Hardly aware of what he was doing, he touched the scar on his face. He didn’t care how pretty the girl was, he was through with white women.
With a shake of his head, he turned his attention back to what his cousin Grey Wolf was saying.
When the first rush of excitement at his return had died down, Jesse took Grey Wolf aside. “There’s a white woman in camp,” he said, trying to keep the interest from his voice. “Who is she?”
Grey Wolf gave him an enigmatic look. “Two Dogs captured her in a raid. She belongs to his mother.”
Jesse nodded. He had figured it was something like that, and then cursed himself for asking. It didn’t matter who the redhead was. He had no need for a woman, any woman, other than the quick physical release that any whore could provide, and yet he couldn’t shake the feeling that they were destined to meet.
Amused by such a fanciful thought, he put the white woman from his mind as he followed Grey Wolf to his lodge. The Sun Dance was tomorrow and he had preparations to make.
* * * * *
Kaylynn stood on the edge of the crowd, her curiosity stronger than her revulsion as she watched the shaman move among those who were going to participate in the Sun Dance ceremony. She had been intrigued by much of what she had seen during her stay with the Cheyenne, repulsed by some, but this was by far the most gruesome thing she had witnessed. A dozen young warriors stood together, their expressions solemn, as the medicine man moved among them.
She was about to turn away when she saw the shaman approach the stranger she had seen the day before. She had asked Mo’e’ha who he was, and learned that his name was Yellow Thunder and he was cousin to Grey Wolf.
Taking a fold of loose skin located between the stranger’s left breast and collarbone between his thumb and forefinger, the shaman lifted it as high as possible and then ran a narrow-bladed knife through the fold of skin. With the knife still in place, the shaman inserted a skewer of bone, and then withdrew the blade. A rawhide thong was fastened to the skewer, and the loose end was attached to one of the ropes dangling from the Sun Dance pole. A similar incision was made in the stranger’s right breast.
The shaman moved on. He inserted skewers into the backs of three of the dancers, and then, instead of attaching the ends of the thongs to the Sun Dance pole, the rawhide was attached to a buffalo skull, which the men would drag around the dance arena.
The sound of drumming filled the air and the participants began to move. Those who were attached to the Sun Dance pole began to dance back and forth, their faces turned up to the sky as they tugged against the thongs that bound them to the pole. The other men danced in a wide circle, dragging the heavy skulls behind them. From time to time, the dancers blew on eagle-bone whistles that hung from cords around their necks.
Fascinated and repulsed, Kaylynn’s gaze rested briefly on each man before settling on the tall stranger. She didn’t know anything about him except that he was Grey Wolf’s cousin, but he looked as fierce and untamed as all the other dancers, maybe more so with that hideous scar on his cheek.
Face turned up to the sun, he moved with catlike grace, his feet hardly seeming to touch the ground as he danced back and forth. She stared at the blood and perspiration trickling down his chest, at the rapt expression on his face, and knew if she lived with the Cheyenne for the rest of her life, she would never truly understand them. And yet, for the first time since her captivity, she felt herself wanting to know more. What did the dancers hope to gain by submitting themselves to such torture? What did Yellow Thunder hope to gain?
She noticed that his hands and feet had been painted red and blue; stripes were painted across his broad shoulders. He wore a long red kilt. There were bands of rabbit fur on his arms and ankles.
The drumming engulfed her like a living thing. The sound made the hair rise along her arms. She felt its power surround her, felt it go deep into the heart of the earth, felt the beat of it in the soles of her feet.
The sun rose higher. Oblivious to the perspiration trickling down her back, oblivious to everything and everyone but the scar-faced man, she watched him dance. Body sheened with sweat, muscles taut with pain, he moved forward and back with unconscious grace as he tugged against the rawhide thong that bound him like an umbilical cord to the sacred tree. It was barbaric. It was beautiful.
Once, his gaze found hers, and she felt again that surge of recognition. The drumming faded. The light of the sun bathed him in a golden glow, making him look otherworldly somehow. He was a lonely man, she thought. A dangerous man. With a shiver, she turned away.
She gathered wood for the evening fire, she walked down to the river for water, but no matter where she went, the drumming followed her, as did the image of the scar-faced man, until she was again drawn back to the sacred circle.
Night had fallen by the time all the dancers freed themselves. One of the men needed assistance from his relatives before he could tear himself free; another fainted so that a friend had to come forward and remove the skewers from his chest.
The scar-faced man required no help. Head high, chest bloodied, body sheened with sweat, he gave one final pull against the thongs and freed himself from the Sun Dance pole. He stood there for a moment, his expression victorious, and then, head hanging, he dropped to his knees.
Kaylynn stared at him, overcome by a sudden inexplicable urge to go to him, to wipe the perspiration from his brow, to gather him into her arms and ease his pain.
As though feeling her gaze, he looked up, his dark eyes filled with pain and triumph.
She smiled uncertainly, and turned away, conscious of his gaze on her back.
Chapter Three
Alan Summers sat at his desk, fingertips drumming impatiently on the arm of his chair as he regarded the detective standing in front of him.
“What do you mean you can’t find her, McCarthy? It’s been eight months! She can’t have vanished without a trace.”
“I’m sorry, sir.”
“You’re keeping an eye on the house?”
“Yes sir, round the clock, just as you ordered.”
“You’re certain she’s not there?”
“Yes sir, quite certain.”
“And she hasn’t contacted them?” Neither had he. He couldn’t bring himself to write her parents, asking if his wife, his wife, dammit, had shown up on their doorstep crying for her mother.
“No sir. I have someone inside the house checking the mail, both incoming and outgoing.”
“And you feel you can trust this person?”
“Yes sir. It’s one of the maids. I offered her a rather large sum. She assures me there has been no letter from Mrs. Summers.”
“Very well. Keep looking. Tell your men there will be a bonus for the one who finds her.”
“Yes sir.” With a bow, Amos McCarthy turned and left the office.
Alan stared after him, his eyes narrowed. Eight months, and no trace of her. He had expected her to run home to New York, but if McCarthy was to be believed, and there was no reason to doubt the man, she wasn’t there. So, where had she gone?
“Why don’t you just forget about her?”
“Forget?” Alan whirled around, his gaze resting on the woman sitting in the chair in the corner. “Forget?”
“You don’t need her.”
“She’s my wife. Mine,” he repeated, his voice curt. “And I keep what’s mine.”
“Her coming back will only complicate things.”
“Afraid you might lose your place in my affections, Claire?”
She met his gaze squarely. “Yes. I don’t want to share you with anyone. Not even your wife.”
He laughed softly, pleased by her answer, by the jealousy in her eyes.
“Kaylynn belongs to me,” he said. “Bought and paid for, just like you, my dear. She will be made to see the error of her ways when she returns.”
“I could give you a son.”
“You?” He laughed again, a harsh sound devoid of warmth or humor.
“Marry you? I had no idea you possessed such a wry sense of humor, my dear.” He crossed the room to stand in front of his mistress. “You don’t really mind sharing me, do you, my lovely Claire?”
Fear replaced the jealousy in her eyes. “No, Alan. Of course not.”
“I knew you would see things my way,” he replied. “Everyone does. Sooner or later.”
Chapter Four
The day after the Sun Dance, the ceremonial camp disbanded. The tipis were moved from the great ceremonial circle to the usual camp circles of families within families. Kaylynn learned from Mo’e’ha that over the next week or so, the Cheyenne and the Lakota would begin to move back to their own hunting grounds in preparation for the fall hunt.
But on this day, there was to be a horse race. Kaylynn had learned that the Sioux and Cheyenne loved contests of all kinds. Games of skill, foot races, horse races, wrestling, competing with bow and arrow and lance, they excelled at them all.
Kaylynn stood on the edge of the crowd, watching the preparations for the race get under way. In the early days of her captivity, she had stubbornly refused to make any effort to learn the Cheyenne language. Foolish as it seemed now, she had told herself it would be a waste of time. She wasn’t staying here. Surely, she would be rescued soon. She had dreamed of the army riding in to save her, dreamed of a knight on a white horse risking life and limb to rescue her. She knew now such an event was unlikely. No one knew she was here. It grieved her to think her parents would never know what happened to her.
When she finally accepted the fact that she was probably going to spend the rest of her life with the Cheyenne, she had made an effort to learn their language. She had always been a quick study and she had learned quickly, though there were times, like now, when everyone seemed to be talking at once, that she missed more than she understood. From the enthusiastic gestures and the words she caught, she realized there was a lot of betting going on. Men and women were wagering robes, horses and blankets on the outcome of the race.
She saw old Mo’e’ha talking excitedly with another woman and once she pointed in Kaylynn’s direction and nodded.
Kaylynn had a sudden, sinking feeling that Mo’e’ha was offering her as part of a bet, and while Kaylynn wasn’t particularly fond of the old woman, she had grown accustomed to her and her ways.
Those who were going to ride in the race began to mount up. The men, wearing nothing but clouts and moccasins, rode bareback, their dark copper-hued skin gleaming in the sunlight. Her gaze was drawn to the stranger she had watched dance the day before. She felt a shiver run down her spine, a sense of trepidation, of excitement.
For a moment, with her gaze trapped by his, she forgot everything else. Like a rabbit mesmerized by a snake, she stood unmoving, her whole being quaking from the force of his gaze. What was there about him that filled her with such unease, that made her feel as though she were teetering on the edge of a precipice?
She breathed an audible sigh of relief when he turned away and swung onto his horse.
She didn’t see or hear a signal, but suddenly the race was on. Excitement rippled through the crowd as men and women cheered for their favorite. As unobtrusively as possible, Kaylynn pushed her way to the front of the crowd.
The riders were in a close bunch, but she had no trouble picking out the stranger as the horses rounded a turn and started back toward the village. Gradually, the stranger and another warrior pulled away from the rest. Racing neck and neck, they crossed the finish line together.
A tie. Kaylynn felt a moment of relief. He hadn’t won. All bets were off.
She was turning away when she realized the race wasn’t over. The two who had crossed the finish line together were going to race again to determine who the winner was.
There was a great deal of noise and commotion as some of the onlookers wagered additional goods. Dogs barked. Children raced each other while waiting for the new race to begin.
Kaylynn watched Yellow Thunder as he slid off the back of his horse and began to walk the animal back and forth near the starting line to cool it out.
He was tall and lean and moved with a slow, almost sensuous grace. He frightened her, though she couldn’t say why. It was more than his scarred face, more than the fact that he was Cheyenne.
“Mao’hoohe. Nenaasestse!” Red Fox. Come here!
Kaylynn turned as she heard Mo’e’ha calling her.
“Ne’aahtoveste!” the old woman said as Kaylynn approached. “Listen to me! You belong to Bear Robe now.”
Kaylynn stared at Mo’e’ha in disbelief. “What?”
Mo’e’ha nodded, her expression resigned as she turned away.
Kaylynn stared after Mo’e’ha, stifling the urge to call after the old woman.
A deep voice drew her attention. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw the scar-faced man talking to her new owner. The stranger looked at her once, a hard, assessing glance, and then he swung aboard his horse and rode to the starting line.
Kaylynn stared after him, the hard, cold hand of fear tying her stomach in knots. Please, she prayed, please don’t let him win.
A hush fell over the crowd. Kaylynn knew it was in anticipation of the start of the race, but it seemed ominous somehow, the quiet before a storm.
She bit down on her lower lip as the two horses sprang forward. She was vaguely aware of the shouts and cries of the spectators, but she felt as though she were standing there alone, her fate resting on the outcome of a horse race between two savages.
The horses were running neck and neck as they rounded the halfway point.
A distant part of her mind registered the primal beauty of the scene before her: the deep-blue sky, the green grass that spread as far as the eye could see, the slender cottonwoods that grew along the river, the raw speed and power of the two horses as they thundered over the hard-packed earth. The stranger was bent low over his mount’s neck, and she thought that she had never seen anything so visually stunning as the dark-haired stranger astride the powerful blue roan. They moved together with perfect rhythm, almost as if they were one creature. Though it was probably her imagination, she fancied the man was talking to the horse, urging him on. And slowly, slowly, the big blue roan moved ahead. Ears flat, neck stretched out, its hooves seeming to fly over the ground, the mare streaked across the finish line several yards ahead of the other horse.
A feeling of dread washed over Kaylynn as she released the breath she was holding.
The stranger had won, and she had lost.
Jesse accepted the congratulations of those around him. Filled with the exhilaration of a hard-won contest, he dismounted, smiling and nodding to the last of the well-wishers. He scratched the roan between the ears, grinned as the mare pushed her nose against his chest. It was a sad thing, he mused, when the only girl who loved you was your horse.
“I should never have bet against you.”
Jesse looked at Bear Robe and grinned. “That’s right.”
“Here is the woman.” Bear Robe pushed the white woman forward. “She answers to the name of Mao’hoohe.”
Red Fox. Jesse grinned wryly as his gaze swept over the girl’s long red hair. The name suited her. “You also owe me a lodge,” he reminded his cousin.
Bear Robe nodded, his expression glum. “It will be ready tonight.”
“Good.” Jesse slapped his childhood friend on the shoulder, then turned to the girl. “How long have you been a captive?”
Kaylynn stared at him through rebellious brown eyes, somewhat taken aback by the fact that he spoke fluent English. “Almost eight months.” Sometimes it seemed like years.
Jesse stared at her, wondering where she had come from. She had that innate look that meant money. She was probably used to living high on the hog, he thought. No doubt she hated it here. Most white women did. He thought fleetingly of Abigail. Once, they had planned to make a home here… He shoved the thought from his
mind. It didn’t matter how this girl felt. She was here and, like it or not, she was his. He handed her the mare’s reins, turned, and headed for the river.
Kaylynn stared after him. Did he expect her to go with him?
He paused and glanced over his shoulder. “You coming?”
Sullenly, she followed him down to the river.
He walked for quite some distance, finally stopping when he came to a place that was screened by an overgrowth of brush. The mare tugged on the reins, reaching for the water.
“Don’t let her drink,” he said sharply.
Grimacing, Kaylynn tugged on the reins, pulling the horse away from the edge of the water.
“She needs to be cooled out,” he said, then frowned when he saw she didn’t understand. “You need to walk her until her coat’s dry and her chest feels cool.”
“She’s your horse,” Kaylynn retorted, then bit down on her lower lip, wondering where that bit of defiance had come from. She had learned long ago not to argue.
“And you’re my slave,” he replied, his cold, dark eyes daring her to deny it. “I’d advise you to do as you’re told. You won’t like what happens if you don’t.”
He turned away from her and Kaylynn gasped when, without warning, he stripped off his clout and moccasins and plunged into the water.
She stood there a moment, wondering why she was so shocked. The Indians didn’t seem to be overly concerned with modesty. Men, women and children swam together in the summer; Mo’e’ha’s son and his wife had coupled in the lodge when they thought everyone else was asleep.
With a sigh, she tugged on the horse’s reins and the mare followed her downriver.
For a moment, Kaylynn contemplated climbing on the horse’s back and making a run for it. There was no one there to stop her. She could be miles away by nightfall.
Spirit's Song Page 2
