by Rita Karnopp
Whispering Sun
By
Rita Karnopp
ISBN: 978-1-927111-86-4
PUBLISHED BY:
Books We Love Ltd.
(Electronic Book Publishers)
192 Lakeside Greens Drive
Chestermere, Alberta, T1X 1C2
Canada
http://bookswelove.net
Copyright 2012 by Rita Karnopp
Cover art by: Michelle Lee Copyright 2012
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
Chapter One
Dirk sat straight in the saddle, face stretched to the sky absorbing the sun. He scanned the vast valley below. A few scrub trees competed with the brush for a haven from the relentless Montana wind. The brisk, spring air held a hint of warmth that promised the coming of summer.
Movement caught his attention. Stretching up in the stirrups, Dirk observed the rider with interest. Astride a frisky horse, Sarah raced across the open valley, as though both sought to satisfy a need for freedom.
The striking, black mare stumbled. Helpless from a distance, Dirk watched Sarah clutch aimlessly at nothing.
He urged his mount down the rugged embankment, then across the wide stretch of open country. His boots touched the ground the moment his horse skidded to a stop. Rushing to the upheaval of motionless petticoats, his heart hammered in fear.
Dropping to his knees, Dirk gently pulled Sarah onto his lap. He held her against his chest, gentle and protective.
"Let me die," she whimpered.
Dirk barely heard her words. He wished he hadn't. Gazing down at the young woman, her beauty left him breathless. Succumbing to temptation, he wound a long, golden curl around his fingertips. The silkiness made him shudder with longing.
With reluctance, he lowered her back onto the thick, new grass. He feared she couldn't escape injury from so violent a fall.
With knowing hands, he touched, pressed, and probed every inch of Sarah's slender body. So many times he'd watched his father do the same for bronc busters. Dirk's thoughts drifted back to the beautiful picture she'd made, racing across the plush, green valley of spring grass. The wind tugged at her waist-length hair, lifting it free to wave behind her like a golden banner.
He'd watched Sarah come and go for the past two months. She wasn't the reason he observed the activities outside Fort Bryson, but she'd fast become an obsession, haunting his days and nights.
Lightly rubbing his thumb over a rib, he watched her expression turn to one of pain. "Damn!" he muttered. Had the rib been bruised or broken? That he wasn't sure how to tell. Dirk clenched his teeth together, irritated at not knowing what to do for her.
Again he thought back to the times his father worked on the bronc busters. His father would wrap her ribs. The wrapping wouldn't hurt her even if the rib had been bruised instead of broken. He'd have them wrapped before she woke. While his thoughts justified his actions, he worked the tiny buttons on her dress.
He pulled the bodice material down to her waist. He didn't have a choice, yet it bothered him to do it without her permission. An uneasy feeling told him she'd be mortified if she knew he'd seen her down to her lacy under clothing. He smiled. She would never know who had helped her. Surely that would ease her embarrassment. Still, he found it hard to shake the dishonor he felt for invading her privacy. With haste he tossed the hem of her dress up, and then tore a strip of petticoat for bindings.
He noticed Sarah struggled to open her eyes, then after several droopy attempts her lids remained closed. He stared at her thick, dark lashes, fanned in stark contrast against her pale cheeks. He found himself tempted to move his fingertips across them like he would the vanes of one of his white feathers.
Hearing her soft moan, Dirk hurried with his task. What would it be like having a beautiful woman like Sarah to love?
She had a petite body, slim hips, yet she lacked none of the womanly curves of a striking beauty. Her white skin felt soft and inviting beneath his fingers. Drawing in a breath, he recognized the fragrant scent of the local lovage herb. He thought the delicate essence suited her. Never had a woman smelled this good to him.
Pleased to have her ribs wrapped, Dirk struggled with the tiny buttons on the bodice of her dress. They had been easier to undo, he thought, watching her face for signs of pain. Having finished dressing her, he tore another strip of petticoat, and then soaked it with water from his canteen. Dirk wiped at the smudges on her face with tenderness and care, and then placed the damp cloth to her brow. He leaned back, sitting on his heels, studying her face.
Again he noticed she struggled against the heaviness that dragged her downward. He could tell she stubbornly fought to open her lids. For a brief second she'd succeeded. Enough to remind him he'd been careless.
"Trail Walker… help me."
Dirk stiffened, and then realized she called out in delirium. Her warm breath brushed across his wrist. He felt his pulse quicken. Encouraged by her nearness, he trailed a path across a smooth white cheek with his fingertips. He hesitated, and then lightly traced the outline of her full, soft lips, fighting against the urge to kiss them.
The agony of betrayal filled him. What would his Blackfeet people think of him? Wanting a white woman should disgust him. He glanced at his tight-fitting white man's buckskins, and then reached for the absent long braids that usually brushed against his chest. He looked, sounded and acted like the white man—but his soul remained Blackfeet.
Sarah stirred beneath his touch. Her attempts to wake indicated that soon she would. Much as he wanted to have more time to watch her, Dirk knew he couldn't let her see him.
Taking a deep breath, he shook off the longings to be with his People. He never would have left his village, but Trail Walker had asked for help. Dirk knew the advantages of keeping in the shadows. Once again he needed to resort to being the mysterious hero, respected by the white man, known by none.
Sarah's short, choppy intake of air brought him back to the present. He gazed down at her loveliness, and then rushed to his horse. Taking a black leather pouch from the saddlebag, Dirk hurried back to Sarah's side. Cupping his left hand, he poured a puddle of warm water into it. Reaching into a small leather pouch and taking a pinch of false hellebore powder, he made a thick, white paste. With his index finger, Dirk forced the mixture onto Sarah's tongue. He watched her lips pucker from the bitter taste. Sliding his arm under her neck, he put the canteen to her lips, allowing a small amount of water to trickle down her throat. He lowered her back to the ground, and then wiped her chin and neck dry with the hem of her skirt.
Dirk waited. Her breathing came easy and steady, the sedative had done its job, and she slept. Once the security of night descended, he'd take her back to Fort Bryson.
He lifted Sarah's limp body onto his horse, and then swung his thigh across the saddle, settling behind her, nestling her against his chest. She felt good in his arms.
Sarah's mare hadn't wandered far, having secured the reins, the animal now followed behind as they crossed the valley at a slow, even pace.
Several miles from the fort, Dirk gently lowered Sarah to the ground, pushing her behind the undergrowth of thorny buffalo-berry shrubs. He pulled a cover of entwined overhanging vines across her sleeping form.
Riding the horses a safe distance away, Dirk removed the saddles and bridles, hiding them under a mound of dead branches and leaves. He patted Leather's sleek neck and freed him. The horse would come by a mere whist
le. He hoped Sarah's black would stay nearby. He'd take the chance since they were less likely to be seen without the horses. He'd wait, and then take her home in the safety of night's shadows.
Grabbing a blanket and his rifle, Dirk ran back to Sarah. He'd considered riding right up to the gates of the fort, saying he'd found her, but there would be a lot of questions. Questions he didn't want to be asked…just yet. He needed to speak with Trail Walker before making a bold entrance. His people trusted him to make the right decisions.
Finding Sarah undisturbed, Dirk released a sigh of relief. He lifted her onto a blanket then pulled her across dried silvery-scaly leaves, into the depths of the thorny jungle along the edge of the over-flowing creek bed. The thick, underbrush would hide them until darkness concealed their movements.
Settling down beside Sarah, he pulled her against him. Her head fit perfectly in the hollow between his shoulder and neck. Her warm breath brushed against his cheek, leaving him restless.
He inhaled the delicate, earthy scents of the buffalo-berry shrubs and the fragrances carried by the gentle winds. Rising on one elbow, he studied Sarah's small, flawless, oval face, straight delicate nose and full, shapely lips, committing all to memory.
A slight breeze rustled last year's leaves around them, fluttering against one another, whirling against them, caressing and fondling faces and arms. The leaves danced about Sarah's flaxen hair, seeming to laugh as they did…no, not laugh…whisper. They were whispering as they danced upon those silken, sun-drenched waves, giving her a mystical appearance. This would be how he'd remember her … his Whispering Sun.
The rippling stream soothed his tense muscles and he relaxed next to Sarah. He recognized the slurring keeer-r-r of a red-tailed hawk in the distance. Dirk visualized the rusty, broad-winged bird soaring across a plateau, transmitting a hint of red from the underside of its tail feathers. He envisioned the large bird swooping down upon its prey, clutching a rabbit in a deadly grip.
Sarah stirred and a moan of utter turmoil escaped her lips. Her tortured thoughts reflected in her facial expressions. He held her against him, confused by the strong protective feelings that invaded his carefully guarded emotions.
Sarah's sudden restlessness jarred Dirk from the security she'd remain under the influence of the herb. He didn't dare give her more. Too much could prove dangerous. He hesitated, looking down at her. Sarah's lids remained closed and once again appeared relaxed. He sighed; hopeful she'd sleep several hours more.
"Shh, little one," he whispered, knowing she couldn't hear him. Yet, somehow it felt comforting to speak the words. Pulling her head against his pounding heart, Dirk wondered why he felt drawn to this spirited, white woman.
He watched Sarah's dark lashes flutter in sleepy resignation. He leaned back against the blanket, content. He closed his eyes, his senses instinctively ever alert.
Darkness descended upon them in a cloak of welcome protection. As much as Dirk hated moving Sarah from his arms, he told himself he had no choice. He moved from her warmth, then belly-down, he dug his elbows into the ground, pulling his body forward. Clopping horse hooves broke the night's silence. Heedless of the thorns that tore at his flesh, Dirk bolted back through the thorny bushes…to Sarah's side.
The rider paused, and then crossed the creek, not far from their hiding place. Dirk listened to the water splash and the horse's hooves grind against small rocks as it crossed the shallow stream. The stretching of saddle leather told Dirk the rider had dismounted…then silence. Time lingered on, like a feather slowly falling from an eagle's nest to the ground.
Could the rider have seen him move back to Sarah? Did he stand in wait, gun pointed at them? The distinct echoes of another horse approaching came as a relief.
"It's about time you got here. You're late!" A deep voice boomed into the silence.
"Shucks, Giles. Weren't no fault of mine. I practically had to run my horse to death just to git here. What you all fired up about anyways?"
Dirk didn't need to see the two men to know they were Giles Rutledge and Enos Webber. Dirk knew their appearances and voices as well as he knew his own. But never had been this close during one of their conversations. He would have been thrilled to be in such a good position at any given time the past two months, but now he had Sarah to think about.
Dirk listened to the sound of sketching leather as the second man dismounted. Spurs clinked as he walked.
"I learned today that they're planning another big rifle shipment to the fort in about three weeks. I don't have all the details, but I want the men sober and ready."
"I'd sooner pull my teeth than to tell the boys they has to sit low and quiet for three whole weeks. Weren't never no problem with the fellas being ready for a raid before."
"It's not the past I'm thinking on, Enos. I don't want them getting into any trouble and bringing attention to themselves. We don't need folks starting to figure things out because the men can't hold their liquor or keep their trousers on!"
"Like I says, weren't never no problem before. Gots us more of them Blackfeet arrows off a couple bucks just yesterday. I recollect in three weeks time we'll have enough fixin's to do it proper like."
Dirk sucked in a silent breath. This conversation confirmed Trail Walker's suspicions. No longer did they need to wonder if Giles led a band of white outlaws masquerading as Blackfeet warriors. Now, Dirk needed to find a way to prove it to Sarah's father. Even if Trail Walker told the General everything, he'd believe his future son-in-law over an old, Indian guide. Soon or later Giles would get careless and turn down the wrong canyon, when he did, Dirk would keep him boxed-in.
* * *
A drowsy state of awareness seeped into Sarah's brain. Visions of flailing arms and legs, then a blurred vision of a black horse racing off into a blinding light made her restless.
"Gypsy," Sarah called in a muddled whisper.
Dirk covered her mouth within seconds.
"Wait. Did you hear something?" Giles asked in a deep, hushed tone.
"Twere there a noise, I'd hear it."
Strained saddle leather told Dirk one of the men had mounted his horse. The animal's hooves pranced against the earth.
"You check along those trees over there, I'm going to cross over and take a look," Giles ordered.
"You're getting worked up over nothing. Every meetin' you thinks someone's out thar, just waitin' to hear you."
"Enos, I don't have to tell you again, do I?"
"No, thars no use to your badgerin' me again with that there talk abouts bein' follered. I don't cotton to it, but if you're determined to go out yonder and has a look, well, I recollect you has to."
Dirk held his breath as the rider moved closer and closer to their hiding place. Sarah stirred beneath his hold and his body stiffened.
"You looking, Enos?"
"Sure is."
Dirk ached to get into a fighting position, but he couldn't justify the movement. He could have reached out and touched Giles horse's leg. If Sarah moved or made one sound¾
Several shots rang out. Dirk jumped.
"Hey, Enos, what the shit you shooting at?" Giles shouted into the night.
"I done hear'd a rattler. Little ol' scutter is somewheres around this here log. Musta shot it or scarred it off. Don't hears it no more. Find anything over there?"
"No, but my horse is acting skittish," he answered, guiding his steed back across the creek. "I'm telling you, Enos, there's someone out there watching us. I can feel his eyes staring down my back every time I leave the fort."
"Ain't none of us ever complete alone. Now recollect back. Has you once seen anyone when you thought you was follered?"
"You know I haven't. But one of these days he'll get careless or a little too brave, then I'll drop him where he stands."
"I gotta git, Giles. Where you wanna meet next time?"
"We might as well meet here, same time, say in two weeks time. I should have all the information we'll need by then. You make sure your end is taken
care of and before long, we'll both be rich."
"No fearin' on my part. Rich sure is gonna take some gettin' use to."
"Be here on time. I hate waiting." Giles ordered, loud and demanding.
"You're as wound and ready to strike as that there rattler. You make too much noise with your warning and you'll give yourself away."
"Damn, Enos. Just shut up and get going. Be here in two weeks. Same time."
Dirk listened to the clanking of metal, the crushing of rocks and dirt underfoot, then the unmistakable binding of leather before he heard the men ride off in opposite directions.
Only after the third high-pitched chewk-chewk-chewk-chewk of the elf owl, did Dirk consider moving his hand from Sarah's mouth. He found her rhythmic, warm breath against his hand unsettling. Still he hesitated to remove it.
The steady rushing of the shallow stream betrayed no intruders. A slight breeze caressed young budding leaves and rustled last year's tall, dried grass.
The riders were long gone, and Dirk reluctantly admitted the time had come to take Sarah home. On his hands and knees he pulled the blanket, with Sarah's slight frame on it, behind him. He executed each movement with deliberate slowness. He'd take no chances. Briars and dried cactus poked through his buckskins, yet he made no effort to remove them. They finally cleared the protective brush. Dirk's arms, hands and knees burned from the multitude of scratches and stabs inflicted by the thorny foliage.
Leaving Sarah on the inside edge of the buffalo-berry bushes, Dirk ran with all the speed and grace of a healthy bull elk. He searched through the darkness for the horses, and then resorted to piercing the stillness with a loud double squawk, kork-kok, that resembled the male ring-necked pheasant. Within minutes Leather came into sight. Sarah's mare followed.
Dirk saddled the animals, glancing several times at the thick, ominous clouds that covered a pale moon. The once gentle wind now picked up momentum. It brought with it a reminder that while spring had arrived, winter hadn't completely left either.
