“You will try my patience one time too many. Then watch out, ’breed,” Colonel Russell snarled, his eyes lit with anger. He leaned his face into White Fire’s. “Stay away from my daughter, do you hear?”
White Fire smiled, then turned and left.
He went to his horse and swung up into his saddle. Then he rode in a slow trot from the courtyard, his eyes on the stately Snelling mansion.
His gaze went from window to window, wondering where Flame’s room might be. Might she even be there now, watching him? He had seen in her eyes that she found him intriguing.
Then he frowned as he remembered her father labeling him a ’breed today.
He had to wonder if Flame might look on him as nothing more than a ’breed.
He rode on from the courtyard, his mind elsewhere. He thought about the colonel’s offer of money. He smiled as he thought of where he had always hidden his own cache of money. His wife, Mary, had not even known the amount he had set aside, to be used should the need arise.
True, his Mary had been a sweet, compassionate wife, and a wonderful, caring mother. But she was also wont to spend money foolishly. She had seemed to have an addiction, like gamblers who throw their money away at the poker tables.
White Fire recalled the last time he had slipped coins and green bills into the tin box hidden behind a loose stone in the outside fireplace chimney. He mentally counted what he had placed there prior to his abduction. It was more than enough to buy a rifle and ammunition, a knife, food for his table, and some badly needed clothes.
Yes, he would go to the commissary, but the money spent there would be his, not the colonel’s.
But first he had a letter to write, to his mother. He could almost envision his mother’s face when she realized that he was alive.
He planned to tell her everything that had happened to him—about his time spent with the Sioux, his rescue, and also the kind offer from Chief Gray Feather to live with them as one with his Chippewa people. He had only spoken of the Chippewa a few times in his letters.
His mother would also be told about the chief offering his daughter to White Fire for marriage. That would touch a cord in his mother’s heart, since she herself was full-blood Indian, and knew the meaning behind such an offer from an Indian chief. To offer one’s daughter was to offer one’s own soul.
But most of all, White Fire would write at length about his son and the measures he must take to get his son back. He would tell his mother that a wife would be the true answer.
As he rode toward his cabin, his thoughts went to Flame, then he brushed her from his mind again, for thinking of her brought her father to mind. He would never allow himself to forget the hate in the colonel’s eyes when he had warned White Fire to stay away from his daughter.
Yet, why should he allow such a threat to stand in his way of doing anything that he wished to do? he thought to himself, smiling. No threat had ever stopped him from pursuing a goal he wished to achieve.
Nor would it now.
Now that he had seen Flame all grown up into a beautiful woman, how could he be expected to forget her?
Chapter 12
She seemed to hear my silent voice,
Not love’s appeals to know.
I never saw so sweet a face,
As that I stood before.
—John Clare
Ignoring the military chaperon that she had left outside the commissary, yet angry at her father for forcing Lieutenant Green on her, as though she were a prisoner, Flame stood at the back of the room, admiring the beautiful dresses hanging from a rack. Since there were so few women at the fort, there weren’t that many dresses, but enough from which to choose a new wardrobe.
She then glanced around her. The dreary room was dimly lit with kerosene lanterns and their smoke-blackened chimneys hanging from the open beams of the ceiling. They scarcely gave off enough light to see by. Even the small windows at the top of the commissary walls did not help much, for they were hazed over with rain-blown dust from the last storm.
She looked then at the far side of the room where the men’s clothes and military equipment lay on shelves in vast rows. She tried to make out the features of a man who was going through the arsenal of weapons. She squinted her eyes to see him better, but he was standing too much in the shadows for her to make out his face, or even his build, or what he wore.
Her flame-red hair hung in luscious waves across her shoulders, halfway down to her waist. She was dressed in a demure, pale green chiffon dress, with a floral print skirt and wide embroidered sash. Flame soon forgot the man and began sorting through the dresses. Her eyes devoured the sweeping lines of a two-piece linen outfit with lavishly worked lace insets embellishing the bodice and sleeves. Her fingers nimbly scooted the linen outfit aside.
Her green eyes lingered on the sweeping lines of a velvet cloak. Then she sighed when she saw a white organdy dress with petallike sleeves and hem. As she turned it around, and from side to side, in awe of its loveliness, she felt as though she might never find anything as perfectly right for the ball tonight.
Yet she must make sure something else was not there even more tempting and beautiful.
She looked through the rest of the graceful, deliciously feminine chiffon and organdy dresses. Her fingers moved over moire silks, then she smoothed them over cut velvet and brocade, many of which were intricately trimmed with lace, while others were lush with embroidery.
Quickly, she plucked several dresses from the rack and laid them aside on a table alongside the velvet cloak. Then she stepped over to where many hats were displayed on stands.
Loving them all, Flame clasped her hands and looked from one to the other, from straw hats trimmed with silk flowers to others with voluminous veils of muslin. Finding it too hard to choose which one just yet, she moved onward.
Her gaze swept over fine chemises and petticoats, bracelets, brooches, and purses, stopping on a silk parasol with an ivory-and-green lining.
Then she went to the shoes, sighing at how flirty and feminine they were. She picked up an ivory satin shoe and ran her fingers over its exquisite smoothness.
“I think that would be my choice,” White Fire said suddenly from behind her. He had been choosing a rifle and had heard a noise at the back of the room. When he had turned around and saw who was there, he had almost melted in his shoes at her loveliness. It was hard to believe his luck—that he would be at the commissary at the exact time Flame was there.
And now that she had turned and was gazing into his eyes, as though awestruck, he was aware again of how they seemed drawn to one another.
Seeing her the day of his father’s funeral came into White Fire’s mind’s eye, remembering how exquisitely beautiful she had been even then at ten. He had known that she would grow up to be someone exquisite and heart stopping.
Finding White Fire there, being alone with him, made Flame’s heart flutter nervously. Had she known it was him standing in the shadows, choosing weapons, she would have been too nervous to continue her own shopping. Her knees would have been too weak with excitement had she known that he was so near; had she known that they were alone in the commissary.
She clutched the shoe to her chest as she continued to look up at him, his midnight dark eyes mesmerizing her as much as they had the first time she had seen him when she was ten and knew even then that she would never forget him.
“Do you truly like the shoes?” she finally blurted out, self-conscious of the blush of her cheeks, their heat proof enough to know that he, too, could see how his presence affected her.
“They seem made for you,” White Fire said, picking up the matching shoe, gazing at it, then sliding his gaze again to Flame. “Are you looking for new shoes for a special occasion?”
“Why, surely you’ve heard,” Flame said, thinking that he himself might be at the commissary to look for more than weapons. He had surely come to choose clothes for the ball that was being held this night in her honor.
“Heard wh
at?” White Fire said, placing the shoe back on the shelf. It seemed so natural standing with her, sharing small talk, as though they had known each other forever.
And perhaps they had. Since their first day of acquaintance, she had more than once plagued his thoughts. Yet knowing their age difference, he had brushed her from his mind.
She looked at him now, as though she had never forgotten him. He could see that she had feelings for him other than just being cordial and polite as she surely was to most men. Yes, there was something more. He knew that fate had drawn them together again, even though she had a father who would rather skin White Fire alive than let him get even a foot near his daughter!
“I’m speaking of the ball tonight,” Flame said, finding it so hard to believe that she could be standing there talking with White Fire, as though they were the closest of friends.
Ah, but if he only knew how often he had visited her midnight dreams! To her, he was much more than a friend. For certain, she would see that he soon was, and even more than that, hopefully, her lover.
No matter what she had to do to see him, she would. Her father could not imprison her like a child. She was a woman with feelings of a woman, all stirred up deliciously sweet inside her by this man’s nearness!
“Ball?” White Fire said, forking an eyebrow. “No, I haven’t heard anything about a ball.”
“No, I guess you wouldn’t have,” Flame said, sighing. “I should have known that my father wouldn’t give you an invitation.”
“Oh?” he said. “And why not?”
Flame turned her eyes away, angry at herself for having been so open with him, by saying something that could hurt his feelings. She tried to think fast, searching in her mind for a plausible answer as to why her father would not invite White Fire other than him being, in part, an Indian.
But nothing would come to mind.
“Because I am a ’breed’?” White Fire asked, placing a finger to her chin, turning her eyes back around so that he could look into them.
When he saw her eyes lower, he was quickly sorry that he had said what she had purposely failed to say.
“I’m sorry,” he said softly, easing his finger from her chin. “I shouldn’t have said that.”
Her eyes lifted quickly. She gazed raptly up at him. “You were right to,” she said, her voice drawn. “For it is because of your skin color that my father would not invite you to the ball . . . and . . . because . . .”
She stopped short before telling him that it was because of her feelings for him that her father truly would not invite him to her ball.
“Because of what?” White Fire asked, searching her eyes. “Tell me. Why else would your father not include me in the invitations?”
She stared up at him for a moment longer, then breathless from the feelings assailing her, of wanting to be held by him . . . of wanting to be kissed by him . . . she turned away and plucked first one dress from those she had chosen, and then another.
White Fire cursed himself beneath his breath for having again caused an awkwardness between them by his persistent questioning. She obviously did not wish to answer.
“And so you have chosen a dress to wear tonight to the ball?” he said, trying to again bring lightness to their conversation, to do anything to keep them talking awhile longer, for being near her was like being filled with warm sunshine!
“Yes, I believe I have,” Flame said, plucking the special one from the others. She held it out before her. “This one.”
She was glad that he was still there, instead of being insulted by her having so abruptly turned her back to him.
Her heart pounded as he reached up and ran his fingers over the skirt of the white organdy dress.
When they brushed against her hand, her flesh tingled with aliveness and her breath caught in her throat.
“You will look beautiful in this dress,” White Fire said, aware of a huskiness in his voice that he wished she would not hear.
But being so near her, smelling her perfume, and having brushed against her hand, her flesh so warm and soft against his, stirred so much inside him that he could not fight against.
She was gently spoken. She was sweet. She was beautiful. She was radiant.
But having had a loveless marriage, and having been without a woman for so long, and knowing her father’s feelings toward him, he saw the danger in wanting Flame so badly. He must force himself to forget her.
Yet he could not walk away from her now, any more than the stars could deny the sky on a lovely summer’s night. He wanted her. And somehow he would have her, and her father be damned if he tried to come between them!
Flame gazed into his eyes, seeing so much there that told her that his feelings for her were the same as those she felt for him.
Her pulse raced. Her knees grew weak. And at the pit of her stomach she was experiencing such a strange, yet sweet, mushiness.
“You truly believe this is the dress I should wear tonight at the ball?” she murmured, their eyes locked.
“Also the ivory satin shoes,” he said, the fire in his loins gnawingly hot.
“Yes, they are quite beautiful,” she said, aware of a strange huskiness in her voice that she had never heard before.
Never had she felt this deliciously queasy before. Oh, Lord, she so badly wished they could dispense with their small talk and confess their feelings for one another! Oh, but if he would only grab her and kiss her!
“I . . . I . . . like the velvet cloak and I also need to choose a couple of hats,” she quickly said. She giggled. “But, of course, not for the ball. I need the cloak and hats for my out—”
Her words froze on her lips when she heard her name spoken. It quickly broke the spell between her and White Fire.
“Flame?”
Lieutenant Green’s voice came from across the room as he made his way toward Flame. She looked wildly past White Fire at the lieutenant’s approach, then back to White Fire.
“You’d best go,” she said, her voice quavering with emotion. “Father appointed that . . . that . . . damn lieutenant to keep watch on me today as though I am a mere child. It’s best he doesn’t see you and me together.”
Understanding all too well what she meant, and his hatred for the colonel growing because of it, White Fire placed a gentle hand to Flame’s cheek. “I know,” he said somberly, “I know.”
The feel of his hand on her cheek, so warm, so wonderful, so gentle, caused Flame’s insides to melt sensually. She momentarily leaned her cheek into his hand. Then she moved quickly away when Lieutenant Green spoke her name again and she knew that he was too close to continue this moment of ecstasy.
She stepped quickly away from White Fire, gathered an armful of dresses, the velvet cloak, the shoes, and rushed away.
White Fire watched her move into the deeper shadows of the room. Then he tightened inside when he saw the young lieutenant place a possessive arm around her waist and whisk her over to the counter where her choices would be recorded in a journal.
White Fire waited long enough for her to leave the building, then he walked stiffly to the men’s clothes racks and very determinedly chose an outfit for the ball. He smiled when he imagined the shocked look on Colonel Russell’s face when he entered the ball as though he had been invited.
He felt his loins quiver when he envisioned Flame’s surprised look when she would discover him there....
He sighed deeply when he envisioned how beautiful she would be in the organdy dress, the red flame of her hair contrasting against the white.
He closed his eyes and envisioned how beautiful she would be as she swirled around the dance floor, the hem of her dress tangling seductively around her tapered legs.
He opened his eyes and sighed. Then he put the clothes back on the rack. What was he thinking about? Although Flame did appear to have feelings for him, surely she did not know what her flirting was getting herself into. He was a man much older than her—a man who even had a son.
No. He must
force himself to forget her.
Feeling let down and more lonely now than he had ever felt in his entire life, White Fire went back to the arsenal of weapons and chose a rifle and a knife.
His gaze went back to the rack of men’s clothes. His thoughts went to Flame.
“Should I?” he whispered.
Chapter 13
O fairest creature, last and best.
Of all God’s work, creature in whom excelled,
Whatever can to sight or be formed,
Holy, divine, good, amiable, or sweet!
—John Milton
The moon was high in the sky. Stars sprinkled the heavens like twinkling sequins. The air was caressingly warm and smelled of wisteria from the vines that were thick with their purple flowers on a trellis at White Fire’s right side.
As he secured his horse’s reins next to the many other horses at a hitching rail, White Fire glanced up at Colonel Russell’s personal residence. It brought so much to mind that was melancholy for him. He had visited often with Colonel Snelling and his family in this house.
He looked up at the second-story windows, seeing soft lamplight wafting from each of them. He was familiar with each and every room, for when he had not been talking and chatting with either Josiah Snelling in his upstairs study, or with Josiah and his wife, Abigail, in their fancy parlor, he was in the children’s rooms, often reading them stories at bedtime.
Yes, before he had had a child of his own, he had enjoyed Josiah and Abigail’s, realizing then what fathering a child would mean to him.
“I will get my son back,” he whispered to himself.
In his memory he saw his son dressed in velvet, with curls like a girl lying across his shoulders, and he shuddered and brushed it from his mind. He could hardly stand to know that his son was being treated more like a girl than a young man, who, if he lived among Indians, would be a young brave, practicing and learning the ways of a warrior.
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