His Dakota Captive

by Jenna Kernan

  “Have you ever had a wife?” Lucie glanced up to find Sky studying her with those hungry eyes again.

  He made a sharp sound that could have been a laugh. “I frighten white women.”

  “You don’t frighten me.”

  “I did the night I jumped through your window. And you ran from me the first two times I tried to speak to you.”

  All true. “I had a bad feeling about you.”

  “Most women do.” He lifted his water skin and offered it to her. “And now?”

  She drank the warm water and passed back the skin. Their fingers brushed, and the tingling excitement rushed through her. She rested her chin on his shoulder.

  “Feelings change.”

  His Dakota Captive

  Harlequin® Historical #1007—September 2010

  Praise for

  Jenna Kernan

  OUTLAW BRIDE

  “Kernan creates an engaging and fascinating story.”

  —RT Book Reviews

  HIGH PLAINS BRIDE

  “Those who enjoy Westerns or tales of lovers reunited will not want to miss this book. It has found a place on my keeper shelf and I know I will be reading it again.”

  —All About Romance

  TURNER’S WOMAN

  “Makes for tip-top reading.”

  —RT Book Reviews

  WINTER WOMAN

  “Presents a fascinating portrait of the early days of the West and the extraordinary men and women who traveled and settled in the area… Kernan has a knack for writing a solid western with likable characters.”

  —RT Book Reviews

  “Winter Woman is an exciting, no-holds-barred story with unforgettable characters. Ms. Kernan’s first novel is a winner!”

  —Rendezvous

  “With this strong debut, Jenna Kernan puts her name on the list of writers to watch for and Winter Woman may just be the start of a long career.”

  —The Romance Reader

  JENNA KERNAN

  HIS DAKOTA CAPTIVE

  Available from Harlequin® Historical and

  JENNA KERNAN

  Winter Woman #671

  Turner’s Woman #746

  The Trapper #768

  Wed Under Western Skies #799

  “His Brother’s Bride”

  High Plains Bride #847

  Outlaw Bride #883

  A Western Winter Wonderland #867

  “Fallen Angel”

  Sierra Bride #956

  His Dakota Captive #1007

  Look for Jenna Kernan’s

  “The Sheriff’s Housekeeper Bride”

  in Western Winter Wedding Bells

  Coming October 2010 from Harlequin Historical

  To Jim—now and always.

  “I do not believe that Indians…who are a perpetual source of expense to the government and a constant menace to thousands of their white neighbors, a hindrance to civilization and a clog on our progress, have any right to forcibly keep their children out of school to grow up like themselves, a race of barbarians and semi-savages.”

  —Thomas Jefferson Morgan, Commissioner of Indian Affairs, 1889 to 1893

  “If the Great Spirit had desired me to be a white man he would have made me so in the first place. He put in your heart certain wishes and plans; in my heart he put other and different desires. Each man is good in the sight of the Great Spirit. It is not necessary that eagles should be crows.”

  —Sitting Bull (Teton Sioux)

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Epilogue

  Chapter One

  Dakota Territory, September 1884

  Sky Fox neared the spring when the first shout brought him up short. An instant later a high-pitched voice spewed a string of first-rate insults in Lakota. Next, he heard a deeper voice speaking English.

  “Ow! You little bastard! I’ll teach you to bite me.”

  The crack of an open palm striking flesh made Sky Fox wince. He eased off his horse and slid the rifle from the beaded leather sheath. He wore the clothing of the whites, except for the broad hat that he never did get used to. His blue eyes and pale skin marked him as white, which he was, except on the inside.

  He crept silently forward and came upon the white man, struggling with a young Indian boy and the buttons on his pants simultaneously. The boy’s bloody calico shirt was torn and the gaping hole showed russet skin and the parallel gouges that could only be from the man’s fingernails. His attacker held him by the throat and was doing his best to throttle him with one hand.

  Sky aimed his rifle at the white man.

  “Let him up.”

  The man startled and then turned, but kept his hand about the child’s neck. His captive glared at Sky with hatred showing in his split lip and black eye. Despite the abuse, the young man was silent. His captor gave an oily smile.

  “Oh, hey, there, brother. You gave me a start. I didn’t hear you come up. I’m a truant officer—”

  “Let him go.” Sky placed his thumb on the trigger.

  The man lifted one hand in surrender, but kept hold of the struggling lad with the other. The result was that his pants gaped but somehow managed to stay up.

  “I’m working for the school, catching runaways, understand?”

  Sky snorted. “You planning on catching him in your trousers?”

  The man flushed scarlet at the reminder that he’d been caught with his pants round his hips. What was left of his intentions shriveled under Sky’s cold stare. He hoisted his pants to cover himself. “Now you listen here—”

  The click of the hammer on Sky’s gun seemed especially loud. The man fell silent and Sky spoke to the boy in Lakota. “Do not fight, little brother. He will not touch you again.”

  The youngster stilled and wiped the blood from his chin. The officer let him go. The child moved several paces away and then stopped. Sky released the trigger and lowered his rifle.

  “Ah, you speak their lingo. Nice trick. How’d you learn that?”

  “From my father.”

  The man wrinkled his brow in confusion.

  “He a trader?”

  Sky Fox’s mouth twitched. “He was called Ten Horses, a warrior from the Bitterroot tribe.”

  The man’s eyes bugged. A moment later he reached for his pistol. Sky Fox raised his rifle and the officer hesitated, extending his arm away from his weapon.

  The two faced off.

  “He’s gotta come with me,” said the man.

  “No. He doesn’t.”

  “But he’s a runaway.”

  “Here’s what will happen. You’ll turn around and ride off alone, or you’ll try to take the boy and I’ll kill you.”

  Beads of sweat covered the man’s forehead and streamed down his cheeks.

  “Can I fasten my trousers?” he asked.

  Sky nodded.

  The truant officer grappled, fastening the closure and buckling his belt with sweat-slick hands. Then he looked back toward Sky.

  “I’m going.”

  Sky said nothing. The man walked stiffly toward his horse but when he lifted his foot to mount, he went for his pistol.

  Sky fired high so as not to hit the horse. Wasn’t the horse’s fault that he carried such a man. The bullet pierced his shoulder, sending him backward,
where he writhed on the ground as blood leaked from the bullet hole. Sky lifted his rifle for the kill shot, aiming between the man’s eyes. His prey stilled, staring down the blue-gray barrel at death. Sky’s mind flashed back to the arrow notched and drawn, the smooth release and the sound of the tip striking flesh. Sweat blossomed on his forehead and he lowered his gun. Damn it!

  Seeing Sky would not shoot, the boy grabbed his captor’s pistol and aimed the barrel at the man’s head, but Sky knocked it from his hand.

  The boy glowered at Sky.

  Sky placed a foot on the gun. “Killing him won’t return what he has taken.”

  “It is my right.”

  “Count coup and have done.”

  The boy hesitated a moment longer, staring at the pistol now securely under Sky’s moccasin. Finally, he lifted a sturdy stick, but instead of touching the enemy with it, to prove his bravery, he swung it with all his might. The officer had enough sense to dodge and the branch grazed his temple. He went limp, his head lolling to the side. The boy raised the branch again, but Sky plucked it from his hands.

  “Enough.”

  Sky squatted and checked to see the man was still breathing. Then he looked at the wound. It was ugly, but he wouldn’t bleed out. The infection might still kill him but he left that to the Great Spirit. Sky considered tying him to his horse and taking him back to the school. Then he glanced at the lad, seeing disappointment glimmering in his filling eyes. His reaction only confirmed Sky Fox’s original guess. This man had abused the boy. The only question was how badly?

  Sky stood, determining to leave the man where he lay.

  “Come away, brother. It is finished.”

  The child’s shoulders sagged as he stared silently at his tormentor. Sky kicked the pistol several feet away.

  “How are you called, little brother?”

  “No Moccasins,” he answered.

  “I am Sky Fox, once of the Bitterroot people.”

  “I am Sweetwater.”

  “Did he hurt you?”

  He gave one angry shake of denial. Sky Fox wondered about the wounds he could not see because those cut the deepest. He waited for No Moccasins to lift his head.

  “He tried, but then you came.”

  Sky glanced at the truant officer, thinking perhaps he should kill him. He ground his teeth, as he thought of the white man who had taken him from the Black Hills. Like the boy, Sky had stayed only until he was old enough to run. He reached for his pistol and then stopped.

  No. As a tribute to the friend he had lost, Sky had vowed long ago never to take a human life and that included this worm of a man.

  It was never more difficult to keep his promise than now. He resisted the urge to kill and mutilate the body. It was what his people would do to such a man as this. But the great Lakota had fallen to their knees.

  Sky turned toward the boy.

  “Where is your family?” he asked.

  “They walk before me, except my sister and our uncle. He sent me to the white man’s school to learn the stick words, but I ran. My younger sister is still there, I could not bring her.”

  “Where is your uncle?”

  “On the reservation. He’s head man.”

  “His name?”

  “He is called Eagle Dancer.”

  Sky Fox stilled at the name he had not heard in many years. Joy filled him to know his friend and mentor had survived the wars. And sorrow filled him that a great warrior had lived to see his people conquered and penned like sheep. Sky always knew he would come back. He was tired of running and tired of the guilt. The time had come to face his past.

  “I know your uncle. I would like to see him again.”

  He waited. The boy had been taught manners, of course, and hesitated only a moment before extending his hospitality.

  He nodded. “We would be honored.”

  Sky smiled. “We can ride double.”

  The boy pointed at the unconscious truant officer. “He has a horse.”

  Their eyes met. Sky knew it was too dangerous. The horse would raise questions. He shook his head. “We take nothing from this man.”

  No Moccasins gazed longingly at the pistol lying several lengths from his tormentor. Sky placed a hand on No Moccasins’s shoulder. The boy flinched and pulled away from the gentle restraint, but nodded.

  “I have a fine horse,” said Sky. “He is just through there. He is strong and fast.”

  No Moccasins glanced in the direction of the thicket.

  Sky knew it was a shame for a brave to walk and even a boy this age had pride. Women walked, dragging the young ones behind them on travois. Or they did—once.

  “You can take the reins. I’ll ride behind you.”

  The boy did not smile, but nodded his acceptance of the offer. Sky acknowledged that it might be some time before this child lost his vacant expression, but at least he could ride like a warrior until they reached the Great Sioux Reservation.

  Sky considered leaving the man his horse and rejected the idea. He should suffer the walk after what he had done. The officer had his gun, also the horse would return to the barn, signaling trouble and triggering a search. Perhaps they would be in time to save this worthless one. Of course, there was a chance the mare would join a wild herd. Sky left that in the hands of the Great Spirit. He removed the saddle and unfastened the bridle. The horse tossed her head and trotted away. He turned to find No Moccasins staring at him.

  “How did you come to the people?”

  Sky answered honestly. “My people were travelers on the wagon road. They sickened and Ten Horses found them in their wagon. My father still lived and offered his horses to take me to the fort, but Ten Horses took all he wanted and he kept me, as well. He called me Sky for the color of my eyes.”

  No Moccasins nodded at this. “Do you remember them?”

  “No. Ten Horses is my father and I am Lakota. That is all.” They mounted and before the evening wind died, they were heading north, to the place the whites could never drive from his heart, back to the people he loved.

  Five days passed before they reached the reservation. As they neared Indian lands, Sky avoided the main road. Only full-blood Indians were permitted here. But that was not the only reason Sky skirted the house belonging to the agent from the Bureau of Indian Affairs. He didn’t want to answer questions about his business or how he found his traveling companion. The boy had washed away the blood and now wore a clean shirt that was miles too big for him.

  At moonrise they found their way to the small square box that was now the home of Eagle Dancer. His people once blew over the plains with the wind. Now they were scattered about in shabby houses, waiting for government distributions. Such a life was sure to kill a man’s soul.

  He sent No Moccasins to the door, uncertain of his welcome. It had been years since their parting and there were many reasons for his old mentor to hate him now.

  When the door opened again, a man stepped out holding an oil lamp before him. Did the orange flame cast strange shadows or had his face changed so greatly?

  Here stood the man who was once the best rider and best shot of the Sweetwater braves. Now he shuffled forward like an old man. Sky recalled watching this warrior ride behind the fleeing bands of women and children, bravely engaging the enemy to give the others time to escape. Sky had worshiped the young man and emulated everything he did. Now Eagle Dancer moved as if each step pained him.

  No Moccasins stood at his side, pointing. His friend handed him the lamp and spoke in the direction his nephew indicated.

  “Come, brother. You are welcome here,” said Eagle Dancer. His voice, at least, had not changed.

  Sky Fox stepped into the light and Eagle Dancer smiled. Now he recognized his friend once again. He had maintained the handsome features and his body was still lean and straight. His eyes twinkled as he opened his arms. The two embraced and then drew back.

  “Look at you, tall as a buffalo’s hump,” said Eagle Dancer.

  It was tru
e, in his twenty-nine winters, Sky had grown to six feet three inches by the white man’s measure, but he liked the Indian reckoning much better. For a moment he felt as if he were coming home.

  His friend ushered him in. The interior was a strange combination of white and Indian. The head man had not adopted chairs, keeping to the traditional wooden backrests which sat upon the ground, draped with furs. He had placed four of them in a half circle on the dirt floor before a fireplace made of brick. It reminded Sky of the sacred circle, now cut in half by the white’s square dwelling.

  Eagle Dancer draped an arm around his nephew. “Thank you for returning this one safely.”

  They took a seat. Eagle Dancer was a good host. Unlike the whites, he asked no questions, but fed them first.

  They dined on pinto beans and bacon with black coffee and a coarse corn bread that crumbled when touched. It was the diet of cowhands, not warriors. No Moccasins could barely stay awake to finish his meal. His uncle bundled him in blankets and he stretched out near the fire on a buffalo skin.

  Sky drank his coffee. When he’d had his fill, Eagle Dancer began to talk of the old days and then of their new life here. After a time, he checked the boy and found him sound asleep.

  He rejoined Sky beside the fire.

  “His face is bruised,” said Eagle Dancer.

  Only then did Sky report the circumstances of his recovery and his suspicions over his treatment.

  When Eagle Dancer spoke, his dark eyes grew vacant.

  “They send no food for the children unless they attend the white man’s school. What are we to do?”

  “I am afraid my shooting this man will not help our people.”

  Eagle Dancer nodded grimly. “Is he dead?”

  “No, though he may die from the wound.”

  Eagle Dancer’s brows descended low over his dark eyes. Did he disapprove of him for not taking the life of a man who deserved death or for bringing such trouble to his doorstep?