and her mother had taken away her dessert. But Papa always sneaked her some. Nestled against his solid warmth, they giggled and ate their dessert, and when he tucked her beneath her thick coverlet, it was with the certain knowledge that he loved her. The dream faded as cold seeped into her bones but over and over, she heard the loud knocking pattern. Only, now it sounded like gunfire.

One shot, two, followed by silence then a third, fourth and fifth in rapid succession. Then silence. It was repeated. Startled, confused, she sat. “Papa?” She listened. It came again. “Papa!” she shouted, her voice thick with sleep. She fought her way from the stick-and-brush enclosure, now covered with a thick layer of snow, and fell into the deep snowdrift.

Struggling to her feet, silence and blinding white greeted her. She stumbled forward. “Papa,” she screamed again and again but the wind absorbed the sound. “Please,” she gasped. “Papa, I’m here. I’m here.” Sobbing, she fell to her knees and prayed for the signal to sound again so she’d know which way to go. But there was nothing more. Only cold bleakness.

Snow swirled around her, coating her, clinging to her hair, making sight impossible. Had it only been a dream? Wishful thinking on her part? Shivering uncontrollably, Emma struggled to find her shelter. To her dismay, in her haste to leave it, she’d destroyed it. Suddenly, she was tired, too tired to care. Falling onto the pile of fallen branches and pine boughs, she curled up into a tight ball.

Night fell, bringing chilling temperature drops. Calculating the path Emma would hopefully take to reach Night Hunter’s village, Striking Thunder had a fair idea how far she’d gotten. By not stopping, he hoped to overtake her. By his estimations, she had nearly a day’s head start on horseback but in this weather, a horse wasn’t much of an advantage. Snowshoes strapped to his feet allowed him to keep up a steady pace.

Every so often, he stopped to listen for any sound of her or her horse but the only sound he heard was the wind slinging snow across the plains. Dressed in his warmest clothing with a thick furry buffalo hide wrapped around his shoulders and covering his head, the biting wind still managed to seep through and sting his face.

What about Emma? Just thinking of her out here, alone, shattered his control and sent ripples of apprehension through him. She wasn’t accustomed to traveling in near-blizzard conditions. Would she take shelter or keep going? Did she have enough robes to keep from freezing?

At midmorning, he rounded a small curve in the river near the base of the hills. His eyes hurt from the blinding snow and the cold wind. Head down to get some relief, he almost missed seeing the dark brown horse near the trees. The animal lifted its head and shook its mane at him. With a surge of excitement and hope, Striking Thunder recognized the animal as the mare Emma had stolen from Yellow Dog to make her escape.

When the horse trotted over, he grabbed the lead rope and swept the blanket of snow from its back. He checked for signs of injury. Relieved to find none, he scanned the area. Where was Emma? She wouldn’t have left the horse to roam loose. Which meant it had either broken free from being tethered or the mare had thrown its rider. A slight lessening of wind and snow allowed him to scan the area but visibility was still poor.

Worry churned in his gut. Everywhere he looked, he saw white, no bright patch of golden-red. Realizing Emma could be nearby, or several miles away, hope of finding her dimmed. She could be unconscious, lying beneath a layer of snow within several feet of him and he’d never know. Guilt raged inside his heart. This was his fault. If he’d brought Renny to her, she’d never have run off in the middle of a winter storm to find the child.

Tipping his head back, he let out a long, loud cry to catch the attention of the spirits. Then he begged for their help. “You spoke to me. Gave me the white woman known as Emma. Lead me to her so I might fulfill my vision quest.”

To his relief,
Mahpiya
heard his invocation and took pity on him. Though the clouds above him remained swollen, the snow slowed to sparse flurries. Striking Thunder gave thanks then resumed his search. He didn’t have much time before the heavens once again dumped a load of snow on the land. Painstakingly, he checked along the riverbanks and then moved up to the base of the hills, looking for any sign of Emma. Nothing.

“Emma. Emma.” Over and over he called her name. Where was she? Was she injured? Dead? His gut tightened at the thought. He couldn’t lose her. The sudden and unexpected sight of Black Cloud flying overhead drew his attention. The bird normally stayed sheltered within the protection of trees during the storms. But it circled, its caw loud in warning.

The sharp report of gunfire followed, startling both him and the bird. The raven flew into the thick cover of forest. Striking Thunder stood, poised. When the shots came again, the same pattern as before, he listened to the echoes. Whoever it was, they were close. Half a mile at the most. Scanning the snow-covered prairie, he couldn’t see anyone. Who was out there? Friend or foe?

Leaving Emma’s mare beneath a tree, he slid into the forest and climbed rapidly. From his vantage point, he was now able to spot a small dark blur marring the blanket of white. A tribe on the move? Not likely in this weather. With sudden insight, Striking Thunder knew they were soldiers. Emma’s father hadn’t given up the search. He hunkered down to watch. If they continued toward him, he would have to abandon his search for Emma and go warn his people.

After another volley, silence fell. Then, to his relief, the distant dark speck faded as they turned back. After another few minutes, they were gone entirely. Striking Thunder headed back down the snow-covered hill. There was no time to lose. He had to find Emma.

The wind chose that moment to wail through the trees, bringing with it a sudden onslaught of snow flurries as the heavy clouds released their burdens once again. He froze in his tracks to listen to the wailing wind. Was that a cry he heard? A woman’s voice? Again, it came.
Emma!
It had to be her. She was here, somewhere.

“Emma!” The blast of cold air tore the words from his throat. He slid and slipped down the hill and plunged among the trees, unable to pinpoint where her voice had come from. He turned in a slow circle. The raven left the shelter of the trees and perched on top of a pile of snow, plucking at some pine boughs.

Striking Thunder ran past, keeping to the edge of the forest, sure she would have taken refuge among the trees. But there were so many trees. With a flap of wings, Black Cloud landed on his shoulder. Striking Thunder pressed the edge of his hand against the bird’s feet to remove it. He didn’t have time for the bird right now. He had to find Emma.

But when the raven stepped onto his fingers, a glint of red tangled around one of the bird’s claws caught his attention. Striking Thunder stopped and pulled the single strand of hair free. Emma! The bird was forever trying to pluck at her bright hair. He held the bird at eye level. “Oh, wise bird, my helpmate, you know where the woman is. You came to me in my vision. Now show me.” He tossed the bird into the air.

The bird flapped its wings and returned to the pine boughs where he’d perched moments ago. Again, he plucked. Striking Thunder lurched forward, and he saw it. Shoving through the knee-deep snow, he caught a glimpse of Emma’s golden-red hair.

A frantic voice broke through the white fog shrouding Emma in a cloak of silence. Her lips moved. “Papa.” She tried to move, but couldn’t feel any part of her. Her eyes refused to open.
Trapped.
She was trapped in a world of blinding white. The voice came again, urging her to break free of the numbing bliss stealing over her. She tried but didn’t have the energy.

Emma had no idea of the passage of time or how long she lay in a numbing world but with a suddenness that caused pain, the cottony cocoon vanished beneath an onslaught of needlelike pain traveling through her fingers and feet. A voice demanded that she wake. She cried out, but her voice was only a hoarse croak.

“
Kikta yo.
Wake up! Open your eyes!” Striking Thunder commanded, rubbing her fingers.

“Hurts,” she gasped, opening her eyes. Her vision cleared. Striking Thunder leaned over her, his features tight, his lips compressed.

He speared her with his piercing eyes. “You are lucky to be alive. You nearly died out in that storm.” He stood.

Too confused to understand his anger, Emma cried out, “Don’t leave me.” Her teeth chattered uncontrollably.

He bent back down, lifted her head and held the water pouch to her lips. She drank then he laid her down, tucking the fur tightly around her. “Shh. Relax. We’re safe from the storm in a
cave. I’m not going anywhere.”

She watched him walk over to a fire and toss bits of bark onto the glowing flames. Emma turned her head. Firelight danced on the gray walls. Grotesque shadows danced and loomed and made Emma nervous. When he returned to her side, she breathed easier. Striking Thunder continued to massage her hands and feet. Slowly, the warmth from the fire stole over her but it wasn’t enough. She shivered, her body wracked with cold and incredible sharp stabs of pain as her blood began flowing again.

She opened her mouth to ask him how he’d found her but Striking Thunder stood and, with quick movements, shucked off his clothing, all but his loincloth. He moved beneath the furs and took her in his arms, pulling her back tight against his front, curling his legs around her.

Emma, to her dismay, realized she was naked beneath the fur, but the warmth from his body stealing into hers stilled her protests. Slowly, her body calmed. One of his hands rested just beneath her breasts. She grabbed hold of him. “Don’t leave me,” she repeated, afraid.

“
Mni kte sni yelo.
I won’t go. Now sleep.
Istima yo.
”

Emma allowed the soft caress of his deep murmurs to lure her back into a dreamless sleep. Just before darkness closed over her, she whispered, “Papa was here.”

She never heard Striking Thunder’s “I know,” or saw the tenderness in his gaze as he watched her sleep. And she didn’t feel the press of his lips just below her ear as he shifted and drew her even closer to his body’s warmth.

Striking Thunder woke to the soft warmth of Emma’s body wrapped around his. He smiled and pulled the furs tighter against them. Outside the cave to which he’d brought Emma yesterday, the ravaging storm continued. Pain lanced his heart when he realized how close he’d come to losing her. And the realization that it mattered shook him deeply. He shouldn’t care. But he did, and not just for his plans of revenge. He stared at the rocky ceiling.

Emma, with her brave spirit, her loyalty to her sister and father, her gentleness with the children of his tribe, and her incredible talent for seeing what most whites didn’t, had broken through the protective layer he’d built around his heart. No longer could he keep his emotions at bay. His heart and mind warred with the knowledge.

Shifting his gaze to the woman asleep, her head pillowed on his shoulder, Striking Thunder found Emma staring at him with sleep-clouded eyes the color of a misty lake. Lifting his hand, he brushed a bright red strand from her face and trailed his finger down the side of her cheek. “Foolish woman.” His voice was tender.

Tears pooled in Emma’s eyes. “I tried to find Renny. Night Hunter has her.” Her voice came out a mere whisper. “But I failed again.” Ashamed, she turned away.

Gently, Striking Thunder tipped her head back, forcing her to look at him. “Explain how you failed again?”

Emma stared at him, her eyes wide and troubled. “I didn’t protect my sister. I should never have left home and exposed her to this danger.”

Striking Thunder absently rubbed her hair between his thumb and forefinger. Though the wilderness was no place for a white woman and child, he’d never have met her if she hadn’t gone in search of her father. “It was meant to be…”

Tears slipped down the sides of her face. Her lips trembled. “How can you say that?” she cried. “Those soldiers were murdered because of me. If I’d stayed onboard the steamboat instead of being in such a hurry, none of this would have happened. Yellow Dog would never have seen me, or attacked those soldiers to get me.” She closed her eyes and pressed her fingers to her lips.

Striking Thunder recalled the grisly scene of ambush and could only imagine the terror
she’d gone through. “It does no good to torment yourself with blame. I cannot explain, except to say that my sister foresaw your coming. You were meant to be with us for this short time. The spirits have spoken.”

Emma’s eyes flashed with denial and anger. “Don’t expect me to believe that I’m here just so you can try and have your stupid revenge.”

Rolling over, he covered her body with his and cupped her face between his hands. He didn’t want to talk about her father or even think of him. “Then believe you are here for me. For this.”

Gently, he covered her mouth with his own. Her lips parted with a sigh and he slid his tongue inside, basking in her sweet moistness. With his touch alone he sought to convince her that this—they—were meant to be. He knew the rightness of it. He only feared that after experiencing all this woman had to offer, he’d never be able to let her go. But that was months off. After all, if the spirits had given her to him, he had to believe they would give him the strength to do right by his people.

Emma broke off the kiss with a moan. She shifted beneath him. Her gaze grew wide as if she just realized she was naked beneath the furs. Her fingers spread across his bare chest. “We can’t do this.”

Bringing her hand to his mouth, he kissed her palm then each finger. “Yes, we can. We will.” Striking Thunder lowered his head back to her mouth, kissing away her protests. Against his chest, he felt the soft swells of her breasts. Needing to see her, feel her, all of her, he lifted his head and tossed the fur off him.

Glancing down between them, he reacquainted himself with her full, pale breasts. “Beautiful,” he said, his voice hoarse with need. He scooped one full mound into the palm of his hand then lowered his head. Reverently, he kissed the pink bud, first with his mouth then by sweeping his tongue over the firm, beaded tip.

Her chest rose beneath him and her soft whimper wrapped him in silken threads, binding him to her. His need for her grew and he moved to her other breast, then did what he’d longed to do that first night when he’d seen her bare flesh. He buried his head between the generous swells and inhaled deeply, filling his nostrils with her scent and warmth.

Lost in a sea of incredible sensations, Emma threaded her fingers through Striking Thunder’s cloud of dark hair, holding him to her breasts, lifting herself to encourage him to continue his fondling. Whether it was his fingers kneading her, or his warm mouth drawing her aching nipples inside to suckle with urgent need, or his tongue snaking out to tease her sensitive flesh, Emma was on fire. Gone was the cold of the night before.

Her heart pounded furiously, her skin flushed with heat and need as Striking Thunder ignited her passion. His palm slid down her belly, and he lifted his head. With eyes glazed with need, his fingers found that hidden part of her that swelled beneath his touch. Her hips lifted and she pulled him to her, claiming his lips in a kiss that demanded as well as gave.

Secluded in the cave with the sound of the storm outside, Emma felt a tide of passion cresting within her. She pulled her lips from his, but kept her hands wrapped in his long hair as need swept her into another world.