Spirit's Song

by Madeline Baker

“If you are.”

  With a nod, he clucked to the gelding. Ready or not, it was time to move on.

  Chapter Nine

  His jaw clenched with anger, Jesse bound up the wound in his right shoulder the best he could. Stupid, he thought, he’d been so damn stupid. Must be getting old, going soft in the head. He knew better than to turn his back on a prisoner, especially one as desperate as Ravenhawk.

  He ran his hand over the shallow furrow along his left temple. He was lucky to be alive, lucky Ravenhawk’s second shot had only creased his hairline.

  He glanced up at the sky, judging the time. A good three hours had passed, making it close to nine o’clock. He supposed he should be grateful Ravenhawk hadn’t slit his throat while he was unconscious, that he hadn’t tied him up so tight he couldn’t get loose, that he hadn’t taken his revolver and the roan and left him unarmed and afoot. But he didn’t feel grateful. He was mad clear through.

  Grimacing with pain, he tied off the end of the makeshift bandage on his shoulder, then took a long drink from his canteen, wishing it was whiskey instead of water.

  He gathered some wood and built a fire, then hunkered down on his heels and stared into the flames. Ravenhawk had taken his rifle and the saddlebags that had held the food and cooking gear. It didn’t matter. He had lived off the land before; he could do it again.

  He would go after them tomorrow at first light.

  He stared into the flames. Abigail had been taken from him on a night like this, a night when the wind moved restlessly through the trees and a full moon hung low in the sky like a ball of thick yellow butter.

  Abigail. When he’d recovered from the brutal beating her father had given him, he had gone looking for her, but it was as if she had disappeared from the face of the earth. Try as he might, he hadn’t been able to find her, hadn’t been able to find anyone who knew what had happened to her. He sometimes wondered if, in a fit of rage, her father had killed her.

  He had searched for Abigail for over two years and somewhere along the way, he had taken up bounty hunting. It had seemed an easy way to earn money while he was on the move. In the last seven years, he had hunted and found over a dozen men who had not wanted to be found, but he had never been able to find a trace of Abigail.

  He lifted a hand to his scarred face, remembering the last night he had seen her. They had met at the end of town, determined to run away. He never knew how her father discovered their plans. But suddenly he was there, waiting, along with several other men. When Abigail realized what her father meant to do, she had gone down on her knees, begging her father to let him go. Her pleas had cut into Jesse with more force than the long black snake whip her father had used on him. He would never forget the humiliation of having the woman he loved beg for his life, never forget the way Abigail’s father had looked at her, his cold, blue eyes filled with disgust. He had ordered her taken away. He could still hear Abigail crying his name, her voice choked with fear, vowing that she loved him, would always love him.

  He had endured the brutal whipping in silence. I am a warrior, he had told himself. I will not be afraid. I will not show weakness in front of my enemy.

  Nor would be ever forget the cold satisfaction that had blazed in her father’s eyes as he pulled a knife from his pocket and waved it in front of him.

  No white woman will ever be taken in by that face of yours again, you dirty half-breed, her father had exclaimed. You’ll be lucky if they don’t faint.

  Sick with fear, Jesse had glared up at the man, his stomach churning with nausea as the razor-sharp blade had sliced into his flesh. One of the men nearby began to retch. Jesse had choked back the bile that had risen in his own throat.

  Be strong. A warrior does not surrender to pain, or fear.

  His grandfather’s voice, strong, vibrant, as he instructed his young grandson in the ways of a warrior. A warrior is strong and brave. He does not flinch from danger. When faced with a challenge, he does not back down, he does not back up. You must cling to the wisdom of your ancestors, Little Spirit, feel them standing behind you, giving you their strength.

  Only when they had left him, alone and bleeding in the dirt, had he given in to the pain that hummed through him. Like a wounded animal, he had crawled away to lick his wounds…

  Jesse shuddered as the images faded. Ravenhawk and the girl were out there. He felt a rare twinge of jealousy as he thought of the two of them together.

  He would find them. Both of them. The woman was his. Since the night of the beating, he had allowed no one to take anything he considered as his. He would not start now.

  Chapter Ten

  It was scary, riding across the vast grassy plains with nothing but the moon and the stars to light the way. Kaylynn clung to Ravenhawk, reassured, somehow, by the solid feel of him. He was wounded, he was an outlaw, but at the moment, he was all that stood between her and whatever dangers lurked in the ever-changing shadows of the night.

  The gelding stumbled once, jarring them. Certain they were going to fall, she tightened her hold on Ravenhawk’s waist, heard him swear as her hand pressed against the wound in his side.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, and quickly loosened her hold.

  He blew out a breath between his teeth. “It’s all right.”

  Hour after hour, mile after mile, they rode through the night. Her eyelids grew heavy; her eyes began to play tricks on her. A clump of bushes became a bear rising up from the earth, a branch became a snake.

  Finally, unable to stay awake any longer, she rested her head against Ravenhawk’s back and closed her eyes.

  Ravenhawk felt Kaylynn’s cheek against his back and knew, by the way she slumped against him, that she was asleep.

  She had probably saved his life. The thought did not sit well on his spirit. He did not want to be beholden to a woman, especially a white woman with hair as red as autumn leaves and eyes as brown as the earth where he’d been born.

  He wondered why she hadn’t left him when she had the chance. She had been afraid of Yellow Thunder; he knew she was afraid of him as well. Was she afraid of all men, or just Indians?

  Her hands began to slide away from his waist, and he caught them both in one of his, anchoring her against him. The night was cool and quiet, lit by a full yellow moon and a million twinkling stars. Her breasts were soft and warm against his back, warmer than the fever that burned through him.

  He was bone-weary, hungry, thirsty. The pain in his side seemed to throb to the rhythm of the pounding hoofbeats of the Appaloosa. He longed to stop, to wrap up in a blanket and surrender to the weariness that weighed him down, but the thought of Yellow Thunder spurred him onward. The bounty hunter had all the tenacity of a wolverine. He would be on their trail again as soon as he was able. They had to find a place to hole up for a day or two while he regained his strength…

  The stars were fading from the sky when he reined Ridge Walker to a halt and looked around. To his right ran the stream they had been following. It was wider and deeper now, a slow-running river that snaked through the grasslands. Heavily wooded hills rose to the left. He frowned as a memory tried to surface. He had been here before. If he remembered correctly, there was a small cave near the crest of the hill, a ceremonial cave revered by the Lakota.

  The river curled around the base of the hills. He clucked to Ridge Walker, urging the horse into the stream in an effort to hide his trail. Yellow Thunder was a tracker without equal; hopefully, this would throw him off their trail, or at least slow him down.

  Ravenhawk swore as the Appaloosa slipped in the mud, sat down hard, then scrambled to its feet and plunged into the river. He rode in the water for half a mile until he came to a beaver dam. It stretched halfway across the river. He leaned forward in the saddle, his hand gripping the girl’s as he urged the horse out of the water.

  The big Appaloosa plunged gamely up the sloping side. When they gained the bank, the horse shook itself.

  “Damn, Ridge Walker,” Ravenhawk muttered, pressing one
hand to his injured side. “Quit that!”

  Kaylynn came awake with a start. “What is it?” She glanced around, afraid Yellow Thunder had overtaken them, but there was nothing to see save the river and a wooded hillside. The blackened shell of a burned-out oak stood like a sentinel at the base of the hill. “What’s happening?”

  “Nothing. Everything’s fine.”

  “Is it?”

  “Yeah.” He took a deep breath. “I need your help.”

  “My help? What can I do?”

  “I want you to gather up some woodchips from the dam and use them to cover our tracks. At best, it’ll keep Yellow Thunder from knowing we left the river here. If not, maybe it will at least slow us down and buy us some time.”

  Kaylynn glanced over her shoulder. In the faint light of early dawn, she could make out a domed mound of sticks and twigs in the midst of the water. One side was attached to the riverbank.

  She slid over the horse’s rump. Ravenhawk urged the Appaloosa forward, heading toward the base of a high hill. Kaylynn collected an armful of small chips of wood and twigs and then, walking backward, she covered the horse’s tracks and her own with pieces of bark and tufts of grass. She didn’t know if it would fool Yellow Thunder, but to her untrained eye, it looked as if they had never been there.

  When she reached the base of the hill, Ravenhawk pulled her up behind him once again.

  It was a long, slow climb up the side of hill. There were places where the pines grew so close together they had to detour around them, places where tree branches and deadfalls made the way treacherous.

  Kaylynn held tightly to Ravenhawk’s waist, afraid if she let go, she would slide over the horse’s rump and go tumbling head over heels down the hillside.

  Faint sounds rose on the wings of the morning breeze. Leaves rustled in the trees, whispering secrets to the wind. Something stirred in the underbrush. There was a high shriek, and then a dark shape burst out of the trees, wings flapping.

  Startled, Kaylynn cried out. The Appaloosa snorted and shook its head, and only Ravenhawk’s sure hand on the reins kept the horse from turning and bolting down the hillside.

  “Easy, Ridge Walker,” Ravenhawk murmured, his voice low and soothing. “Easy, boy, it’s just an owl.”

  Kaylynn sighed. Eyes closed, she rested her forehead against Ravenhawk’s back and waited for her heartbeat to return to normal.

  “We’ll camp here,” Ravenhawk said.

  “Here?” She glanced around, seeing nothing but trees and rocks and detritus. In the distance, the sky was growing lighter.

  “Here.”

  She heard the utter weariness in his voice then, realized that her right arm was wet. She didn’t have to look to know that it was blood. His side was bleeding again.

  Ravenhawk offered her his hand, and she slid from the back of the horse. He took a deep breath, then, jaw clenched, he dismounted. For a moment, he stood braced against the horse, his eyes closed. And then she saw him take a deep breath, as if he was gathering strength from deep within himself.

  “There’s a cave,” he said. “Over there. I need to rest a few hours.”

  She looked where he pointed but saw nothing.

  “There.” He pointed again. “Take the saddlebags inside. I’ll bring the rest.”

  “I’ll do it.” She released the ties that held the bedroll in place and thrust the blankets into his arms. “You go lay down before you fall down. I’ll look after the horse.”

  Ravenhawk looked at her a moment. Sliding the rifle from the saddle boot, he turned and walked toward the cave.

  Kaylynn watched him, surprised when he suddenly seemed to just disappear.

  She looked up at the horse. “Don’t give me any trouble, all right?”

  The Appaloosa’s ears twitched back and forth, but it stood quietly as she removed the waterskin and canteen from the pommel, then struggled with the cinch. Darn saddle seemed heavier every time she picked it up. Huffing and puffing, she carried it toward the place where she had seen Ravenhawk disappear and only when she was right on top of it did she see the opening—a small hole cut into the side of the hill and screened by trees and brush. She dropped the saddle inside the entrance, then went back to the horse. Removing the blanket, she tethered the Appaloosa to a sturdy tree around a bend in the trail, screened by heavy brush, then took the blanket and the waterskin and returned to the cave.

  She found Ravenhawk inside, sprawled facedown on the floor.

  He was quite a man, she thought, to have ridden so far without complaint. She only hoped his stubborn male pride wouldn’t be the death of him.

  She made one more trip outside to gather some kindling and wood for a fire and then, kneeling beside him, she shook his shoulder. “Wake up.”

  With a groan, he rolled onto to his back. “Damn, woman, leave me alone.”

  “You’re bleeding again.”

  He looked down at his side and shrugged. Better to bleed to death within the walls of the ceremonial cave than go back to the white man’s prison; better to die here, now, than spend a single day behind bars.

  As though she had read his mind, the girl shook her head. “Don’t you even think about dying and leaving me out here all alone,” she warned.

  Rising, she laid a fire, spread the blankets on a smooth stretch of ground, then turned and looked at him.

  Biting back a groan, Ravenhawk crawled over to the blanket, removed his shirt, and lay down, eyes closed, as she removed the bloody bandage.

  Kaylynn rinsed out the old bandage, then used it to wipe away the blood oozing from the edges of the wound. It seemed to be healing, and not bleeding as badly as she had feared. She tossed the bloody square of cloth away when she was through, cut a new piece from the blanket, folded it and placed it over the wounds, then used the sash to hold it in place again.

  When she was done, she offered him a drink of water, covered him with the second blanket.

  “Wake me about noon,” he mumbled. Moments later, he was asleep immediately.

  She looked up, her gaze settling on the cave wall. It was covered with drawings and carvings of horses and people. One scene seemed to depict a battle.

  Stifling a yawn, she glanced at Ravenhawk. She had two choices, share the blankets with him, or sleep in the dirt. It didn’t take long to decide. Crawling under the blanket, she turned her back to Ravenhawk and closed her eyes.

  Strangely, it was Jesse Yellow Thunder she dreamed of.

  Chapter Eleven

  Jesse woke with the dawn, loath to open his eyes, reluctant to banish the last vestiges of the dream images that lingered in his mind.

  He had dreamed of the red-haired woman. Mao’hoohe. He wondered what name she had been born with, where she had come from, if her people thought her long dead.

  He recalled how she had watched him during the Sun Dance. Even when his back was toward her, he had been aware of her presence. Unknowing, her nearness had strengthened him. And when it was over, when he had knelt on the ground, exhausted and hurting, he had felt her gaze on him. His sacrifice had been sweeter still because she had witnessed it.

  Mao’hoohe. He would have her yet.

  With an oath, he threw back the covers. He wondered about her far too much for his peace of mind. He stood up slowly, fighting a wave of dizziness.

  It was awkward, saddling his horse with one hand. The mare snorted softly, her nostrils flaring at the scent of blood that clung to him.

  “Easy, girl.” He swore under his breath as he struggled with the cinch.

  He was breathing hard by the time the mare was saddled.

  Breakfast was a drink of water from his canteen, a handful of berries picked from a bush. He cursed Ravenhawk as he stepped into the saddle, cursed his own greed. But for the lure of an easy thousand dollars, he could be back in the Cheyenne camp, taking life easy. He considered letting Ravenhawk and the woman go, but only for a moment. It was more than the reward now. It was personal. Ravenhawk had taken his food, the woman—his
woman—and his pride. Jesse might have forgiven the Lakota for the first two, but he would have to pay dearly for the last.

  Blocking the pain of his wounded shoulder from his mind, he took up the reins and began following the Appaloosa’s tracks.

  Chapter Twelve

  “You said he was hurt.” Kaylynn toyed with a lock of her hair, her thoughts troubled. “How do you know he’ll come after us?”

  “He’ll come,” Ravenhawk replied.

  “What makes you so sure he’ll find us?”

  Ravenhawk grunted. “He’ll find us. Our only chance is to try and stay ahead of him.”

  “I don’t think you’re strong enough to ride.” Kaylynn studied Ravenhawk’s face, noting the dark shadows beneath his eyes. At least the fever was gone. That was a good sign.

  “Maybe we should wait another day,” she suggested. “You need to rest.”

  “We don’t have time to rest,” Ravenhawk snapped impatiently.

  “You’re afraid of him, aren’t you?”

  A muscle twitched in Ravenhawk’s jaw, but he didn’t deny it.

  Jesse Yellow Thunder was a hard, unforgiving man. He would be angry that he had been taken by surprise, and Ravenhawk would bear the brunt of it. He glanced at the woman, wondering if the bounty hunter would lash out at her, too. Yellow Thunder was not a man to let what he perceived as a wrong go unpunished.

  Ravenhawk swore under his breath. Maybe he shouldn’t have taken all the food. Maybe he should have left the woman behind.

  He stood abruptly. It was too late to worry about that now. What was done was done, and it was time to move on.

  Kaylynn gathered their supplies and followed Ravenhawk out of the cave, blinking against the sunlight. The Appaloosa eyed her warily, but didn’t shy as Kaylynn smoothed the blanket over its back, settled the saddle in place, tied the bedroll behind the cantle, lashed the packs in place.

  She was getting better at it, Kaylynn mused with a sense of satisfaction as she slid the rifle into the boot.