by tiffy
ʹʹMother, no! The Spanish rock gougers willʺ An anguished cry tore from him, that of a small boy. ʺWhy? Why do you do this? You traitor! I will avenge the death of she who was my mother! My uncles, all those you have butchered. I swear it! You will beg for death before I am done with you.ʺ He coughed and choked as Orlena tried desperately to spoon more of the fever medicine between his parched lips.
ʺI will live on my hate . . . live on my hate,ʺ he rasped out, seemingly stronger in the grip of delirium. A series of convulsive shudders shook him as he cried, again in Lipan, then in Spanish, ʺNo! Do not take away the light. Do not put me in the hole again! Coyote and Owl wait down there. I am strong for my ten yearsI can work anywhereanywhere but this hole!ʺ
All through the night his feverish ranting revealed his past. Wiping scalding tears from her face, Orlena listened to a broken and disjointed tale of unspeakable terrors, of a boy betrayed by the Spanish, his whole family massacred and he, the lone survivor, sold into slavery in the mines outside Chihuahua. She had heard stories about how Indian captives were forced to labor for the gold and silver that enriched Spanish coffers, about the conditions under which even small children lived and died. Orlena shuddered as he relived the horror of seeing a Spanish guard bashing in the skull of a Mescalero boy who fell from a ladder and broke his leg.
Now she understood the scars that crisscrossed Night Windʹs backhis and Hoarse Barkʹs. They had been mine slaves together as children.
Small wonder they both feared and hated those caves to the south! She pictured a terrified little boy, beaten with a rawhide lash and tied into a basket that lowered him to the deepest bowels of the earth to dig from dawn to darkness in tiny rabbit‐warren tunnels. Orlena shivered just thinking of it.
Night Wind had good reason to hate the Spanish father who must have abandoned him and his mother to such a horrible fate. Only hate had sustained him through the ordeal of the mines.
ʺThank the Blessed Virgin for that priest who saved him!ʺ There were some of her people who acted as befitted civilized men. But the bitter lesson she was learning since coming to New Spain was that men like the good friar were rare; men like those drunken mine guards in Chihuahua City were far more numerous.
ʺNo, not the dark. No. It . . . it is me. I see things, feel things the others do not.
Please, Mother! Mother! Help me. It is wrong to call your spirit back to this evil place. . . .ʺ his voice faded and he shuddered, transported into childhood once again.
ʺI am here, my son. Do not fear. Soon you will be free of this place. Do not fear.ʺ
Orlenaʹs voice was choked with tears as she whispered low, wishing desperately that she could speak the words in Lipan, but in his fevered state, Night Wind did not know the difference. Her soft voice and touch seemed to soothe him, for he lapsed into a deep, dreamless sleep.
ʺNow you know why Night Wind fears caves,ʺ She Who Dreams said matter‐of-factly as she entered the wickiup the following morning.
Orlena sat up, rubbing her eyes. She had been curled up close to Night Wind, whose fever had finally broken toward dawn. ʺWhat? How did you know?ʺ Her voice trailed off as she realized that the old woman had deliberately left her alone with Night Wind through the night. She knew he would rave in his delirium and that was her way of letting him tell Orlena about his past. Of course, there were still a great many unanswered questions, especially pertaining to Conal Quinn. Why had Night Wind tried to abduct Santiago, and why had he kept her when she was taken by mistake? Orlena was not certain she wanted to know the answers.
She Who Dreams cleansed Night Windʹs wound. She issued terse instructions to Orlena about how to soak the poultice off with clean water, then reapply the sticky paste after bathing the tender skin. ʺGood. Not red. Not puff up.ʺ She watched Orlenaʹs trembling hands as the girl gingerly followed orders.
ʺWill he live?ʺ Orlena held her breath.
She Who Dreams smiled serenely. ʺYes.ʺ The word spoke volumes, as if she had always known Night Wind was in no danger! Perhaps she had.
Once the poultice was in place, Orlena looked up hesitantly. ʺWhy does Night Wind hate Conal Quinn? Did Conal . . .ʺ her voice faded with the horror of it, but she forced herself to ask, ʺDid Conal sell him into slavery in the mines?ʺ
Impossible as it was to imagine her Conal doing such a monstrous thing to a small boy, she had to know. If true, it would explain so much, but at the same time leave so many more painful questions unanswered. She waited.
ʺI think Night Wind tell you . . . some day,ʺ came the cryptic reply. She Who Dreams stood up with surprising grace for one so rotund and advanced in years.
Scooping up her medicine bag, she departed, saying, ʺLater I bring food when Night Wind awake. You sleep now.ʺ
Orlena was emotionally and physically exhausted. After once more bathing Night Windʹs now cooled body, she lay down beside him and fell instantly to sleep.
It must have been a nightmare that awakened her, for she was falling down, down into a bottomless black pit one moment, the next bolting upright on the soft fur pallet. When she collected herself, Orlena looked at the man lying beside her. Bright green eyes, no longer clouded with fever, stared intently at her.
A dizzying surge of joy infused her body. ʺYou are going to live! She Who Dreams was right,ʺ she cried, unable to explain her elation, unwilling to analyze it.
ʺHow long have I been unconscious?ʺ he asked as his good arm came up and his left hand touched the hole in his chest.
ʺLie still,ʺ she scolded. ʺYou had a fever all night. She Who Dreams saved your life. I want to learn her healing skills.ʺ
A ghost of a smile tugged at one corner of his lips. ʺSurely not so you could apply them to me?ʺ
She gave him a disdainful look and scooted away. The old hateful arrogance had returned. ʺYou must be recovering,ʺ she replied waspishly, ignoring his question.
He rubbed his head. ʺI remember having dreams . . . nightmares. You were having one just now, were you not?ʺ His expression was troubled and confused.
ʺYes, I . . . I was falling down a wella pit really.ʺ The instant the words escaped her lips she could sense the tension radiating from him.
ʺYou were imagining the mine shaftthe silver mine in Nueva Vizcaya,ʺ he accused her. He had told her everything, babbling in feverish confusion! He swore and tried to sit up.
Orlenaʹs cool hands gently restrained him. ʺNo! Youʹll start your wound bleeding again.ʺ ʺWhat did I tell you?ʺ he asked flatly.
She tried to avoid his piercing eyes, but he reached out with surprising strength and caught her wrist in his left hand. Dark fingers squeezed painfully on the delicate bones.
ʺStop. You are going to break my wrist!ʺ
ʺPoor reward. She save your life,ʺ She Who Dreams said as she stood in the doorway. ʺEat.ʺ Although the command was meant for Night Wind, She Who Dreams gave the bowl and a small spearing knife to Orlena, obviously intending her to feed the wretched ingrate!
When the old Lipan woman had departed, Orlena set the bowl down and rubbed her aching wrist. Surprising her, Night Wind took it in his hands and gently massaged the red marks. ʺI am sorry. I did not intend to hurt you, Lioness. Your nightmare was startlingly similar to mine. I must have told you a great deal,ʺ he prompted.
Her eyes were liquid gold with tears when she looked down at him. ʺI know that you hate white men for killing your family and selling you into slavery. You described the mines. . . .ʺ She paused and shuddered again at the image of a beaten, starved child shoved down into a black hole to dig until he died. ʺYou spoke of a Fray Bartolome who rescued you. That explains your formidable education.ʺ
ʺIs that all?ʺ His eyes searched her face for some clue to the rest. He had a niggling remembrance of crying out for his motherand being answered. He did not like that thought at all! But her words quickly caused the memory to desert him.
Boldly she looked down at him and said, ʺI already knew you hated Conalbut did he kill your family?ʺ
Her voice cracked on the question. It must have been a battle; Conal was a soldier fighting grown men, deadly savages, not children!
ʺHe led the Spanish soldiers.ʺ he replied tightly.
She gasped in horror. ʺBut the mineshe did not take you there? Surely, children were always to be baptized and taken into private homesʺ
ʺYou will defend him when Satan himself comes to claim Conalʹs black soul,ʺ he said with a cold smile. Without another word, he reached for the bowl and knife.
Not wanting to pursue the hurtful conversation further, she took the food from him and began to feed him after plumping up the furs to elevate his body.
When he had eaten about half the rich meat, each chunk soaked in bone marrow, a special delicacy of the Apache, he gently pushed her hand away. ʺEnough. I am weary. Eat yourself, Lioness.ʺ
A grudging smile tugged at her lips. ʺAre you certain you can trust me with the knife while you sleep?ʺ
He merely grunted and stretched back, instantly asleep. Orlena watched his handsome face in repose. With the hardness and coldness gone, he was a startlingly beautiful man. That old familiar feeling of heat and ache pervaded her senses again as she remembered how his hard body had felt stretched against hers, how his kisses tasted, how much she wanteda gasp ripped from deep in her throat, closing it off. Orlena squeezed her eyes shut but silent, burning tears flowed down her cheeks nevertheless. I love him! I want him to touch me, to love me as a husband!
I bed Spanish women. I will never wed one. His words came back to taunt her. What was she thinking ofa lady of the Spanish court, the nobility, enamored of a halfcaste savage, son of some paisano who had deserted an Apache squaw! Pride stiffened her spine. She gathered the food bowl and knife up with trembling fingers, and left the wickiup.
Over the next several days, Night Wind regained his strength with amazing speed. In Spain, Orlena had seen many men sicken and die of dueling wounds far less serious. She nursed him under She Who Dreamsʹ skillful guidance, each day cleansing the poultice away and replacing it. By the end of a week he no longer needed the evil‐smelling medicine. She Who Dreams instructed Orlena to assist him outdoors to enjoy some bright fall sunlight, which she assured the girl was the best healer of all wounds.
Leaning heavily on herperhaps more than necessary, she thoughtNight Wind walked outdoors and smiled up at the bright autumn sun. The radiance of his handsome face transfixed her for a moment.
Night Wind had noted the change in Orlena since his injury. At first he had feared she understood that he was using her in his quest for vengeance, but it seemed he was wrong. Her soft womanʹs heart was only touched by the suffering of a small boy. She refused to consider Conal guilty of his crimes, and for now that suited Night Windʹs purposes perfectly. Still, why did it disturb him so that she had such faith in the Irishman? He pushed that thought aside and said to her, ʺLet me rest here for a while. Then when everyone is busy with their chores, you may help me walk to the stream so I may bathe the stink of sickness from my body.ʺ
He smiled at her widened eyes, which revealed much. So, she remembered their last encounter with mutual bathing, did she? The desire to take her had grown like an ache inside him, ever since he first laid eyes on her, dressed in Santiagoʹs clothes, with that mane of curly hair spilling like molten gold down her back.
Her silky skin and jasmine fragrance had incited him from the first time he came near her and every moment since, even when he was angry enough to kill her.
He wanted her. Soon he would know success. He had vowed not to force her, and now he knew she would not resist.
Orlena watched him sit gracefully on the soft furs. His eyes followed her as she nervously began to shell pecans, placing the sweet nut meats into a large bowl for roasting, then gathering the sharp shells into a neat pile to be discarded where no one, particularly a child, could cut himself on them.
Several boys nearby laughed as they wrestled with an older man who was playfully showing them how to pin an opponent in a fight. Ever since her arrival in the Lipan camp, Orlena had been amazed at the time and attention children received, especially from the grandparents and all older members of the band.
Grandmothers and great aunts taught sewing and cooking to girls, and wizened old warriors patiently sat stringing bows for small, chubby‐handed boys. Having been raised by governesses and tutors much of her life, Orlena had treasured her outings with Conal. Such indulgences were a rarity among Europeans of the upper class, and she knew it. But here, everyone adored children and even the oldest, most respected chiefs such as White Crane spent hours caring for small children and instructing youths.
Night Wind observed Orlena as she looked longingly at the children. For the first time he wondered about her childhood. Had she been lonely? European children often were. It would explain much about her devotion to Conal. But the poisonous reverse side of that thought ate at him. What motive was there for Conalʹs possible devotion to her?
ʺCome, I think we should seek the cooling water.ʺ Without waiting for her help, he rose and scooped up several soft buffalo robes. Reaching for her arm, he walked toward the sheltered area downstream where the water was deep enough for bathing.
Trembling, Orlena walked with him.
Chapter 11
ʺCome here. Take off your clothes.ʺ His words were softly spoken, taunting yet gentle. Night Wind had stripped and waded into the lapping water, which was warm from the noonday sun. The pool was a long walk from camp and very private. They had stopped to let him rest several times. Now he felt strengthened as the stream refreshed him.
Orlenaʹs throat collapsed on itself, leaving her speechless as she stared at his swarthy beauty. Bronzed muscles rippled as droplets of water slid over them. He splashed and then laughed, a warm, rich sound, so at variance with the first time he had said those words to her.
I bed Spanish women. I will never wed one. As those bitter words flashed through her mind, Orlena felt an overpowering urge to flee from his burning magnetism.
She could easily outrun him in his weakened condition, but to what end? This is your fate. Why do you fight against it? Slowly, she began to pull off her doeskin clothing.
Night Wind stood waist‐deep in the stream. His breath caught as he watched the golden vision before him. He could sense her fear and hesitance, yet feel the innocent power of her newly awakened desire as well. She would come to him, willingly, as he planned so many weeks ago. Yet, at that moment, vengeance was the furthest thing from his mind. He watched the soft sunlight filtering through the aspen leaves, bathing her body in a golden glow. She was slim and fine-boned, perfectly formed, a delicate aristocrat, a European lady. Before, he had always felt contempt for the Spanish women he bedded, women who disdained him even as they desired him, women who betrayed their husbands and family honor to satiate their own lust.
For all her youthful pride and temper, Orlena was nothing like that. She was truly innocent. He ached to touch her silky skin, now tinted by the sun yet pale compared to his bronzed body.
When she unfastened her skirt and let it fall in a heap beside her moccasins, she turned away from him, overcome with shyness and a terrifying wave of embarrassment. Next to the Lipan women, she was thin and pale. What if he felt disgust or pity? Then her pride reasserted itself. After all the times he had watched her with his lust held so tightly in check, she knew he must desire her.
She pulled the rawhide thong from her braid and shook her hair free, letting it float about her shoulders in gleaming masses. With her chin held haughtily high, she forced her eyes to meet his and began to wade into the creek.
Night Wind walked toward her with his arms outstretched, palms up. She was so lovely, with her high pointed breasts, accented by pale pink nipples. His gaze sketched a brief look at her flat little belly and the soft golden curls between her slim thighs. Then he reached for her cool, trembling hands and clasped them in his large warm ones, gently massaging her sensitive inner wrists and raising one hand, then the other fo
r soft, wet kisses.
When he pulled her against his body, a languid heat began to overwhelm her senses. She grew dizzy and clung wordlessly to him, her hands gliding up his hard biceps to cup over his shoulders. She raised her head to his face and waited for the mind‐robbing kiss she knew was coming.
Night Windʹs heart hammered as he felt the soft brush of her small, perfect breasts. Her nipples hardened as they rubbed in sensual innocence against the mat of hair on his chest. He bent down and kissed her, at first with the fierce, hot hunger of his long repressed need, then with increasingly gentle, exploratory caresses, letting his lips and tongue taste and tease hers.
Orlena felt a primitive thrill when Night Wind savaged her mouth. Oddly unafraid, she arched against him and returned the kiss in breathless pleasure.
When his lips softened and his tongue darted and flicked, hers answered. She could sense his reaction, and it fueled her boldness as she ran one small hand up and buried it in his straight, shoulder‐length hair. It felt coarse and thick. When he left her mouth to trail kisses down her throat, she let her head fall back instinctively. He buried his face in the golden cloud of her hair, grasping great handfuls of it and raising it to his lips.
ʹʹYou smell of jasmine still,ʺ he whispered hoarsely.
ʺIt is only your memory. My perfume is long bathed away,ʺ she replied with even more difficulty.
ʺLet me test further,ʺ he murmured, lowering his head to one arched little breast.
His hand cupped it, raising the hard tip like a treasured chalice to his lips. The contact of his hot mouth sent a shudder of ecstasy through her and she whimpered incoherently. He moved to the other nipple and duplicated the magic. ʺThe jasmine is your skin, which holds its own perfume,ʺ he whispered.
Heat was coiling low in her belly now, like the warm, sweet honey she and the Lipan women had scooped from the bee trees in the valley. Darts of pleasure lanced from her breasts to her belly, then lower yet. She could feel the persistent pressure of his erection rubbing against her. His hips gently rocked hers in an ancient rhythm as he held her buttocks in his hands and again centered his mouth on hers for a long, slow kiss.
