Savage Heat (39 page)

His narrowed black eyes slid slowly down over the white, slender body intimately draped across the darkness of his. The forbidding sight filled his vision. It said it all. Pale white flesh against dark.

She was white. All white. Lily-white. He was Indian. More Indian than white. Two different worlds. She didn’t belong in his. He refused to be a part of hers. She would not—he would not let her—mold and touch his heart the way she had his body.

They rode back to the Powder River camp in strained silence, Night Sun more distant than ever, Martay hurt and confused by the mystifying indifference after a day of such total intimacy. After repeated attempts to get him to tell her what was wrong, she gave up and, wearily resting her head on his shoulder, fought back the tears that stung her eyes.

Martay didn’t question what the silent chief might do to her heart. He had already done it. He had taken it for his own. And now he didn’t want it.

The pair reached the village shortly after midnight. Finally breaking the silence, Night Sun, lifting Martay from the horse, said, “Sleep. I’ll tell the others we are back.”

Not giving her a chance to reply, he turned and led the black away. Martay waited for his return, hoping, now that they were safely back in their lodge, she could get him to open up, to tell her why he refused to acknowledge what was between them.

But Night Sun didn’t return after telling Windwalker they were back. He climbed the steep bluffs of the river and sat alone in the exact spot where once he had sat and watched Martay, her lips stained with berries, laughing on the banks below him, her dress pulled high up on her pale thighs.

Knowing he should send her away, wondering if it were already too late, Night Sun, tired from the long, lovely afternoon of lovemaking, strengthened his resolve to stay away from her. A couple of weeks and she would be gone. Back to where she belonged. Back to her world of foolish parties and adoring beaus.

Out of his hair. Out of his life. Out of his heart.

Martay, alone in their tipi, still wearing the shirt he had lent her, purposely brushed her nose against the rough sleeve and inhaled. The shirt smelled of Night Sun. His scent alone was enough to make her heart beat faster, her stomach flutter with remembered ecstasy.

Refusing to take the shirt off, she tiredly lay down on her fur bed, drew her knees up, and placed her pressed palms between them. Eyes on the empty bed across from her, she strengthened her resolve to not let this man stay away from her, as he had in the past. It wouldn’t be easy, but she had to find a way—any way—to be around him so that he would finally see for himself that they were meant for each other.

That was the last thought in her mind when, still alone, she drifted off into exhausted slumber. She was not going to let Night Sun out of her sight.

As fate would have it, it was Gentle Deer’s fragile, failing health that undermined Night Sun’s firm resolve to stay away from Martay. And gave Martay the opportunity she was looking for to keep him close to her.

At sunup, after a sleepless night on the river bluffs, Night Sun stopped by his grandmother’s lodge to say good-morning before returning to his own. His dark face immediately tightened when he saw the usually energetic old woman was still beneath her buffalo robes.

One look at the wrinkled face and he knew she was sick. Waving a dismissive hand at his worried questions, she said, “It is just a head cold.” She smiled then and, reaching out to touch a bare, bronzed shoulder, added, “If you choose to go about in the chill of morning half naked, you, too, will catch cold. Where is your shirt, Grandson?”

Night Sun, guiltily recalling where the shirt was, felt the heat rise to his face. Shaking his head, he placed her arthritic hand back under the warm fur robes and pulled the covers up to her chin. He sat down beside her.

He was still there when Martay came at midmorning.

Gentle Deer’s cold worsened. Night Sun refused to leave her. So did Martay. And so it was that they were thrown together through the long, quiet hours of tending the sick old woman. When Gentle Deer was awake, Night Sun acted as though nothing were wrong between Martay and himself. When she slept, he rarely spoke, but his eyes met Martay’s often and more than once, in their eagerness to fuss over Gentle Deer and make her more comfortable, their bodies accidentally brushed, their hands touched, and each time his breath caught in his throat.

For a full week Gentle Deer remained in her sick bed. Martay and Night Sun stayed with her. Day after day, night after night, they remained in Gentle Deer’s lodge. The necessity of being together, the shared concern over someone they both loved; it was inevitable that Night Sun’s coldness begin to slip away. How could he be angry with Martay when she was so tireless and sweet and uncomplaining in her care for his grandmother?

Late one chilly evening, while Night Sun sat smoking a cigar, his long legs crossed beneath him, he quietly watched Martay as she patiently spoonfed his grandmother from a steaming bowl. Her golden hair was ablaze in the firelight, her perfect little mouth was turned up into the most disarming of smiles, her emerald eyes were filled with true affection for the old sick woman.

Night Sun’s sharp teeth bit down on the cigar. Feeling far sicker than the woman being ministered to, he got up, came forward, and told the two women he would be back within the hour.

The cold air felt good against his hot face. He drew a deep, invigorating breath, ran a lean hand through his thick black hair, and started walking, considering a long night ride on the big black. After a week of being cooped, it would be relaxing to ride fast across the western plains in the moonlight. Ride until he was tired and sleepy and unworried.

Night Sun shook his head. He could not go for a ride. There was something he must do. Something he had put off too long. It was time he got it over with.

He went straight to Windwalker’s isolated lodge.

Standing just outside, Night Sun foolishly rehearsed what he would say. It wasn’t the first time. He’d gone over it dozens of times in his head. And it never sounded right. He ground his teeth. He had never lied to the Mystic Warrior. He’d not lie now.

As Night Sun stood there debating with himself, the flap of Windwalker’s tipi opened and the graying chieftain stepped out into the night, a clay pipe in his hand.

Unsmiling, Windwalker said, “I have expected you.”

Night Sun swallowed. “I have come.”

The Mystic Warrior solemnly nodded. “I have had the
oinikaga tipi
prepared. We go there, cleanse our hearts and souls, smoke the pipe”—he paused, and staring at Night Sun, added—“talk.”

Night Sun shook his head and fell into step beside Windwalker. Circling his tipi, they walked to the secluded sweat lodge in silence. Once there, both men stripped down to the skin, ducked inside the low, west-facing entrance into the small enclosure and sat cross-legged facing each other over the scooped-out circular hole at the tipi’s center.

For a time, both were silent. Windwalker stared glassy-eyed at the “circle within the circle” and Night Sun knew what he was thinking. The small pit was a symbol, standing for life, which has no end. Plants, animals, men, are born and die.

But The People live.

Windwalker lit his pipe. Sweet-smelling smoke swirled about his head. He passed it to Night Sun, took up a decorated skin bag of cold, clear water, dipped a sprig of sage into it, and sprinkled water over the heated, glowing stones.

The ice-cold water hitting the red-hot stones produced a great surge of power, the unifying of the earth and the sky.

Night Sun inhaled deeply of the thick white steam. In moments, the heat had become so great, both men were sweating profusely, their bronzed bodies gleaming with moisture. They sat there quietly in the dark heat, smoking, relaxing, their lungs on fire. Night Sun closed his eyes and listened to the hiss of the ice water on the heated stones.

He felt the power, as he always did in the
oinikaga
tipi. He drew in long, cleansing breaths, and rubbed flattened palms over his chest. The power was penetrating him, filling him, healing him. Huddling there in the safe, hot darkness, Night Sun felt his body and mind become unburdened, and he tipped back his head and sighed dreamily.

“You will speak now.” Windwalker’s soft yet commanding voice disturbed Night Sun’s sweet lassitude.

Night Sun’s head slowly lowered. Lifting a hand, he wiped the perspiration from his eyes. He looked at Windwalker. The wise chieftain was staring, unblinkingly, at him. Waiting.

He had never lied to the Mystic Warrior. He wouldn’t lie now. He was naked here in this comforting place, close to the earth and the spirit. He would offer no excuses. He would speak only the truth.

He said, “I am weak. Not fit to wear the name Lakota chieftain.”

“Go on.”

“I surrendered to the temptations of the flesh.” He sucked in a deep, burning breath of hot steam. “I took the virginity of the golden-haired white captive.”

“I know,” spoke the Mystic Warrior, his flat dark eyes quietly accusing. “It was wrong, my son.”

“Yes,” replied Night Sun. “It was.”

“You shame yourself. The Lakota does not take revenge on women and children.”

Sadly, Night Sun shook his head. “I should not have brought her here. I am sorry I did. Sorry I harmed her.”

“Despair walks with you,” Windwalker said thoughtfully.

“Yes. I suffer.”

Windwalker said, “If your heart loves this white maiden, you could …”

“No,” answered Night Sun quickly, wanting desperately to believe it. “I desired her. That is all.”

Windwalker solemnly nodded. “Then you must let her go.”

Night Sun said decisively, “Yes. I will wait no longer to send her back. She’ll go now. Tomorrow.”

Windwalker’s broad, solemn face softened a little, his eyebrows lifted, and he said, “She may not wish to leave us.”

Night Sun’s face remained stern. “She is the pampered rich daughter of an American general. Of course she wants to go. I’ll send her back to her father.”

“So be it,” said Windwalker, and the light that had shown briefly in his flat dark eyes was gone.

Night Sun felt a little better.

The decision made, he returned to Gentle Deer’s lodge. Later that night, after his grandmother was sleeping, he told Martay of his plan. He told her he was going to release her, set her free, send her back.

For a long, tension-filled moment she simply stared at him, her lips parted in disbelief. She was beaten. The attitude of his lean body, the determined line of his jaw. She had seen him thus so many times before.

Ungiving. Rigid. Unreachable.

She said, “Very well.” And watching him intently, saw not so much as the flicker of a black eyelash in response. “I’ll go home, but not until you tell me everything.” She drew a much needed breath, squared her slender shoulders, and lifted her chin defiantly. “I demand it. You owe me that much.”

Night Sun’s inflexible posture gave way. His wide shoulders slumping slightly, he wearily sighed. He said, “Yes, I do. I know that.”

“Then?”

He motioned her toward the lodge opening, indicating he did not wish to disturb his sleeping grandmother. But Martay put a hand on his arm when they reached it.

“We can’t go outside,” she told him. “We can’t leave her.”

He nodded and watched Martay sit down near the open flap. Like a little girl she wrapped her skirts around her legs and hugged her knees with her arms. He sat down to face her.

“This whole thing began one cold, snowy morning in 1864. I was ten years old and …”

Night Sun told her everything. He talked and talked, his voice low, level, his black eyes expressionless. He was, he said, as puzzled as she that her father had not come for her. He told of sending the message, of expecting the general to arrive at the Colorado line shack within hours after he had taken her from the Darlington party.

Martay, not moving a muscle, listened intently as the truth unfolded. And when finally it was all told and Night Sun fell silent, she studied the dear dark face before her as an inevitable truth dawned. If her beloved Night Sun and her father ever met, one of the two would die.

Martay rose.

“Thank you for … for …” She didn’t finish the sentence. Her voice broke and she turned away. Over her shoulder she said, “I’ll be in our … your lodge.”

She hurried out into the night. Torn between her love for the half-breed chieftain and her general father, she went alone to the tipi she shared with the man whom, after tomorrow, she would never see again.

Night Sun, his heart squeezing painfully in his chest, remained where he was. Brooding. Lonely. Missing her already.

Across the lodge a wide-awake Gentle Deer, having heard every word that passed between the two of them, smiled to herself. And purposely waited, allowing her hardheaded grandson ample time to pine, Martay several long hours to wait.

At midnight the old Indian woman rose from her bed of furs and went to Night Sun.

She said, “A heart that cannot forgive will die.”

He frowned at her. “Get back in bed.”

“I am well. Go to your lodge.”

He said, “I’ll stay here until morning and …”

“You will go,” said his grandmother. “You look haggard. Go home and sleep.”

Too tired and troubled to quarrel, Night Sun rose, kissed her temple, and stepped out into the night. He considered climbing the bluffs, but his legs were tired, his back ached dully, and it was cold out. Automatically his steps took him to his own tipi. He paused just outside.

It was well past midnight. She would surely be asleep. He was exhausted, and tomorrow would be a long, trying day. So he ducked inside and quietly undressed in the darkness, taking care not to disturb Martay, asleep in her fur bed across from his.

Night Sun stretched out on his back, the heart inside his naked chest aching with unhappiness. He felt the burning tears spring to his eyes and tried to blink them away. He had not cried since he was ten years old. He blinked again and swallowed the choking lump lodged in his throat.

A cool hand touched his bare shoulder.