Savage Heat (37 page)

“I will take you back to camp,” said Night Sun, and refused to listen when the old warrior said he would walk back. Wanting to hurry, but far too respectful of the old man’s dignity to lift him up onto the horse as though he were a child, Night Sun patiently waited while a still-dizzy Speaks mounted the black.

As soon as he was settled, Night Sun climbed up and was wheeling the horse about. At camp’s edge, Night Sun pulled up, allowed Speaks-Not-At-All to climb down unaided, and said, his voice kind and level, “Do not worry. I will bring her back.” He leaned down and affectionately patted the old Indian’s shoulder. “I must go,” he said “hurry home. It is going to rain.”

* * *

Martay cautiously guided her mare through corridors of high, jutting ridges of rock and wrinkled draws. The sun intermittently went behind the heavy clouds and already the smell of rain was strong in the heavy air. She peered up at the towering bluffs and down at the deep ravines and wondered what this wild country might be like in a rainstorm.

She pulled up on the sorrel and stood in the stirrups, looking anxiously about for a path that would lead her to the top of the fluted ridges that rose threateningly around her. The rain-heavy clouds had again obliterated the sun. The air had cooled; a canyon wind had picked up and was blowing the ends of her blond hair into her face.

A distant rumble of thunder boomed, echoed, and died. And in the stillness following, Martay heard something else. Screwing up her face, she turned her head to listen, scolding her mare for neighing while she was trying to hear. The mare, dancing in place, was shaking her head, her ears pricked.

“What’s the matter with you?” Martay asked the sorrel irritably, patting its neck, “be quiet, will you!” Then: “Oh, dear God,” as she heard the distinct sound of horses’ hooves striking hard ground and knew that her mare had caught their scent. She was in flight at once, her heart pounding, her busy brain asking how Night Sun could have caught up with her so quickly.

Her moccasined heels digging forcefully into the mare’s flanks, Martay sensed rather than heard the other horses rapidly moving on her. The valiant mare gave it her all, but in moments the pursuers were closing the gap. The thought flicked through Martay’s mind that she had been a fool to think she could ever escape him.

She cast a hurried glance over her shoulder, certain she’d see the dark, angry countenance of Night Sun. Her head whipped back around as the horrible truth dawned. It was not Night Sun pursuing her. The four Indians racing after her were not Sioux!

At that instant they overtook her and her worst fears were confirmed. A big broad hand reached out, grabbed her mare’s reins, and jerked it to a plunging halt. Surrounded, Martay was too frightened to scream, too stunned to move. She was hauled down from her mare’s back by a tall, powerful brave and shoved toward a big, ugly man with a badly scarred face.

The scarred Indian grinned, his hot beady eyes crawling over her. “We meet again,” he said, and the recollection of a scarred Crow scout standing on the porch at Fort Collins brought with it a small glimmer of hope to Martay.

“Yes. Yes, you work for my father,” she said, commanding her trembling knees to be still, her voice not to waver.

The squat Crow moved closer and said, “Scar works for no man.” He reached out and touched a lock of her hair. “So … you are Night Sun’s woman?”

“No. No … I … Will you help me get back to … to … Denver?” The other Crows, smiling and chattering in their native tongue, crowded around.

“Ten thousand dollars,” stated Scar, staring at her.

“Ten thousand.… I don’t … what …”

“You. You are worth ten thousand dollars.”

“I am?” She was sure that was good news. “Yes! Yes, a reward. That’s a lot of money.” She attempted to pull her hair free of his blunt dirty fingers and tried to smile. “You’ll be rich.”

Scar said, pulling her closer by her hair, “Maybe I let the money go.”

“Y-you would? Why?”

His grin broadened. “Maybe had rather have Night Sun’s woman than all the white man’s money.”

Martay began to beg for her life, but it fell on deaf ears. Soon she was begging them to end her life.

Totally helpless against the four Crow hostiles, she was dragged, screaming, to a small grassy rise on the canyon floor. In moments she was lying spread-eagled, her arms jerked over her head, her legs pulled apart. Wrists and ankles were swiftly tied to stakes driven in the ground.

While the other braves went about gathering wood to build a fire, Scar pulled a long, sharp knife from the waistband of his dirty buckskins and crouched down beside Martay. The screams choked off in her throat when the huge, scarred Crow stuck the point of the gleaming knife directly into the laced opening of her shirt. With one deft downward slice, he severed the laces. The soft shirt was open midway down her torso and Martay waited, in agony, for Scar to jerk it apart.

He didn’t.

He moved down and cut her knee-high moccasins off, and seeing the tiny bare feet, laughed with delight, a low guttural laugh. He touched fore and middle fingers to a bare sole and tickled her. She screamed and cried instead of laughing. He ordered her to be quiet and she did her best to obey, the tears continuing to stream down her cheeks as she hiccoughed with stifled sobs.

Scar, speaking in low, soft tones, told her exactly how he felt. As he began to cut her long, buckskin skirt, he told her he liked what he saw before him. A beautiful golden-haired white woman who belonged to the hated half-breed, Night Sun. He said he had wanted her that day he saw her at Fort Collins; was greatly tempted by her haughty beauty. Now he had her. Could do anything he pleased to her.

“Do you know what I’m going to do to you, Miss Kidd?” He pushed her torn skirt apart so that her long, slender legs were exposed. Martay didn’t answer. Biting her lip to keep from screaming, she closed her tear-filled eyes.

She opened them when his big, broad hand abruptly grabbed her chin and he said, leaning close, “Ten thousand dollars is a lot of money to pay for a woman’s body. I want my fill. When I’m through with you,” he inclined his head, “my braves can have what’s left.” His hand slid down to her throat, his rough thumb rubbing familiarly, “When we’re all done, that arrogant Sioux dog will no longer want you.”

Choking, eyes wild, she stared fearfully at Scar as he slowly rose to his feet. Grinning down at her, the huge, repulsive Crow began undressing. He took off his shirt and leggings. He stood there, laughing, wearing nothing but a breechclout so brief, it rode low beneath his huge, shaking belly. He squatted down on his heels beside Martay, his fat knees apart, and commanded her to look at him.

The ugly naked Crow completely filled her vision. She could see only massive arms and scarred chest and powerful thighs and a bulging crotch barely covered by a strip of dirty leather. Ignoring the look of disgust and fear in her tear-bright green eyes, Scar reached out and slowly pushed at the left side of her opened shirt.

A great crack of lightning lit up the dark sky. The following thunder competed with Scar’s lusty laughter as he exposed a trembling pale breast to his hot, eager eyes.

While the first sporadic raindrops began to pepper his broad back, the repulsive squat-bodied Scar taunted Martay, explaining that now he was going to cut all her clothing away.

“And when,” he said, his beady black eyes glazing with desire, “you are lying pale and naked before me, I will …”

A shot rang out and Scar’s words choked off in his throat as his eyes rolled back in his head. He dropped the knife and clutched at his chest.

Paralyzed with shock and fear, Martay heard more shots follow the first in quick succession, the sound of them mingling with loud, booming thunder, and in the blinking of an eye all the Crows lay dead or dying.

She screamed, looked up, and saw him.

Night Sun, standing tall and godlike in the rain, his raven hair blowing wildly about his hard, handsome face, the raised gun still smoking in his hand.

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H
er trembling lips formed his name in blessed relief, though no sound would come. Tears mixed with rain surged down her cheeks and she no longer struggled against the binding leather restraints. Her tensed body went limp with total release and her drumming pulse changed its rhythm.

Night Sun was here. She was safe.

Her grateful heart singing his name in a litany of thank yous, she watched him come to her, his wet, dark face rigid with wrath and hatred. When he stood just above, his narrowed black eyes fell on the fat Crow Scout beside her. He lifted a foot, set it squarely atop the dead man’s thick neck, and ground his heel down with such fierce force, the scarred Crow’s ugly face instantly became buried in the mud.

Night Sun picked up the discarded knife and swiftly cut the bindings from Martay’s raw wrists and ankles. When he picked her up, the familiar feel of his lean strength caused her to sob out his name hysterically.

There was no reaction from him. While she clung to him, crying and kissing his dark, wet face, he strode purposefully to the waiting black stallion, lifted her atop its back, and swung up behind her, then rode over to grab the reins of her sorrel mare.

A flash of lightning streaked across the black sky directly over the canyon, its dangerous, deadly charge striking a sturdy pine with such ferocity, the tree exploded. Thunder, so loud it vibrated through her cold, wet body, deafened Martay. Huge raindrops, driven by the rising winds, stung her face and bare arms and legs.

But she was not afraid.

There was no fear so long as she was enclosed in the strong, protective arms of this fearless Sioux chieftain. His power was mightier than the summer storm. His slow, steady heartbeat beneath her ear more fierce than the echoing thunder. The heat from his lean, coiled body could rival the electrical potency of the lightning.

So Martay relaxed completely in Night Sun’s arms as the stallion, followed by the mare, thundered through the rain-drenched canyon. In moments Night Sun was guiding the big black under a low, wide ledge of sandstone. As soon as they were beneath the sheltering rock overhang, he shoved Martay from the horse and climbed down.

Chilled by the cold, driving rains, Martay stood shivering, arms crossed over her chest, her teeth chattering, the wet, torn buckskins clinging to her cold skin. Night Sun silently unstrapped a blanket from behind his saddle. She reached for it and was thoroughly puzzled when, instead of handing it to her, he tossed it to the ground scant inches from where the blowing, driven rain was peppering the stony apron of their dry refuge.

She looked questioningly up at him. His rain-wet face was still set in inflexible lines of menace. His eyes were as cold as the chill rains, his lips as hard as the granite enclosure where they stood.

Night Sun, relieved Martay was unharmed, angry with himself that she could so frighten him, lifted a hand and wiped the rain from his rigid face. Seeing her standing there shivering, a mixture of heat and hatred jolted through him. His desire for her surged and awakened in him a sleeping brutality. He wanted her; he wanted to hurt her. Driven by an angered passion he did not fully understand, he reached out, took her arm, and roughly jerked her to him. His eyes holding hers, he raised his hands, curled long fingers into the torn opening of her buckskin shirt, ripped it apart, and shoved it from her shoulders.

His deadly black eyes on her rain-wet bared breasts, he spoke at last. “If a savage is to use you, I’ll be that savage.”

His mouth came forcefully down on hers. His sharp teeth nipped at her soft bottom lip, then released it. Immediately he deepened the kiss, his passion-hardened lips brutal in their invasion of her trembling mouth. He kissed her with fierce aggression, his hunger for her heightened by a raw need to punish her for scaring him.

Martay put up no fight. Grateful to be alive, relieved it was his arms she was in, his lean, hard body she was pressed intimately against, she willingly surrendered, kissing him back with a fervor that rivaled his. The long, demanding kiss was exactly what she needed and she sighed with pleasure as his tongue penetrated deeply. Eagerly she touched her tongue to his and felt him shudder against her.

Abruptly Night Sun raised his dark head. The expression in his eyes was a mixture of heat and cold, of lust and hate, of harshness and helplessness.

A muscle jumping furiously in his dark jaw, his hand came up to clasp and lift a soft, bare breast. His warm palm enclosed the nipple as his lips went to the side of Martay’s throat. She felt his sharp teeth graze the sensitive spot just below her ear, and her pulse quickened as he hastily, hungrily, kissed a molten path to her breasts.

His hot, open mouth swiftly enclosed a peaking nipple and he slipped to his knees before her. He was not gentle. His arms went around her; his hands possessively gripped her bare back. Pulling her to him, he held her tightly, securely, while he sucked so vigorously at her breast, Martay winced from the pain-pleasure.

Her breath coming in short little flutters, she put her hands into his dark wet hair. Anxiously she gripped the silky locks, pulling frantically, urging him closer, even as she arched her back and leaned to him, enthralled by the exquisite enjoyment of his fiercely tugging lips and raking teeth. Making a strange little sound in the back of her throat, she watched his gleaming wet lips release her rapidly pinkening breast and move to the other.

No sooner was the small hard bud enclosed in the warmth of his mouth than he flutter-tongued her nipple, and Martay threw back her head, moaned with ecstasy, and murmured, “Oh, yes, Night Sun. Yes.”

Surprised that such incredible joy could come from his lips enclosing her nipple, she gasped when his mouth opened wider to draw even more of her breast inside. That, too, brought added pleasure, and she watched, dazed with delight, as her wet, quivering breast seemed to disappear into his questing mouth as greedily he sucked, devouring her, thrilling her.

The first small hailstones hissed outside on the canyon floor as Night Sun knelt there under the rock overhang holding Martay against him, his mouth deserting her breast to slide hotly down over her narrow rib cage. When his lips touched the wet buckskin of her torn skirt, he lifted his head.