White Dusk (12 page)

“I should have been ready,” he murmured.

Beside him, Night Thunder reached out to grasp his wrist. “We
were
ready. Our guards notified us in time to get our women to safety. None of them were hurt.”

Hearing the first welcoming cry coming toward them, Swift Foot shook his head. “You are wrong, my friend. Their pain and injuries aren’t to their physical bodies but to their hearts, minds and souls.”

Night Thunder lapsed into silence. There was nothing he could say against that truth. Swift Foot knew he should have moved his people before the wedding, found another secure location, taken his tribe far away. There were several other places, he saw in hindsight, that would have kept them all from destruction. But it didn’t matter now. It was too late.

In the distance, Swift Foot picked out the darker shapes of tipis. No fires added their warm glow to this new home, but now that he and his warriors had returned, they would be built. Then the wounded would be tended.

Entering the camp, Swift Foot stared straight ahead. The welcoming cries of the women and children, and the warriors left behind to guard them, slowly changed into wails of grief. Each scream, each woman who fell to her knees in anguish, stabbed Swift Foot in the heart. Little by little, the part of him that held hope and happiness died.

He watched the mother of Brave Bear Walking rush toward Night Thunder, her face lined with shock, her voice shrill with agony. Seeing her pain, Swift Foot clamped his jaw tight to stop his anguish from escaping.

He was chief. Their leader. He could not lose control.

A leader does not show fear. A leader is courageous at all times. No matter what.

The words his uncle had spoken to him the day his aunt died and Willow Song was injured echoed in the hollowness of his soul. He’d been angry and afraid that day. And guilty. Though only seven, he’d known the deaths of his tribe’s people were because of him. Because of him, and because of his father. But he’d shouldered that burden and borne it in silence. Today would be no different. Yet the loss of life had been enormous this time. Worse than any since his seventh year.

Weary and disheartened, he dismounted. A tall youth strode forward to take his horse. Normally Swift Foot groomed his prized warhorse himself, but tonight there was still much to be done. Turning, braced to confront the grief he heard all around him, he came face-to-face with his wife. Her eyes scanned him, looking for injury, lingering on the gash on his arm, the cuts on his thigh and the bleeding wound on his shoulder.

“You are injured,” she said. Her voice, soft as a summer breeze, drifted over him. Staring into the shadows of her face, he saw compassion, concern and a calmness of spirit that was inspiring. For the first time since leaving Emily, Swift Foot did not picture the white girl’s loving features. In Small Bird’s presence was all the comfort he needed.

“My injuries are nothing,” he said. But the fact that she was willing to fuss over him eased his pain somewhat.

Around him, married women tended to their men. It didn’t matter that warriors were expected to be stoic; the battle had devastated spirits, including his own. And Swift Foot felt himself near breaking. Yet his duties were not over. Another wail of grief rose, and his wife turned her head. Looking over to where she looked, Swift Foot saw Lone Warrior progress through the camp. His father lay across his lap.

Swift Foot heard his wife gasp, her instinctive cry of denial cutting through him. She started forward, but he reached out, halting her. She glanced over her shoulder, her eyes wide with shock and denial.

Though he’d been so angry at her before, at their assigned marriage, he had the overwhelming urge to pull her into his arms and shield her from grief. He longed to offer words of comfort—but there was nothing to say. He’d promised her brother he’d keep all his people safe. He’d failed. Married not even a day, and he’d failed.

He released his wife suddenly and she stumbled back.

“Please, no. Tell me he’s not dead,” she cried.

“I am sorry, wife,” he whispered.

Small Bird’s fingers flew to her mouth and stifled her sorrow. She turned and ran, leaving Swift Foot standing there, his arm still out in front of him as if begging her to return and be comforted.

At last, with a heavy heart, he lowered his hand. The wounded needed tending, guards needed to be posted and his people needed reassurance that they were safe. He would have to take care of these things.

Entering his tipi, he gathered clean garments and donned them, then stood staring down at his dwelling’s cold fire pit. Piles of belongings lay there waiting to be unpacked, a mixture of his possessions and his wife’s. He noted that she’d hung his war bonnet, but nothing else. The sight of the feathers of the headdress fluttering in the drafty tipi reminded him how he’d earned each one. The flowing bonnet belonged to a courageous man. A wise man. Or it should.

“So much waste,” he whispered. He would give up every feather to end this bloody war. He’d gladly give up his position too, if it meant that no more of his people would die. Yet they would not want him to give up. They believed in him.

But what if he no longer believed in himself? The warrior who’d earned those feathers had been arrogant and filled with his own importance. With dreams of achieving the impossible.

Tearing his gaze away, Swift Foot drew in a deep, calming breath. Something inside him felt close to cracking.

Alone.

He felt so alone.

He closed his eyes and imagined a cozy fire. He saw gentle eyes filled with the dark mystery of the night sky, hands that soothed and a voice that understood. These were the things he wanted.

A sudden wailing from nearby brought reality crashing back.
“Foolish,”
he chided himself.
“Foolish.”
He didn’t deserve the peaceful and loving dreams he wanted. Not now. Not ever. He’d been born of a union that had mocked his father’s responsibilities, and he would pay for that until he died.

Leaving his tipi, he walked away from the close ring of the other dwellings. Though many of his tribespeople saw him, none stopped him. No one said anything.

There was nothing to be said. Each death, each injury, had only proven him a failure.

Small Bird held her wailing mother in her arms and wept. This was all too much.

Yellow Robe had been screaming for some time now, and her voice cracked on each long sorrowful cry. Blood caked her arms from where she’d scratched herself, and she would occasionally scream and tear at her shorn hair.

Small Bird shuddered. “No more, Mother. No more.”

Her mother didn’t respond; she buried her head in her hands and began scratching deep furrows down the sides of her face. Unable to bear any more, Small Bird physically restrained her.

Across the tipi, Lone Warrior stared into the glowing embers of the fire. A moment later he glanced up, his face a twisted mask of grief and hate. Though he’d said nothing since laying their father onto his pallet of furs, Small Bird knew he blamed her for the death of their father.

He hadn’t said anything; he didn’t need to speak words to remind her of all the ominous signs before her marriage. The memory was there, burning in his eyes and twisted in the hard set of his mouth.

“Forgive me. Mother,” Small Bird whispered against Yellow Robe’s head.

“Forgive me.”

The loss to her own clan in the fighting had been comparatively small: only her father had died. But there had been many serious injuries. And then there was the loss of Makatah’s unborn child, which was a bad omen for the future.

Small Bird closed her eyes. Swift Foot’s clan had lost many more warriors, had suffered more injury. Yet the loss of a child… Grief vibrated through her, twisting and merging with guilt until her mind cried out for relief. But there was none to be had. Outside the walls of the tipi, the crying and wailing over the dead continued. There also came voices, shouts of anger and rage. But what stabbed her most deeply was the crying of small children. They were frightened at the storm of emotion raging around the camp, and Small Bird understood, for it was unlike anything she herself had ever experienced.

No, that wasn’t true. Deep inside, Small Bird recalled how frightened she’d been at the age of three during the first Miniconjou attack. She remembered hiding from what she hadn’t understood, and recalled her silent sobs.

Fighting those same nightmares all over again, Small Bird longed to have Swift Foot comfort her as he had done so long ago. He’d found her, small child she’d been, saved her. He’d offered comfort to her. And that day, he had planted the seed of love deep in her heart and mind.

Staring toward the tipi’s closed door, she wondered where her husband would be now. Offering aid to others and keeping the tribe from falling apart, no doubt.

Slowly rocking back and forth, rubbing her cheek on top of her mother’s head, Small Bird thought of the future. It was terrifying. She’d been so sure that she knew what would occur, so sure that she knew the truth. She’d believed so strongly that between herself and Swift Foot, they’d achieve peace. But now they wouldn’t.

How full of herself she must have seemed. Especially to her brother. Small Bird took a deep breath, striving to keep her fear and guilt from making her heart pound out of control. Lone Warrior had been right. This morning she’d been so sure of herself. Now she wasn’t sure of anything. Even one life extinguished in this bitter feud was too
many for her people, and now, between their combined clans, the number of dead, maimed and injured took her breath away. Hope and the belief that she could make a difference dimmed with the dying fire. After all, what could one woman do?

Turning her head, she stared at the body of her father. It lay so still on the pallet, covered with furs, that she could almost believe he merely slept. A fresh wave of tears trailed down her cheeks from the corners of her eyes.

Father,
she cried out in her mind.
You believed in this union. You wanted it. But it took your life. Will it take my mother’s? My brother’s?

There was no question; if a way to end this war was not found, it would surely take Swift Foot’s life and her own as well. She now believed her brother regarding that. Had the enemy been able to reach their camp, many innocent women and children would have died as well—the same way Charging Bull had lost his wife, and Swift Foot his parents.

Small Bird thought of the child she hoped she’d one day have. Would she give birth to a new life just to die herself? It hurt unbearably to think that any child could be left without parents to face life, hunted by their enemy—as Swift Foot had been.

As if a child already grew inside her, she covered her stomach with one hand. “No,” she mouthed against her mother’s head. Yellow Robe had finally fallen into an exhausted slumber.

“I will not allow it,” she continued, promising herself. “This will end. Somehow it will end, and my child will never know this pain and fear.”

As she sat there, her resolve grew. At last, Moon Fire’s mother entered the tipi, and Small Bird glanced up.

“Go, child. I will remain with my sister this night,” the woman said. “You have a husband now to tend.”

Small Bird eased her mother down, then stood up and headed for the door. As she left the tipi she’d never sleep in again—her family’s—part of her resisted, but suddenly she needed to find her husband and make sure he was all right. He too had suffered and needed comfort. And she wanted to give that to him. She had a different family now.

Not once as she hurried back to the hastily constructed dwelling did she consider not going to him. Swift Foot belonged to her as surely as she belonged to him. They were tied. Bound together forever, as they were meant to be.

Entering, she found their tipi dark and cold. Of her husband there was no sign. Running out of the tent, she hurried through camp. From nearly every tipi came the hushed voices of wives caring for and fussing over their mates—or the gut-wrenching sobs of the grief-stricken. Small Bird knew such lamenting would continue for many days.

Nearby, a crying woman rushed to a tipi, calling out for the woman inside, begging for the woman’s help with her husband’s injuries. Small Bird watched as the two headed off; then she resumed her search for Swift Foot.

As she walked, she avoided the part of camp where her cousin and Matoluta mourned the loss of their firstborn. Men passed her, their features stoic but their shoulders bowed. Off to the left, several of the dead had been laid out. Staring up at the sky, Small Bird saw the stars blur into one bright glare. Wiping the tears from her eyes, she moved slowly, seeking her husband’s form among the shadowy figures. He was not there.

Recalling the profound desolation in Swift Foot’s eyes, Small Bird suddenly suspected her husband had gone off alone. She turned down toward the stream. The low conversation of several warriors to her left, talking about the battle, caught her attention.

She didn’t recognize her husband’s voice among them, and instinct told her he wouldn’t be. She wasn’t sure how she knew this, except that in all her years of observing him, and in all the time she’d spent this past week watching him closely so she’d have some idea of what manner of man he had be come, she’d noticed that though he seemed a part of everything going on in camp, he also seemed alone. That sense of solitude in him had touched her heart.

Following the line of trees away from the voices, she’d just about given up on finding her husband when she spotted a lone figure standing in the middle of the rushing stream. Low, guttural chants drew her closer. She recognized Swift Foot’s voice; the despair in it snagged her heart and touched her. Mesmerized by both the sight and the sound, she crept nearer.

Bathed by the silvery glow of moon and stars, her husband’s hair hung wetly over each shoulder. His face was tipped to the night sky, and his arms were outstretched. He turned in a slow circle. The pain etched on his face matched the sorrow in his voice as he begged for the spirits to give him wisdom and strength. He then begged for healing for his people.

A lump formed in Small Bird’s throat. Though Swift Foot had tried to hide his emotions before, she’d already seen the depth of feeling inside him: first in the heat of his eyes during their wedding dance, then after, when she’d felt his passion and desire during their kiss—a kiss that seemed to have taken place a lifetime ago.

Moving silently among the brittle brush, thick bushes and trees lining the bank of the stream, Small Bird couldn’t take her eyes off her husband.

Leave him,
a small voice whispered.
He needs to be alone.

No!
How could she leave him? He needed comfort.

He needed
her.

As she needed him.

Staring at the sleek beauty of his body, Small Bird needed him in every way. Earlier he’d given her a glimpse and taste of the passion between a man and a woman; right now she felt it rise again inside her. She felt torn between her need for him and the need to restrain herself. How could she be feeling carnal desires at such a time? She should be ashamed of herself. But her body couldn’t help responding to the sight of him.

Her gaze scanned his upper body. His wet chest gleamed in the moonlight, each thick muscle fully defined. Her fingers crept up and over her own tunic to the soft swells of her breasts. She remembered the hard wall of his chest against them when he’d rested his body over hers.

She moved her left hand up, felt the sudden hammering of her heart. Her right hand touched the spot on her right breast where his heart had pounded. She longed to wade into the water, to rest her palms on his shoulders and dig her fingers into the hard ridge of his shoulder muscles. She wanted to skim her hands down over his massive chest and the taut plane of his flat, hard abdomen. Her gaze dropped to the water lapping against him, hiding that part of him she’d felt grow and harden against her.

Her chest tightened, her breath caught in her throat and her palms grew moist. She slid them down the sides of her leggings to dry them.

Reflected light from the moon and stars rippled in the water that encircled his body as he continued to move in a circle. When he turned his back to her, she tried to take control of her desire, but that wide expanse of flesh stirred Small Bird as well. His long hair trailed downward, leading her gaze along the curved indent of his spine and farther, to the water hiding the swell of his buttocks.

He continued to turn, and her gaze went to his face. The anguish written there made Small Bird take a step back. She was intruding. This was a private moment, very personal, very emotional. Few men would want witnesses to such a display of pain and emotion. Especially the proud man she knew her husband to be. But the lines of pain etched around his mouth, and the silent prayers he mouthed, kept her from leaving.

As if he felt her eyes upon him, Swift Foot suddenly dropped his arms and stared into the shadows where she stood. He didn’t speak, but Small Bird knew he sensed her presence.

Her heart pounded. Fearing his rejection, she bravely left the shadows and walked down the gentle slope of the bank to stop just shy of the waterline. For long moments neither spoke. Finally Swift Foot broke the silence.

“I will seek revenge so that your father will not be forced to roam the shadows of this land. Our enemies will pay.” His voice held a promise, determination, and the need to prove himself worthy.

Small Bird frowned at the last thought. This man had no need to prove himself to anyone. Or did he? She regarded her husband with a steady gaze and sought the truth. Perhaps he, most of all, would feel a great need to prove himself. For a chief, he was young. Swift Foot had not experienced life to the same extent as most men who became great leaders. Add to that the merging of their two tribes, and the attack that had resulted in the loss of many lives, and Small Bird understood her husband’s need for vengeance.

She sighed. Revenge meant more bloodshed on both sides. Yet the spirit of her father could not rest until avenged. In his ghostly form he’d roam the shadows of the
maka,
unable to journey to the spirit world. Staring at Swift Foot, Small Bird knew her husband must honor her father.

Yet the killing had to stop. If he killed on her father’s behalf, then the enemy would retaliate. In a vicious circle, the killing would never cease.

“This war must end,” she said softly, stepping closer, ignoring the squishy mud of the stream beneath her feet. “This killing, these battles over something that happened before your birth, must be put to rest.”

Swift Foot waded closer, then stopped. “It will never end,” he said, his voice harsh with bitterness. “Talks of peace with our enemy have proven a waste of time.”

Trying not to notice how the water lapped gently against her husband’s hips, Small Bird forced her gaze back to his face. “There has to be a way. If not, we will all be destroyed.”

Swift Foot smacked the water with the flat of his hand. “You do not speak anything I do not already know.” He pushed forward, moving toward her, his body revealed in splendid gleaming nakedness.

Turning slightly out of respect and a sudden maidenly shyness, Small Bird refused to be silenced. “Then we must think of other solutions. There has to be a way to atone for the past that does not involve bloodshed.”

“There is.”

His whispered words, filled with sorrow and conviction, brought tears to Small Bird’s eyes and a lump to her throat. “How?” The very way he’d spoken made her heart skip a beat.

Swift Foot shook himself. He turned his back to her, his wide shoulders flexing as he did. “It is not your concern,” he replied. His voice was harsh, its tone warning Small Bird that he had no more to say on the matter.

He walked up the riverbank to pick up a clean breechclout and fasten it around himself.

Small Bird narrowed her eyes then stalked over to him. She moved around him until he was forced to acknowledge her presence. “You are wrong, my husband,” she said. “It is as much my concern as yours. Your people are now my people. We are all at risk. Our
children
are at risk.”

Swift Foot recoiled as if Small Bird had physically struck him. “There will not be children,” he said in a snarl. “Not ours.”