Savage Heat (30 page)

Martay’s dreamy smile widened and she was far from unhappy on her nineteenth birthday.

Her happiness didn’t last.

Night Sun returned the next morning, leading the new sorrel mare. Martay excitedly rushed out to meet him, hoping for a continuation of yesterday’s pervasive magnetism between them. There was none.

He was distant and impatient. Accompanying him was the aged old brave Speaks-Not-At-All, leading a paint pony. Night Sun inclined his dark head to the old man. “Speaks-Not-At-All is merely mute and deaf, not stupid. Don’t treat him as though he were.”

“I would never …”

“Yes, you would,” he cut her off. “I hold him responsible for looking after you, so don’t make it hard on him.” Unceremoniously, he reached out, plucked Martay from the ground, and lifted her astride the saddled sorrel mare. “Give him trouble and you’ll quickly answer to me.”

“Why would I cause him any trouble?” she said, annoyed that he automatically assumed she would create problems for the old brave.

Night Sun shrugged, brought the reins over the sorrel’s neck, and handed them to her. “If you have foolish notions of giving Speaks-Not-At-All the slip, let me warn you, there are dangerous renegade Crows hiding out in this valley.”

“I’m not afraid,” she said, and clicking her tongue to the mare, dug her moccasined heels into its flanks, anxious to be away from the dark, disagreeable man.

Night Sun’s arm shot out and he grabbed the mare’s bridle, halting its movement. He stepped up close to Martay, clutched the calf of her leg, and said, “Of course you aren’t afraid. You’re far too ignorant. But I’m warning you, if those Crows ever get their hands on you, you’ll pray for death.” He released her leg and nodded to Speaks-Not-At-All. The old warrior, standing stoically beside his paint pony, nodded back and climbed atop the paint’s bare back. Night Sun’s gaze swung back to Martay.

Wondering how she had ever imagined she could care for this sullen, insulting savage, Martay leaned close to his ear and said, “You know some-thing, Night Sun. I don’t like you!” And she jerked up on the long leather reins, wheeled her mare about, and thundered away. Speaks-Not-At-All followed right behind her.

Hands on his slim hips, Night Sun stood watching the pair gallop toward and soon disappear over the slope of the near horizon. Wondering how he could have, only yesterday, felt himself in danger of caring for such a belligerent, bothersome bitch, he said, “Good, goddamnit. I don’t want you to like me.”

27

T
rembling with anticipation, she let her fingers flutter admiringly across his broad, bare chest and down his belly. He lay flat on his back, smiling with pleasure, his hand idly stroking the arch of her hip. Naked in the afternoon August heat, their bodies glistened with a fine sheen of perspiration.

Lazily he reached for her unbound hair and combed his fingers through its shimmering length. She lowered her mouth to his and licked at his full lips, teasing him, toying with him, until his fingers tightened in her flowing hair and he forced her mouth more fully to his, kissing her deeply, hungrily.

When finally their lips separated, she inhaled deeply, put her hands atop his wide shoulders and slid slowly, sensuously up and down his prone body until he anxiously grabbed her and rolled over, pushing her onto her back and moving atop her.

Inflamed, she murmured her gratitude when he swiftly took her once again, the third time he had enthusiastically made love to her since the noon hour. Anxiously, eagerly, they moved together, she admiring the contours of his passion-hardened face, he with his eyes tightly closed; and when their climax began, both were so lost in the lusty act and were making so much noise, they didn’t hear the approaching horses.

But when, sated and breathless, they quieted and fell apart, she heard male voices and momentarily froze. Then, scurrying from the bed, she ran across the spacious room and, hiding behind the heavy drapery, cautiously peeked out.

Dropping the curtain as if it were afire, she flew back to the bed, repeating worriedly, “Oh, my God! Oh, my God!”

The big, tired man in the bed lazily opened his eyes and saw her stricken face. Alarm surging through him, he nervously swung his long legs over the bed’s edge.

“What is it, Regina?”

“Larry, Larry, they’re back! My husband and your father, they’ve come home!”

“No!” he said, not wanting to believe it, unease tightening his chest. “Dad’s not due back from Denver for a couple of days and Colonel Darlington will be at Fort Collins with General Kidd until …

“They are both right downstairs! Quickly, put on your trousers and get out of my bedroom!”

“Regina, we’re not in your room. We’re in one of the guest bedrooms.”

“Oh, dear God, where are my clothes?”

Martay found the wrinkled, mahogany-skinned old brave Speaks-Not-At-All to be the perfect riding companion. He could neither speak nor hear, so he smiled and nodded agreeably to anything she suggested. It made for some very satisfying one-sided conversations, allowing her to get a lot of things off her chest without the danger of her innermost thoughts being repeated.

That first morning she and Speaks-Not-At-All rode up onto, then along, the ridge paralleling the village, winding along the heavily timbered bluffs, looking at the busy camp below. After traveling less than a mile, Martay pulled up on her sorrel mare’s reins, turned in the saddle to look at the old warrior, and hesitantly ventured, “I think your surly half-breed chieftain, Night Sun, is a real pain in the neck, don’t you?” She favored him with one of her most appealing smiles.

Speaks-Not-At-All, anxious to be congenial, bobbed his head up and down and smiled back at her.

“I thought you’d agree. Has he always been such a moody bastard?” Again she smiled. Again he nodded, and she knew she’d found the sounding board for all her pent-up feelings.

Never one to keep things to herself, Martay told the trusted old warrior exactly how she felt about everything. Told him she was still in the dark and baffled by what had happened. That she didn’t understand her capture; couldn’t figure out why Night Sun hadn’t ransomed her to her father.

And stroking the mare’s sleek neck, she added as an afterthought that she couldn’t fathom how Night Sun knew it was her birthday and why, when it was obvious he liked her no more than she liked him, he would give her something as valuable as the beautiful sorrel mare and hand-tooled Mexican saddle.

Two mornings later, while she and Speaks-Not-At-All stopped to water their horses, she wound the long reins around the saddlehorn and, lifting her hot hair up off her shoulders, said truthfully, “Speaks, I am so confused, I think sometimes I must be going crazy.” He nodded and smiled at her. “You see, I know I should hate Night Sun, and I do, of course I do, but … but … there are times I … I feel as though”—she released her hair and shook her head, then continued—“Oh, Speaks, at times I think I love him. Can that be possible? Can I actually love a man I don’t understand, a half-breed who has cruelly kidnapped me and brought me here against my will and treats me now as though I don’t exist?”

Martay’s smile had slipped as she spoke and her voice had lowered, her tone grown wistful. She looked up to see the old brave studying her face, an expression of concern in his kind old eyes. Quickly she laughed and said, “You’re right. It isn’t love I feel for him. It’s just that he’s … well, let’s face it, Speaks, he is the kind of man women find intriguing. He’s brooding and somber and silent so much of the time, I can’t help but wonder what he is thinking. Please tell me it’s only natural for me to be helplessly attracted to him.” She nodded her head, and taking her lead, he nodded and smiled eagerly, his watery black eyes twinkling.

“I’m glad you feel that way. I’ve been so worried, but that’s foolish. Night Sun, for all his dark, masculine good looks, is cold and uncaring and I could never love a man like that. I feel better knowing we’ve got this cleared up. Thank you, Speaks. I appreciate your help. I’m glad you can see that he cares for no one but himself.”

That same afternoon Martay, seated alone before Gentle Deer’s tipi, looked up to see Night Sun, tall and commanding, striding unhurriedly through the camp, his hard, handsome face set, that all-too-familiar aura of impenetrability about him.

A near-naked little boy went running straight at Night Sun, and Martay was watching when the laughing, screaming child reached the unsmiling, silent man. In an instant Night Sun’s face changed and he immediately crouched down, captured the tiny boy between his knees, and cupping the small, dark head in lean, gentle hands, gave his dirty, laughing face a kiss.

Martay blinked in disbelief.

And watched, entranced, as Night Sun teased and tickled the child, his own eyes crinkling at the corners, love and laughter shining from their black depths. Martay felt a lump form in her throat as tiny pudgy hands lifted to affectionately pat Night Sun’s dark face and Night Sun made no move to avoid the poking, probing fingers, instead laughed heartily.

She caught herself smiling when Night Sun lifted the tiny boy up and kissed his smooth chest, then playfully blew and bit on his bare tummy, snorting and growling loudly while the child squealed with delight and pulled Night Sun’s raven hair, begging him to stop.

Only to beg him to do it “one more time” when Night Sun lifted his head.

As the long, lovely Indian summer days went by, Martay saw other signs of a gentle man beneath a foreboding exterior. She spent every waking hour, save for her morning rides with Speaks, at Gentle Deer’s tipi and so was present, on more than one occasion, when Night Sun visited his grandmother. No man could have been kinder to the aging woman than he. He worried if he heard her cough, threatened if she didn’t eat properly, listened intently, never showing any of his usual impatience, when she spoke fondly of the old days, recounting stories she’d told numerous times before. He was respectful, thoughtful, and affectionate, not embarrassed to kiss and hug his grandmother when he entered and left her lodge.

That he was idolized by the tribe was apparent. The braves looked to him as a leader, second only to Windwalker, none displaying any jealousy of his position, only complete loyalty and faith. The women looked on him as a benevolent god, the married ones felt honored if he took a meal with their families, the single maidens were awed by his physical beauty and air of command. The children worshiped him, sensing in him a kindred spirit, a boy at heart who loved to wrestle and shout and play just as they did.

The longer Martay observed him, the more in love she fell, and watching him with his people, the people he cared for and protected, Martay realized it was more than purely physical attraction she felt for him. Night Sun was a very lovable man. A remarkable man. A considerate, kind, thoughtful human being.

To everyone but her.

Determined she would change that, Martay went out of her way to be more like the gentle, sweet-tempered people he loved so well. Taking her cue from them, she stopped complaining, stopped being argumentative, stopped being lazy. She was congenial, dependable, and industrious, and if Night Sun didn’t notice, Gentle Deer did.

She praised Martay on tasks well done and asked if she would like a pretty new dress for Peaceful Dove’s wedding. At once Martay said, “Oh, Gentle Deer, I do! I want a soft white dress as lovely as Peaceful Dove’s.”

“This cannot be, Martay. You are not the bride.”

“No … I … I am sorry, I …”

“Do not apologize. I have a doeskin of palest beige; is soft as the velvet collar on the great coat my grandson once wore home from Boston. I have been saving it. We will make your dress from it.”

Martay brightened. “Will you show me how to sew beads on it?”

The old woman reminded her, “When first you come to my lodge, you did not wish to learn.”

“I know, but I’ve changed a lot since then, don’t you think?”

Gentle Deer studied her thoughtfully with sightless eyes and said softly, “Don’t change too much, child.”

“Why not?”

Gentle Deer simply looked at her, a mysterious smile lifting the corners of her drooping mouth.

After her horseback ride each morning, Martay could hardly wait to get to Gentle Deer’s. The new dress required a lot of time-consuming work and the wedding was less than two weeks away. She was looking forward to the big celebration along with the rest of the village and was still vain enough to want to be the prettiest woman there.

Well, the prettiest, after the bride.

Excitement rose as the day approached and she saw her soft doeskin dress grow more beautiful with every colorful bead she painstakingly sewed to its yoke. As she sewed, she pricked her fingers more times than she could count, but refused to give in to the impulse to swear and complain and toss the garment aside.

It was to be a special occasion with all the Windwalker band in attendance. Including the elusive Night Sun. So Martay wanted, very much, to look so pretty, she couldn’t keep from attracting his attention at the celebration and hoped the dress might help do the trick.

“Tell me again what the wedding festivities will be like, Gentle Deer,” Martay said, and paused to suck at a pricked forefinger. She listened intently as Gentle Deer told of the feast and singing and dancing that would last until far into the night. So caught up was Martay, she didn’t realize that Night Sun had come silently into the tipi and stood quietly behind her, listening too.

His grandmother knew he was there. Was even aware of the unguarded tenderness in his eyes as he looked down on the golden head below him. Felt the sweet aching in his heart as though it were in her own. Knew the instant Martay became aware of his presence.

And smiled when Martay, leaning her head way back, supported her weight on stiff elbows, looked smilingly up at him, and said, almost shyly, “Night Sun, will you dance with me at the wedding celebration?”

Gentle Deer was certain her grandson smiled warmly down at Martay when he answered, “Yes, my
Wicincala,”
then backed away and left.

Martay slowly lowered her head.
Wicincala.
He called her
Wicincala.
He had called her that once before, though she had forgotten about it until now. Now, as he said it, she remembered. It was when she was sick and he was bringing her to Windwalker. He’d had on that black tuxedo and they were atop his black stallion. She’d asked him not to let her die and he had said, “I won’t,
Wicincala.
Never.”