White Flame (6 page)

With that vow, he stormed from the tipi.

When the soldiers had first come, the colonel in charge had met with him and the other chiefs. He’d assured them that they only wanted peace. Yet now, whenever they tried to meet with the colonel, talk with him, his captain always refused them entrance to the fort. With each passing day, each act of harassment, it had become clear the soldiers wanted the Indians gone at any cost. And now he had proof. The white man with the red hair lied.

Banking his rage with difficulty, Striking Thunder knew nothing further could be gained
here. Yellow Dog and his band of warriors were dead and their women and children scattered into the prairie. Taking up his bow from the ground where he’d tossed it in order to fight Yellow Dog, he shot a single flaming arrow into Yellow Dog’s tipi, then whistled loudly, giving the command to go. He glanced over his shoulder one last time. Flames lit up the night sky.

A shout from Brave Arrow, half leading, half dragging Two-Ree, caught his attention. Striking Thunder hurried forward and gently lowered his injured brother-in-law to the ground. He scanned Two-Ree’s body. Blood streamed from a knife wound in the warrior’s gut. His own gut wrenched and sorrow filled him. “We will get you home quickly, my friend.”

“It is too late, my chief,” the dying Indian gasped, taking Striking Thunder’s arm in his weak grasp. “Star Dreamer—she’ll know—hates gift—important to people.”

“Save your breath, my friend,” Striking Thunder said, though he knew there was nothing to be done to save him. His wife, Striking Thunder’s sister, would be crushed, but she had likely already foreseen his death in her visions. She had been blessed—or cursed, as she saw it—with the sight.

“No.” Two-Ree’s pained voice cut through Striking Thunder’s sorrow. “Must—listen. Flame-haired woman—go after her.”

Striking Thunder glanced around him. He’d forgotten about the white woman. “No. I need to take you back to our people.”

Two-Ree shook his head and coughed. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. “Star—vision—woman—destiny—” Two-Ree’s grip tightened, his breath came in short, weak gasps. “Promise.
Promise
…”

Covering Two-Ree’s hand with his own, Striking Thunder whispered, “I will go after the woman, my friend.”

Two-Ree lifted his head.
“Kola,”
he whispered with his last breath. His head fell back, his eyes glazed with death.

Striking Thunder bowed his head, tears streaming unashamedly down his cheeks.
“Mitakola, mitanhan.” My friend, my brother.
Striking Thunder knelt there in the darkness, fresh waves of grief tearing through him. He’d just lost a man who was closer to him than his own brother. Never again would he hear his dearest friend’s name mentioned aloud. But there wasn’t time to grieve now. After several minutes, he composed himself and stood. With a heavy heart, he whistled for his horse. Another death to be avenged. “Let us leave this place.”

Brave Arrow stepped forward. “What of the woman?”

Taking a deep breath, Striking Thunder surveyed the black void of endless prairie. Heartsick, he wanted to go home, work through the layers of grief clouding his mind and heart. Unbidden came the memory of the woman as she’d stood outside Yellow Dog’s tipi, her face white with fear, her hands clutching her torn bodice over her creamy flesh. His fascination with the white woman bothered him. Instinct warned him to keep his distance, but he’d promised. To Brave Arrow, he said, “I will go after the white woman.” He ordered his warriors to carry Two-Ree home for burial.

Brave Arrow pointed south. “She went in that direction.”

Emma sat on her horse in the middle of nowhere. Miles of dark, frightening prairie surrounded her. She glanced upward, cursing the thick cloud cover blocking out the stars and moon. Which way should she go? She had no idea and was tempted to remain where she was until daylight allowed her to search for the river Yellow Dog had followed.

But fear urged her to put distance between herself and the Indians. Twisting herself around, she listened for the rush of water. Nothing. A cool breeze drifted across the bare flesh of her breasts. Glancing down, she attempted to retie the ragged ends of her bodice while she considered her options.

Stifling a yawn, Emma closed her eyes and lowered her forehead to the horse’s neck. It seemed forever since she’d slept. The animal nickered softly and stood still, as if sensing her exhaustion. The sound of crickets soothed her raw nerves. She would just rest her eyes for a moment. Clouds scudded overhead, leaving patches of stars and moonlight to peep through.

Sometime later, she was startled awake when her horse snorted and pranced, nearly dislodging her from its back. Disoriented, Emma peered into the darkness, searching for the source of the horse’s excitement. She didn’t see anything, but knew someone or something was out there. The horse didn’t seem afraid, which meant it wasn’t some wild animal. That left only one thing—Indians. “Dear God, they’re coming after me,” she breathed.

Her heart slammed against her ribs. Fear of becoming a prisoner again chilled her. Kicking the horse in the ribs, she twined her fingers in the animal’s long, silky mane, urged him forward, then held on for dear life as she fled her unseen pursuers. Too late. Already, she heard the sound of an approaching rider. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw a dark shadowy shape gaining on her. Panic welled in her throat. Terrified, she hunched over the horse’s neck and urged the animal faster.

When the rider drew abreast, she yanked on the rope halter. The horse turned sharper than she’d anticipated and she felt herself slipping off. Strong arms whipped out and swept her from the horse. Her feet dangled just above the ground before she was pulled up against a wall of solid muscle. Realizing that she was once again a captive, she struggled against the one strong arm holding her as securely as two. “Let me go,” she screamed. Her struggles nearly unseated the both of them.

“Be still. You will not be harmed.”

The shock of hearing English stilled her. This wasn’t Yellow Dog. It was the same warrior she’d run into outside Yellow Dog’s tipi. Instantly, she also became aware of several differences other than his fluent command of English. He lacked the sour, foul body odor and from the feel of his chest pressed against her back, she knew he was much bigger and stronger than her previous captor.

And though he didn’t act in a violent or threatening manner, he was still an Indian. And his actions were suspect. He hadn’t stopped her before. Why had he come after her? What had happened to Yellow Dog? Had this man killed him so that he could take her for himself? Not wanting to wait around and find out, she jabbed him in the ribs with first one elbow, then the other, catching him off guard. His hold loosened and she slid off the horse, fell, then jumped to her feet and ran for all she was worth.

He passed her on horseback, whirled his mount around and blocked her escape. The Indian, a dark, imposing figure, sat tall on his horse. “You go the wrong way.” He pointed. “Big River is to the east.” He held one large hand out to her. “Striking Thunder will return you to the fort. I swear. Yellow Dog will not harm you again.”

Emma backed away, watching his every move. The tall grass and uneven ground hindered her retreat, causing her to stumble and nearly fall several times. When she spotted her horse grazing a short distance away, she turned and headed for the animal. To her dismay, Striking Thunder kept pace on his horse. She moved faster. “Go away. I can find my own way. Just leave me alone.” Terror rose when he shook his head and dismounted.

“I cannot leave a woman alone to wander the
maka.
”

Emma swallowed the rising hysteria sweeping through her. Those bulging arms had effortlessly swept her off her horse and could easily capture her once again. She knew he was playing with her, that he could stop her anytime he chose, but she ignored him and kept going. The tension within her grew as he followed.

She broke into a run, but Striking Thunder dismounted and sprinted in front of her, clearly letting her know she could not escape. The warrior stopped when she did, moved when she moved. No matter where she turned, he was there, blocking her escape. She clenched her hands, her ragged nails digging painfully into her palms. What was she going to do?

More clouds drifted apart, allowing rays of moonlight to fall and hit the prairie. They bathed the man before her in silver splendor. He stood tall, strong and proud. His stance emphasized the strength of his thighs and the slimness of his hips and the powerful set to his broad shoulders. She took a small step back, awed and fearful of this magnificent warrior whose very presence spoke of power and ageless strength. Here was a man in his prime.

The sight of all that raw masculinity took her breath away. Her legs went weak and her heart pounded. Where Yellow Dog’s body had repulsed her, something about this Indian captivated her, reached out and touched her deeply. Some primal instinct warned that this warrior was much more a danger to her than Yellow Dog.

“Please leave me alone,” she begged, her voice low and husky.

A slight breeze sprang up and tugged at his long flowing hair, revealing the shadowed valleys of his face. His lips firmed. “No. Enough. We go.”

Emma shook her head, her throat gritty and sore. Uncertainty assailed her. He spoke English, said he would help her. Was he telling the truth? Would he take her to the fort? Maybe he was one of the scouts the soldiers used? Remembering Yellow Dog and the dead soldiers, she didn’t dare trust him.

Tears brought on by the hopelessness of her situation blurred her vision. There wasn’t one part of her that didn’t ache. But she couldn’t give in now, not when she’d nearly made it. When he moved toward her, she jumped, held out one hand to ward him off. “Stay away. Don’t touch me,” she croaked.

“I give you my word of honor. You will not be harmed. I will return you to the fort. You will tell them that the Sioux people are honorable.” His voice was soft, enticing, as if he were calming a spooked mare. “Come.” He held out one hand, palm up, his fingers beckoning hers.

Confusion and fear warred within her as his deep voice lulled her, tempted her to put her trust in him.
Trust.
Her father had
trusted
her to keep her sister safe, but Renny had been traded away as if she’d been nothing more than horseflesh and it was all Emma’s fault. “No,” she shouted, breaking his spell. “Stay back. Don’t touch me. My father is an important man. I’m warning you, leave.” She tossed her head and eyed him with bold defiance.

The warrior stopped and cocked his head to one side. He appeared to consider her words. “Your father? And who is this father of yours?” he asked, sounding amused.

Emma tilted her chin and drew upon all the strength she could muster. “My father is Colonel Grady O’Brien. He’s in charge of Fort Pierre.” She said the words confidently, pleased
when he took a step back.

“Colonel Grady O’Brien is your father?”

Emma nodded, finally feeling as though she had the upper hand. “I’m his daughter Emma.” She waited a beat then sought to strengthen her position by adding, “Captain Sanders is my fiancé. He was escorting me to the fort where we shall be wed when Yellow Dog attacked. He escaped.”

Something in the warrior’s stance caught her attention. All trace of amusement had faded and his eyes had narrowed into glittering slits. Staring at his clenched fists, she continued, her voice uncertain. “At this minute, my father is probably out looking for me. So you see, I’ll be fine on my own—”

“Sanders!”

The single word exploded between them. Emma backed away when the warrior closed his eyes as if in pain. His menacing glare frightened Emma. Her stomach tightened painfully.
Something’s wrong.
Why had the mention of her father and Derek produced a reaction of hatred instead of fear? Emma hugged her arms to her chest, looking for answers in the warrior’s face but his eyes were shadowed by the night. Yet there was no doubt he was furious. And she didn’t understand why. “The captain is very kind,” she whispered, trying to soothe the Indian.

Striking Thunder’s shoulders stiffened and his hands curled into fists. He took a step forward. “Sanders and your father are responsible for the murder of many of my people, including my wife.”

The world tilted. Suddenly, Emma was very afraid of the dark storm of fury raging in this warrior who stood before her with hatred glittering in eyes black as the night. This time, when he advanced, she picked up her skirts and ran for her life.

Striking Thunder didn’t need the soft guiding light from Grandmother Moon to follow the white woman. His upper lip curled into a sneer of contempt. “She thinks to outrun this warrior?” He tensed, staring off across the darkened prairie in the direction she’d fled. His thigh muscles bunched, his body quivered with anticipation of the hunt. “Let her run,” he spoke, forcing himself to relax. There was no hurry. The spirits were with him this night. The colonel’s daughter would escape only if he allowed her to do so.

“Emma.”
The name rolled off his tongue, smooth and silky, as beautiful as the woman with her wide, frightened doe eyes the color of spring grass, flame-red hair and skin as pale as freshly fallen snow. Seeing up-close the bruises marring that flesh brought forth fresh waves of fury. Realizing where his thoughts were taking him, Striking Thunder looked to the moon to clear his thoughts of the white woman. To his dismay, Emma’s features were imprinted on the disk’s glowing face.

He closed his eyes. Why did this woman draw him so? She was a white woman
and
the daughter of his enemy. He summoned the image of Meadowlark’s lifeless body to drive all desire for the white woman from him. His wife’s life-giving blood had flowed across the
maka,
seeping into the dirt. Wasted. Gone forever.

A shaft of pain pierced him, sharp as the blade Meadowlark had used to end her life. Anger, fierce and as hot as a fire whipping across the dry prairie, raged within him. He’d failed to protect her life. He would not fail to appease her spirit.

Colonel O’Brien and Captain Sanders would pay for their evil crimes and how better than with the life of the colonel’s own flesh and blood: the daughter and wife-to-be. Both would pay, not with their lives, but their suffering would be far worse than death.

A pang of regret for what he must do tore through him. That hesitation, that small show
of weakness, displeased him. Warriors showed no mercy to the enemy. The colonel must suffer the loss of his family as Striking Thunder’s people had suffered the loss of their loved ones. His resolve firmly in place, Striking Thunder took off after Emma on foot. After a few minutes, he bore to the left. He didn’t need to see his prey. He felt her, sensed the direction of her flight. The spirits guided him, just as they had led him to Emma once before.

As he gained on her, her ragged sobs led him to her. Then he saw her running ahead of him, a dark wraithlike shadow that grew clearer the closer he got. When only a few feet separated them, she glanced over her shoulder, the trail of tears luminescent on her pale skin. A tug of something pulled at his heart, but he ignored it. Not watching where she was going, she stumbled and fell. He stood over her. “You cannot escape Striking Thunder. You are mine.”

“No. Never!” Emma’s hoarse gasps signaled her exhaustion, yet still she tried to get to her feet and run.

Tired of the game, Striking Thunder reached down and grabbed her by the arm. Like a she-bear, she came up kicking and clawing, until he knocked her feet out from under her. He followed her down, his length falling atop hers. His size and weight easily pinned her to the grassy mat beneath them. With ease, he captured both her wrists in one hand and held them high above her head. Despite his anger and the driving need for revenge, he admired her courage. She fought well though she was no match for his strength.

“Let me go,” she begged, her voice raw and gritty, her face inches from his.

“No.”

Her eyes, their color eclipsed by his shadow, glittered with tears. Her body trembled beneath his and with a shock of awareness, he realized they were flesh to flesh. Her breasts, bared by her torn clothing, were pressed against his chest.

Lifting his upper body without releasing her wrists, Striking Thunder stared down at the generous swells revealed by the torn bodice of her dress. His blood surged with the urge to palm that supple flesh, to bask in the feel of her. Desire, hot and thick as honey, flooded his veins and he felt his organ stir and harden in response to her womanly softness.

Her beauty, her spirit, summoned something deep inside him, releasing a hunger he’d never known existed, not even with Meadowlark. His lips parted, tempted to bend down and capture one of those beckoning pale buds and suckle until she cried out with pleasure and her body writhed beneath his with the same hot need that raced through his veins.

He fought for control, for command of his emotions. From boyhood, his every action and thought had been carefully planned. The quest to become the great warrior his grandmother had foreseen ruled his every waking moment. Even marriage, when he’d been told to take a wife, had been dealt with in the same methodical manner. He allowed nothing to interfere with his duty—not even his own needs and desires. But this woman threatened that and he didn’t like it. Not one bit. Too much was at stake.

“You pr-promised to take me to the fort.”

Her fear-laced words jarred him. It took a long moment for him to absorb the full meaning of her words.
“Tuwakaksa!” Impossible!
He released her hands. Immediately, she covered her nakedness but his desire had already fled as his plan for revenge crashed down upon his shoulders for the second time that night.