White Flame (8 page)

The memory of Renny being carried off screaming was all it took for her to make her decision to survive, no matter what it took. She’d do anything for her sibling, even swallow her pride.

Snatching the leathery strip of meat from the ground, she slapped it into his outstretched hand, wishing she hadn’t been so quick to refuse food. Her stomach clenched and her mouth watered at the thought of eating, but she ignored her discomfort, unwilling to give him total victory.

Without another word, Emma stalked past Striking Thunder, her mutinous glare letting him know that he may have won the physical round but he couldn’t control her thoughts or emotions. Nor could he force her to eat.

Heading upstream, Emma dropped to her knees and drank deeply from the flowing, cool water. Sitting with her knees drawn up to her chest, she dropped her head into the cradle of her arms. She closed her eyes, longing to drop off into a deep sleep where she could escape the turmoil tearing at her mind and heart. A warm buzz traveled through her as her body relaxed with the sweet breeze. Just as she drifted off, his voice intruded, harsh and commanding, startling her awake.

“Leci u wo!”

Emma lifted her head, blinked to clear her blurred vision. Striking Thunder stood downstream. She didn’t move.

Striking Thunder stood, his face dark with displeasure. “Come here. You are captive and will obey.”

Sighing, Emma got to her feet and stumbled toward him. “What do you want?’

He pointed to a spot near a clump of brush. “Sit.”

Lowering herself to the mat of summer-dried grass, Emma blinked, fighting sleep.

Striking Thunder knelt in front of her with a small round tin. With his knife, he ripped away another strip of her skirt. She stared dispassionately at what had once been one of her favorite day dresses. The material was dusty, torn and wrinkled. It was also a foot shorter from having supplied the material to cover what her torn bodice could not.

Returning his knife to a leather sheath strapped to his thigh, the Indian soaked the material in the river then grabbed her hand. Fearing he planned to bind her, she braced herself for the pain. Instead, he gently cleansed her raw wrists with gentle strokes of the wet cloth. His fingers curled around hers, his palm warm, his thumb caressing the back of her fingers in an unconscious soothing motion. She gasped at the tenderness of his touch. He mistook her gasp for one of pain and frowned. “These must be cleaned.”

She steeled herself to accept his ministrations. But after he opened the tin, she wrinkled her nose when he applied the foul-smelling ointment to each wrist. Taking another strip from her skirt, he wrapped her wrists then checked her ankles, which weren’t quite so bad. When he was done, he stood and dropped several pieces of dried meat into her lap.

“Do not foolishly refuse.”

Grateful for a second chance to ease her hunger pangs, Emma picked up one piece and stared at the reddish-brown strip. It looked like leather. Cautiously, she sniffed it. “What is it?”

“
Wakapapi wasna
—pemmican. It is made of dried meat, animal fat and berries.”

Hesitantly, Emma bit off a tiny corner and chewed. She took a second bite at the tough substance, finding it not too objectionable. As she nibbled, she turned to watch Striking Thunder care for his horse. What a strange man he was. So harsh and full of anger one minute, firm but fair the next, then kind, caring and thoughtful. Not at all what she expected from a savage. She held out her bandaged wrists. Already, the searing pain had faded and the tightness of her flesh had eased.

Too tired to think anymore, Emma crawled over to a small bush near the water, seeking
shade for her sunburned face. She stretched out beside the water. Sleep claimed her quickly, but even in her exhausted and confused state, images of the virile and vibrant warrior filled her dreams.

Striking Thunder stood over Emma. It was time to continue their journey. He had duties to see to back in his village—sad duties—the burial rites of his friend; his family to comfort. Two-Ree had been one of his bravest and wisest warriors, and a devoted husband and father as well. Thinking about his sister, Star Dreamer, and her two small children who’d lost now their father, sorrow filled him.

He knew she’d already be grieving, that she’d have seen her husband’s death in her visions. Two-Ree’s words came back to haunt him. He’d known of the flame-haired woman, known of her value to his tribe, which meant Star had told him of her before they’d left camp.

Frowning, something niggled at the back of his mind. It was something to do with the woman. Uneasiness took hold of him. Two-Ree had known of the woman, had said she was his destiny. The man had known, yet said nothing to him until he lay dying. Nor had Star. She hadn’t confided in him either. Not as her brother or as her chief.

Why? Her visions were never wrong. Why had she not told him of Emma? Scowling, he questioned himself about Emma’s presence and what it meant to him and his people. Without hesitation, he rejected the idea that she was to mean more to him than a method of achieving revenge. So why did she affect him so? He was a warrior, a great chief whose destiny lay with his people. This woman meant nothing to him. Would not mean more. He wouldn’t allow it. Suddenly, he wished he hadn’t gone after her, had left her to fend for herself, but no matter what he told himself, part of him feared Star’s vision and the implication that Emma might be tied to his future.

After all, Star had seen Jessie, their brother’s wife, in her visions. When his brother Wolf had left to lead a group of emigrants to Oregon, Star had seen the danger that threatened his and Jessie’s future. By acting quickly, Striking Thunder and his warriors had arrived at Fort Laramie in time to find Wolf and go after the malevolent woman who’d kidnapped Jessie and a small child. All had ended well that time. Jessie was now his sister-in-law and next summer, Wolf and Jessie would return to their people.

Both pleased and envious of his brother’s happiness, and confused by his sister’s recent silence, Striking Thunder watched Emma sleep. His gaze fell on the rhythmic rise and fall of her breasts and the pale, soft-looking flesh peeping out between the torn edges of her dress. Desire stirred, unfurling from his loins to bloom throughout his body, causing him to yearn for the kind of love his brother and father had found.

Stalking away, he tried to put Star’s visions from his mind. He refused to read anything into Emma’s presence. She was his bait. Nothing more. Nothing less. With his sister’s gift of sight, she’d seen the attack in which he’d lost Meadowlark, though they had been helpless to stop it. It made sense that she would also see Emma, the daughter of his enemy.

Though a great sadness filled his heart, a weight lifted from his shoulders. This white woman was nothing to him but a tool to be used to avenge the crimes committed against his people. He would not think of her; nor would her name touch his lips. The spirits had given her to him to use. He wouldn’t allow her beauty’s strong magic to cloud his vision. When he was done with her, he’d set her free then forget about the flame-haired woman who fought with much spirit and courage.

A raucous cry from the sky drew his attention upward. Above, Black Cloud circled, then flew down to his shoulder. “You’ve been gone long, my friend,” he said. The bird cocked its shiny black head and hopped down to the ground. The raven, curious, circled the woman and pecked at the unraveling hem of her dress. While most warriors sought the predators of the sky
as their talismans, seeking their courage for success in war, he never questioned that he, as a chief, should have a raven. He touched the leather charm around his neck and turned away.

When he turned back, he was surprised, for Black Cloud had hopped onto the swaying limb of a bush and spread her wings, as if offering Emma protection from the sun. Displeased and filled with dismay, he stalked away.

Colonel Grady O’Brien ignored the soft knock on his door. The steel pen he held moved across the sheet of paper lying on the blotter of his rough-hewn desk. After signing his name, he pulled the next letter from the stack and repeated his signature after scanning the missive. Setting the completed pile aside for his aide to deal with, he started reading one of several reports sitting in a neat pile to his left.

There was much to be done before the fort was abandoned. Previously under command of General William S. Harney and twelve hundred men, the general had left, taking half of the troops with him to Fort Randall. Pierre had been a poor purchase. With a poor river landing, no timber, fuel or forage within close range, and most buildings in decay and beyond repair, the soldiers hated their stint here, which was why none of his men knew that soon, they’d all be reassigned. If they knew now, they’d grow lax in their duties.

Another knock, this time louder, more demanding, broke his concentration. Tossing the report down, he called, “Enter.” A young, fresh-faced soldier stepped hesitantly into the sparse room, his gaze fixed firmly on the scarred wooden floorboards. Grady furrowed his brows in displeasure. “Snap to, soldier.” For the life of him, he couldn’t figure out why Perkins, a shy, overly timid boy, had joined the army. “I believe I left orders not to be disturbed.”

“Y-yes, sir. B-but the pilot of the
Annabella
insists on talking to you. Says it’s urgent.”

Before Grady could reply, a small man rushed into the room, clutching an immaculate cap between his stubby fingers. “Please,
monsieur
colonel, I must speak with you.”

Perkins whirled around. “Hey! I told you to wait outside. The colonel’s a busy man.”

Grady held up one hand. “You may go, Perkins. I’ll deal with this.”

As soon as his aide closed the door behind him, Grady turned to the Frenchman. “What can I do for you, Mr.—?”

“Billaud, Colonel. Jon Billaud, captain of ze
Annabella.
”

Leaning carefully back against the broken slats of his chair, Grady steepled his fingers.

“Ah, Captain Billaud. I’ve heard of you. You have the reputation for being one of the best pilots on the Missouri.”

The Frenchman’s weathered features broadened into a pleased smile. “
Oui.
I love zis river.” He sighed dramatically, kissed his fingers, then winked. “Like a beautiful woman, she is a worthy challenge. One must only learn her moods. With patience, she is easily tamed.”

Grady hid an amused smile by clearing his throat. “Yes, well, what can I do for you this day, Captain?”

Jon Billaud straightened, his features grave as he recalled his purpose. “I have ze mademoiselles’ trunk to unload, but no one seems to know of zeir arrival. Zis worries me greatly. I did not like ze idea of zose two young ladies leaving ze
Annabella,
but ze elder was quite insistent.”

Grady held up one hand to stop the tumble of words. “What young ladies?”

“Why, your two lovely daughters, of course, Colonel. Zey should have arrived by now. I was to drop off zeir belongings and pick up ze coach zey borrowed. Please, tell me zey are here, safe and sound with zeir papa.”

Confused, Grady shoved his chair back from his desk. Surely the man was mistaken. His
daughters were safely ensconced in his town house in St. Louis. “Perhaps you should start at the beginning, Captain.”

Captain Billaud worried his cap between his fingers and shifted from one foot to the other as he told Grady of his two passengers and Emma’s subsequent decision to leave the steamboat and travel the rest of the way to the fort by coach with Captain Sanders and his men. “She seemed anxious to reach you.”

Grady drew his brows together and gave the captain a stern look. “There must be a mistake.”

The captain of the steamboat’s gaze strayed to Grady’s head. He shook his head. “Non. Zat hair, it is of ze same shade as your elder daughter.” Captain Billaud sighed. “And if I may be so bold, Colonel, you have two very lovely daughters. Ze young one is a spirited filly and ze eldest, a true lady—even if she is a bit impatient.”

Grady unconsciously ran his hands through his thick, wavy hair, the same bright shade and thickness at thirty-six as it had been when he was twenty. Troubled, he regarded the captain. If the man knew of Emma, that her hair was the same shade as his, then it meant the captain was telling the truth. Emma and Renny were coming here? Leaning back in his seat, he sat, stunned. It was unthinkable. Emma would never disobey his orders to remain in St. Louis. Would she? He frowned. In her last correspondence, she’d pleaded for him to come home.

He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, recalling his curt response chastising her for being melodramatic. Had he been wrong? The first feelings of unease trickled through him. Emma had never disobeyed him before. For her to take such drastic measures to reach him must mean things were as bad as she’d indicated.

Grady swiped a hand over his jaw, the man before him forgotten as unexpected emotions broke free of the strongbox in which he’d locked them nine years before. His darling little Emma. As clearly as if it were yesterday, he saw her standing on the porch, crying with the infant Renny cradled in her small, thin arms.

He closed his eyes against the pain. Only by driving himself hard during each and every day could he hold at bay the guilt that continued to plague him. He was a colonel, a man well-used to being in command, a man who controlled his every thought and action—but over the years, that memory and the knowledge of what he’d given up had surfaced to haunt his dreams in the darkest hours of the night when control of one’s mind and thoughts fell prey to emotions of the heart.

Jumping to his feet, he paced. Where then were his daughters? Staring out the grimy window, his mind raced. The land beyond was wild, untamed. Beasts, both two- and four-legged, roamed unchecked. Shoving aside his fear, he strode to the door, his boots pounding the floor. “Perkins!” His shout halted all movement outside his office.

Perkins came running, his glasses falling from his nose, a sheaf of paper tucked beneath one arm and several thick folders in his arms. “Y-yes, sir?”

“Captain Sanders and his men, where are they?”

“I don’t know, sir.” The soldier shoved his glasses up his nose with one forearm and nearly lost his armload of papers. “They haven’t returned from their last survey, sir.”

Grady smacked one fisted hand repeatedly into his palm. “Are they late reporting in?”

Perkins drew a deep breath. “O-only a few days, sir, nothing unusual—”

Grady gripped his hands tightly behind his back. “Has a search been conducted?”

The young soldier swallowed. “N-no, sir.”

“Why the hell not?”

One of the files fell to the dusty floor. “Colonel, sir. The men are often delayed. We’ve never sent—policy—”

Grady cut him off with a fist slamming hard against the open door. “Policy be damned. Something’s wrong.”

Perkins backed away from his fury. Grady ignored him, his mind focusing on possible reasons for Sanders’s and his men’s late arrival. Had their coach broken down? Or had they run into trouble of another sort? His blood chilled. The Natives in the area were up in arms, protesting the presence of soldiers at the fort. Cold beads of sweat broke out along Grady’s forehead. If anything happened to Emma or Renny…

“Hell’s bells!” His roar echoed over the compound outside his open window. “Perkins, fetch Zeb. He’s the best damn tracker around. Then assemble a search party.”

“Y-yes, sir.” Perkins gulped and bent down to pick up the papers.

“Now, soldier! Move!” Grady commanded. “We leave within the hour. My daughters are out there somewhere.”

Perkins bolted. Grady followed, his boots tramping the strewn papers.

Behind him, Jon Billaud wiped the sweat from his forehead and then hurried out to unload the trunk belonging to the missing girls.

A pair of golden eagles soared lazily across a cobalt-blue sky. Below them, land touched by shimmering hues of gold stretched beyond forever. The petal-framed faces of sunflowers gazed at the sun, ripening oceans of soft, tawny-colored prairie grass rippled as far as the eye could see, and meadowlarks swayed from their perches atop the ripe seed heads as their sweet song filled the air.

From her seat on a rock at the edge of one of many streams crisscrossing the land, Emma wrapped her arms around her updrawn knees and watched the birds fade into the distance. Her gaze dipped and roamed over the rippling prairie. Strangely, she felt at peace among the trill of birds and the buzz of insects. For reasons she didn’t understand, the beauty of the land struck a chord deep within her. She’d always longed to travel, had wanted to see the world, but between raising Renny and caring for her elderly aunt, she’d been firmly tied to her boring and uneventful life in St. Louis.

Emma let out a snort of derisive laughter at the absurdity of her thoughts. In the eight days since leaving the steamboat, she’d seen and experienced much more than she’d ever bargained or wished for. Suddenly, St. Louis and all its dullness didn’t seem so bad. Glancing up into the sky, Emma wished she could fly away on the breeze, be free to drift at will, like the eagles and meadowlarks.

Freedom. She’d never given it much thought, never fully appreciated it until she’d lost it. How fortunate she’d been and not realized it. Tears welled up in her eyes. Not only had she lost her freedom, she’d lost the one person in the world who mattered most to her—her sister—and in doing so, she’d cost Renny not only her freedom but her life.

The peace of the afternoon fled. One error in judgment had torn her life into shreds. How she wished to wake up and find her situation was nothing more than a horrible nightmare. Resting her head on her knees, Emma prayed for a miracle. She prayed for her father to come and save her and make her world right once again. It didn’t matter that she hadn’t seen him in more than nine years. She needed him. Though she’d used her sister as an excuse to go to him, the honest truth was that she herself desperately longed to see him.