White Dusk (13 page)

Small Bird’s words brought back demons: the loneliness of his childhood, the regrets of a small boy who understood why his parents had died, and the sadness of a man who knew that he posed a risk to everyone around him.

He strode away from Small Bird. Earlier, with the storm bursting around them, with passion exploding between them, he’d almost forgotten his vow not to bed his wife. He’d decided long ago never to have children, because he refused to put any child through what he’d suffered. And there was no question that his own children would be caught up in this war.

Of course, he’d also once vowed to never marry; a hunted man had no business taking a wife. But while that decision had been taken from him, this one would not. He might not have been able to control his marital obligations, but bringing a child into this violent world was entirely within his power. Even if the making of such a child would bring him some pleasure. Looking into Small Bird’s dark eyes, he acknowledged that there would be great joy in bedding her. But that was precisely why he could not.

He turned to leave, heading not back toward camp and his tipi, but away. Away from his wife and any temptation of claiming her as his own.

Small Bird followed and grabbed his arm. “I am your wife. You may not have wished for a wife, but you now have one. And as my husband, your life is now my concern.” She paused, her chest heaving. “We
are
man and wife.”

“You do not need to remind me of that fact,” was all he said. He raked his eyes over her.

She tipped her chin up defiantly. “Then why do you say the future of our people is none of my concern? What affects one affects both. As your wife, I can help you. I can help
us.
”

“I have no interest in what you have to say.” Swift Foot tried to look away and appear unmoved, but the wild fury in her eyes, the stubborn set of her mouth, drew him. The strength of her resolve made him burn with desire. Oh, how this dark beauty was different from the blond and timid Emily!

“I will have my say,” his wife demanded. “I am also entitled to walk at your side. It is my duty and my desire to take care of you, to tend your wounds and ease your pain.” Her voice softened. “Please, Swift Foot. Let me be your wife! Let me take care of you.”

Swift Foot was overcome with emotion: rage at her demands and admiration for her strength. He advanced on her and took her in his arms. Her eyes glinted more brightly than the stars overhead.

“You wish to be my wife?” he asked.

She glared at him. “I
am
your wife.”

“So you are.” Swift Foot pulled her hard against him.

Small Bird opened her mouth to protest his rough handling, but he savagely brought his mouth down on hers. He would show her what she was requesting.

The kiss was filled with the intensity of the earlier storm. Violence poured between them. Small Bird took his fury, though, swallowed it and gave it back in the form of love. Understanding and compassion seemed to radiate from her—as well as a hunger he could taste.

Her mouth moved with his. It pressed back hard against his lips, bit when he bit. His tongue stormed her mouth. She welcomed it, tried to soothe him and drain his anger away. She held her own against his furious onslaught, and when she felt him withdraw, she pushed her way into his mouth. Her kiss held the same intensity and passion his had.

Hot. Furious. Explosive. Passion ripped the air between them like a bolt of lightning blasting a tree. Small Bird dug her fingers into his shoulders and hung on. Not once did she protest or pull away. She seemed to understand Swift Foot’s blazing anger, knew it stemmed from guilt, sorrow and his feelings of failure.

He didn’t need to tell her. She knew. And she was sure she was right. Just as she’d been sure Swift Foot needed her, even if he protested against it.

Though it seemed a lifetime, their explosive kiss lasted no more than a few overwhelming heartbeats. Then Swift Foot’s worry, fear and anger transformed into simple need. His brutality became wholly passionate. The savage wildness that Swift Foot was always careful to keep leashed on the battlefield broke loose. He took from Small Bird. She had asked for this, and he would take from her.

He needed, so he would take.

He needed more. He took more.

He groaned beneath the weight of his need, feared it would consume and destroy him. Then Small Bird moaned—not in protest but wholly with husky desire. Somewhere deep in the red haze of his passion, it registered that his wife wasn’t resisting.

Stunned, he realized that her passion matched his, that her lips were pressing just as hard against his, that her teeth were nipping at him in a frenzy of desire. He had not scared her away with his anger, nor with his passion. That calmed him faster than anything.

He shoved her away from him, held her at arm’s length until she regained her balance. Then he released her. Their ragged breathing filled the air as they stared at each other. Her burning black gaze lowered to his mouth then shifted back to his eyes. He took in her bruised, swollen lips and his desire almost overcame him again.

“Go,” he whispered hoarsely.

Nothing scared him more than losing control. In fact, he could not remember having done so since he’d turned seven. Until now. He ran a hand through his hair and realized it was shaking. He wanted to run far from this woman who threatened to destroy so much. But he could not. He’d never run from anything. He’d always faced his pain and anguish.

Even when he’d been forced to leave Emily behind, which was one of the most difficult things he’d ever had to do, he’d faced his pain. Once he’d left her, he could easily have run away. He’d known she would be found, had left her to the care of another of her kind. But he hadn’t run. Instead of sparing himself the emotional pain of listening to her sadness, he’d hidden himself close by and had watched over her, sharing her agony. He’d felt that was his duty.

Staring at his wife now, he told himself that this time was different. He had no heart to break. This time it was pride—pride and a fierce need to be alone—that was making him take a step back. And while he desired this woman, it was wrong of him to make love to her like this.

Small Bird moved toward him. “No,” she said, as if reading his mind. She came ever closer, resting her palms flat against his chest. “You are my husband. It is your right to take what I offer.”

Swift Foot stilled. He didn’t dare move. The gentle touch of her fingers, their unconsciously soothing motions, were like the soft glow of many tipis on a cold, dark night. They drew him in, made him feel safe.

He rejected her offer of comfort. He didn’t want it.

No. He did want it. Yearned for it desperately. But he didn’t deserve it.

Clamping his hands around her wrists, he pushed her away. “I take you in anger, not love. I have no love to give. I have
nothing
to give.” His voice deepened as his pain grew.

“You are wrong,” Small Bird argued, her eyes gleaming with unshed tears. “This is meant to be. The past—”

Her blind trust, her unwavering faith—both traits he’d lost a long time ago—sapped what remained of his control. Words burst out of him like water through a broken dam: “The past repeats itself. I am no better than my father. I have brought death to my people—”

“No,” Small Bird interrupted, her eyes furious. She yanked free of his grasp. Her hand slashed downward. “You are not to blame for your father’s actions.”

Swift Foot laughed bitterly. “My father’s dishonor is mine. I am no better.” Grief, guilt and a bone-deep exhaustion washed away his anger, and suddenly nothing could hold back the painful words he had to say. He had much to account for and live with. He would not add lies, or allow his wife to believe falsely of him.

He held up one hand when she opened her mouth to protest. “My father fell in love with a white captive. She had hair like the sun and eyes like the sky. He loved her and risked everything for her. He gave up his arranged marriage and offended the Miniconjou tribe, who wars with us to this day.”

Small Bird looked confused. “This is not new to me.”

Glancing for a moment at the flowing stream, Swift Foot forced himself to look his wife in the eyes. “I too fell in love with a white girl. She has hair paler than the morning sun, and like my mother, her eyes are the blue of the sky.” Sorrow overwhelmed him. He did not hide the anguish of his broken heart from her; he revealed all to Small Bird, knowing that the truth would send her fleeing. Hoping that it would.

Small Bird gasped. Tears gathered in her eyes. Her mouth opened but nothing came out. Shocked, she broke away and paced along the riverbank. Finally she turned back to him. “Do you plan to bring her here and make her your second wife? Will you choose her over me?” Her voice broke. One hand rose to press against her mouth.

Swift Foot closed his eyes against the obvious pain in his wife’s eyes. All residual anger and resentment drained away. She had not asked for this marriage any more than he had. And no matter his own feelings, he had no right to hurt her. She was innocent. The blame lay with him.

“No. She is gone. I returned to fulfill my duty. But I cannot love again. You must understand.”

Anger and resentment welled up inside him as he continued. “I have also vowed never to allow any child of mine to go through life with the guilt I suffered. Or the danger. No child of mine will have to endure dishonor or war. What my father did wrong will end with me. It will not be passed on.”

Though Swift Foot had been cared for by his aunt and uncle, he’d always been aware of the taint inside him: the white man’s blood that flowed through his veins. The knowledge of his family’s weakness. Those things would not be passed on.

Staring briefly up into the night sky, he returned his gaze to Small Bird’s face. He forced himself to share her pain. “The only way to prevent the past from repeating itself, the only way to end further bloodshed, is to end it with me. I will release you from our marriage come morning. I do not wish to burden you with my family’s curse.”

But would he have burdened Emily—risked her life—by bringing her back with him if he had not been promised to another? He didn’t know. Would never know. Emily hadn’t made him lose control like Small Bird, so…

Visibly shaken, Small Bird backed away. Tears streamed from her eyes and down her cheeks as she stared at him in disbelief. Then she turned and ran. Away from him. Back toward camp. Back toward their tipi, which he would never share with her.

After tonight he would never be able to trust himself around her. Though he had not said as much to her, Small Bird had freed the beast within him. And losing control over his emotions scared him far worse than twenty more years of war with the Miniconjou.

Small Bird ran, dashing away her tears as she stumbled back toward camp. “How can he be so cruel?” she whispered to herself. His words stabbed her heart with the same sharpness as the blade that had left open wounds on her husband’s body.

Stopping well before reaching the outer ring of her people’s tipis, she sought to calm her emotions. Desperately she tried to hang on to her waning faith. Her belief in the future, in the path she walked as being her true path, had taken a beating. Yet in her mind, heart and soul, Swift Foot felt so right. Their joining still felt preordained.

Closing her eyes, she looked inward. So many emotions had burned there in the past few days, she felt lost and confused. Focusing on her heart, she counted each beat, felt each breath she took. Deliberately she slowed her breathing. Then she concentrated on her other senses. The night wind brushed against her skin, cool against the tears on her face, soothing against her arms and throat when she tipped her head back.

Calmer, her thoughts still chaotic but no longer desperate, she wrapped her arms around herself and stared up at the bright, twinkling stars. “What is it you want of me?” she asked the four spirits above the earth. Moon, sky and stars were the only ones visible, but she included sun in her request for answers.

Her gift of seeing and speaking the truth had always been respected by her people. Knowledge came to her when she needed it. She felt it as surely as anything, even when others disagreed with her. Even when Swift Foot disagreed with her.

Her father had listened to her words; he’d believed in her gift before he died. Her tribe’s young medicine man also respected the truth of her dreams, and had agreed that her life be joined to Swift Foot’s. Her husband’s uncle, even, the old chief, and others—they all had believed as she did that this vision was meant to be.

But if she was right, why was it so hard to believe? Why was she forced to suffer and have doubts?

As if her thoughts had conjured him out of thin air, Wind Dancer appeared in her path. “You are troubled,” he stated after he looked her over.

Small Bird glanced up at him. Perhaps he could give her the answers she needed, tell her she was right. “How do you know truth when you have no proof?”

Smiling, the shaman approached. “Listen to your heart. Have faith in what you believe.”

“It is so hard to believe sometimes. It is so hard to know what’s right.” Small Bird sighed. “What if I’m wrong? What if I am choosing to believe what I want rather than the truth?” Though many others believed as she did, Swift Foot did not. And that he doubted made her doubt herself.

Wind Dancer lifted one hand to the night sky. “What do you see?”

She searched the heavens. “I see moon and stars. I see the one star that does not move. It is always there. The others dance around it.”

“When you cannot see them, when clouds hide them from view, are they still there?”

Small Bird cocked her head to the side. “They are always there.” She frowned, then glanced back up to the dark heavens. She could see the spirits now, but whether or not she could, she knew they were always there. They were eternal. Moon and stars appeared with the calm, soothing darkness of night, and sun and sky provided the renewal of light, life and color during the day. Their colors and hues might change, clouds might hide these spirits, but for eternity they were there. That was an undeniable truth.

Truth.

Glancing back to Wind Dancer, she found him gone. Spinning around in a slow circle, she saw no trace of him. Then she smiled. She’d found her own answers. Resolve shoved the hurt from her heart. Though she still ached, she knew what she had to do.

Hurrying back to her tipi, she grabbed a large parfleche. Having done so, she retraced her steps, gathering her courage as she went. She found Swift Foot sitting in the same spot where she’d left him, knees drawn to his chest, arms wrapped around them as he stared blankly out over the stream. He sat so still and stiff, he looked close to shattering. He looked lonely and lost.

A small seed of jealousy sprouted in her heart when she realized her husband looked like a man with a broken heart. She recognized the look, felt the same pain: he looked as empty as she felt.

He loved another.

The knowledge whirled through her brain. Around and around, whipping her sadness into a froth it went, sending the shattered pieces of her heart to the four corners of the earth. Like his father, Swift Foot had fallen in love with a white woman. An outsider. How could she compete with an unseen, unknown enemy? He loved another, wanted another, but was stuck with her. In such a situation, how could she gain his love, trust or respect? It was impossible, wasn’t it?

She held a hand to her stomach to still the nervous fluttering. Swift Foot had the wealth and the means to support more than one wife. It was an accepted practice. He could have returned with this woman, made her wife number two after marrying Small Bird. Why hadn’t he?

No,
she realized with sudden insight. He would not have—could not have brought her back. His whole life, all his problems, stemmed from a battle that centered around a white woman. He had meant it when he said it was too late for him and this white woman. But his loss had bred resentment and affected their future together.

Standing there, feeling the despair emanating from him, Small Bird wanted to go to him. She wasn’t the woman of his heart, but he was the man of hers, and she couldn’t bear to see him suffer so.

She smiled sadly. Swift Foot was her husband. He was a great warrior, a respected leader, a man of principle and one of his word. After all, he’d married her as he’d promised. The truth of his feelings in this matter had not changed his actions. She wondered if she would have been as strong if someone asked her to leave Swift Foot for her duty.

The girlish love she’d carried for Swift Foot for as long as she could remember, suddenly changed. It became deeper as she understood him better. She now knew one thing: she cared for this man wholly and could do no less than offer care for his wounds and whatever other comfort she could provide. No matter what he wanted, she still wanted him.

Shoving aside all her feelings of the heart, Small Bird left the shadows. The slight tensing of Swift Foot’s shoulders told her he knew she’d returned. He didn’t speak. Kneeling behind him, she rested her palms on his shoulders. He shuddered, then stilled.

Slowly she gripped the tight cords of muscle around his neck and pressed, using her thumbs to smooth away the knots. He tried to resist by leaning forward. “No. Allow me,” she said. “You cannot change what is meant to be.”

Swift Foot remained silent.

“You blame me for losing your white woman,” she said softly, trying to show she understood his anger and resentment.

“There is nothing to blame you for. What is done is done.”

“Yes, what is done is done,” she whispered.

The fact that her grip and words held him where he sat attested to his exhaustion, physical and mental. Seeing again the image of her husband standing in the water, chanting and beseeching the spirits to give him strength, Small Bird knew each death, each injury had added additional burdens to the already huge load on Swift Foot’s shoulders.

“You have many injuries,” she said. Her gaze roamed down his arms, over his back and his shoulders, to a large cut on his thigh.

“They are nothing,” he said.

“I will treat them.” Her tone brooked no argument. She unfolded the quilled strip of leather she’d brought, revealing herbs and powders tucked into smaller pouches. Some mixtures had been made with grease and were encased in a length of buffalo intestine.

Using a small piece of hide that she soaked in water from the stream, she gently bathed each cut. They were mostly already clean from his bath, but a few were very deep and needed to be rewashed. She tended the cuts on his back and arms first, giving him time to gain control over his emotions.

Slipping around, she knelt before him in order to tend his chest. The tips of her fingers stroked over his hard flesh. When her smallest finger brushed one tiny male nipple hardened by the cold, Swift Foot jerked.

Heat flared within Small Bird. Quickly she finished, but she couldn’t resist one last stroke of the firm flesh along his side. Next she tended his thigh. First with the cloth she dabbed gently at its hard, flat top, then slid inward, moving the edge of his breechclout aside. The gash there faded to a small, thin line halfway up his thigh. He gasped when she ran the cloth along it.

This time, when her fingers smeared bear grease onto the injury, her own breath hitched. His skin felt hot. Firm. The pads of her fingers itched to explore more, to discover each difference in their bodies.

“Enough.” Swift Foot’s voice, low and husky, drew her gaze.

“No. There are cuts here…and here,” she argued, running a clean corner of her cloth down one cheek and along his jaw. His gaze darkened. Small Bird saw her reflection in it, and she felt the heat simmering there. Unable to resist or deny her desire, she stroked the backs of her fingers along the unblemished side of his face, then down across his full lower lip.

“You could have been killed today,” she murmured.

“It would have been best,” he responded emotionlessly. “It would have ended this fighting.”

She shook her head, not shocked by his words but saddened by them. “No. It would have solved nothing.”

“My death might be the only thing that spares your life.”

“If they intend for me to die, they intend for me to die.” She placed her finger lightly against his lips. “What will happen will happen. We can only stay on the right path and be prepared. Had you died today, the need for bloodshed would have grown. Your people would have been given even more reason to retaliate. A life for a life. Vengeance.”

Swift Foot grabbed her wrist, his fingers wrapping hard around her flesh. “My path
is
one of vengeance. These new deaths must be avenged. With each attack, a new cycle begins.”

Small Bird drew a shaky breath, and a tear escaped. Her husband reached out to trace its path. “We must break the cycle,” she pleaded. “Together.”

“I do not think it is possible.”

The starkness of his words gave Small Bird the courage to cup each side of his face. “You must have faith. You must believe. Our past brought us together. It brought us together for this. We must end the violence. Our future depends on what we do with the present.”

Swift Foot sighed. More than ever he longed to believe. But after today he’d lost his courage, his will. All he wanted was peace and solitude.

The idyllic weeks of the summer seemed so far away, as if they had been nothing more than a sweet dream. He closed his eyes and searched his heart for Emily. He called her, wanted to see her. But she didn’t come to him.

His eyes shot open, and he stared over the top of Small Bird’s head, searching for his old love in the night sky. There was nothing there but the bright pinpoints of the stars. He could not summon her image. Confused by his tumultuous emotions, he glanced down and saw the silvery gleam of the moon in Small Bird’s dark hair. When she met his gaze with out hesitation, he saw the stars in her eyes.

Hope.

Fearing he’d lose control once more, he tried to look away. But the soothing touch of her hands, the gentleness in her eyes and the promise of passion in her parted lips dragged a groan from his throat.

Many years ago, violence had brought them together and begun his quest to become a great warrior.

Violence had demanded he marry this woman, and it had denied him the love of another.

Violence now brought them together on a riverbank beneath the moon and stars. Would it consume them and end their lives? He feared he knew the answer. Yet despite his worries, he suddenly felt a strong pull to give himself over to her. He could not resist any longer the comfort his wife offered.

Sliding his hand around her neck, he brought her close. “You should not have returned to me.”

Her breath warmed his lips. “I could do nothing else.”

Swift Foot wasn’t strong enough to push her away. A deep need surfaced for her touch, her kiss; he needed to lose himself in this woman as he’d never before done with another. He wrapped his arms around her.

Forcing her face back, he skimmed his lips over it gently, tenderly. Her fingers inched into his hair, held his head close. Her lips kissed whatever they could find—sweet, comforting kisses that stirred Swift Foot’s blood and released his pent-up hunger.

Their mouths met. Lips and tongues flirted. Swift Foot’s arms moved to Small Bird’s shoulders, crushing her to him. Her fingers dug into the back of his head, pinning him where she wanted.

At the same moment, each pulled slightly away. Their heavy breathing fogged the air between them. “Be sure, wife,” he said, his voice hoarse with the effort to control him self. “Be sure of what you do.”

Small Bird reached up on tiptoe to kiss him tenderly on the corner of his mouth. “I ask you the same, husband. You are mine. I will share you with no other. Nor will I allow distance between us.” Her hands slid down the column of his neck, her fingers smooth on the taut muscles there.

“It may be death I am sentencing you to.” In echo of her movements, his fingers traced the side of her face, lingering on the hollow below her cheeks.

“We are married. I am already the enemy in our foe’s eyes.” She took his fingers in hers and kissed the backs. “I give myself to my husband. No regrets.”

Still Swift Foot held back. Even if he took what she so freely offered, what he was beginning to be sure he wanted, this was simply one more thing to be taken from him. He closed his eyes, remembering all the men who’d just died in battle, knew some of the others would never be the same. The price of his life was high. He didn’t deserve this. Or her. He tried one last time to drive her away.

“Your father—”

Small Bird’s fingers stopped his protest. “My father knew the dangers. He also believed in this union. He died a warrior. He died a father proud of his daughter, and confident that there would one day be peace.”