by Maddy Barone
Sherry nodded uncomfortably.
“They even took your name away from you.” Stag took her hand in his callused one. “What happened to you and your mother would never have happened here. Babies are always welcome. After the Woman Killer Plague during the Terrible Times, there were so few women left that every single birth was celebrated. Only one baby born in three hundred was a girl. Girl babies are still pretty rare, even now. Your father would have been whipped for treating a woman so badly. Your mother would have had her pick from hundreds of men who would have begged her to marry them. You, her little baby girl, would have been taken good care of. Everyone would have loved you and protected you.”
Sherry had to blink back tears. How different her life would have been if she’d been born here. “I probably would have been a spoiled brat.”
“No. Your nature is too sweet for that.”
Stag really didn’t know her if he thought her nature was sweet. She cast about for a new topic. “Why do some of you in the Clan have Indian names like Jumping Stag and Red Wing, and some of you have white names like Des?”
Stag stacked five big pancakes on her plate and only frowned when she transferred three of them to his plate. “Most of us have both names. Many of the women in the Clan were from towns, so they gave their children English names. Sometimes we’re given Lakota “baby” names, usually something descriptive about us. Like my cousin Jelly is named He Eats Jelly. Guess why?”
As she was at that moment spreading grape jelly over her pancakes she couldn’t keep a smile back. “Okay, I can see that.”
“After we’ve completed a spirit quest, we are usually given a new name.”
“Do you have a white name?”
“My English name is Nathaniel.”
Sherry chewed her bite of pancake, looking at him thoughtfully. His hair was freshly washed, his braids thick and shiny. He didn’t look like a Nathaniel to her. “Do you like being called Nathaniel?”
He shook his head. “The only person to call me that was my mother.”
A gagging sound from the other side of the table jerked Sherry’s eyes to Marissa. The other woman’s previous happy glow had faded to greenish nausea. She leaped up from the table and hurried out of the big room.
“Oh, dear,” said Sherry. “Where’s Red Wing?”
“Patrolling the fence. Is Marissa sick? Should I go get her mate?”
The urgent concern in Stag’s voice made Sherry smile. All the wolves were hyper-concerned about the women’s health. It was actually cute in an overbearingly protective way. “No. It’s just … a woman thing. I’ll go check on her.”
“You haven’t finished your breakfast.”
“I’m full. You finish it. I’ll see you later.”
“Be sure to wear warm clothes for our ride. I’ll meet you after lunch.”
* * *
This was Stag’s idea of a beautiful day? Sherry hunched further into her coat and dug her mittened hands into her horse’s mane for extra warmth. The sky was a deep clear blue, and the wind was light, but it was the end of January and it was cold. She hadn’t been riding in ten years, and her legs ached. Stag led the way at a bone jarring trot about ten feet in front of her. She thought this would be a leisurely amble around the town, while they chatted and got to know each other better. Instead, Stag had headed straight out of town and was out of chatting distance, riding as if he had a destination and was anxious to get to it. As they rode, she saw big gray wolves slinking along at a distance, clearly shadowing them. It reassured her to know they weren’t actually alone. How crazy was that? Werewolves creeped her out. But she knew what had happened to Tami when she’d been captured and sold to bad men, and she wasn’t sure that Stag would be able to fight off any men who tried to kidnap her by himself. Then again, he could turn into a wolf and shred them with his teeth. Sherry shuddered, and it wasn’t from the cold.
“Stag,” she shouted. “I’m getting cold. I want to go back.”
He was wearing only an unlined leather jacket. She knew wolves didn’t feel the cold as much as humans did, but it was only twenty freaking degrees. Couldn’t he at least button the coat all the way closed? He called over his shoulder. “There’s a cabin up ahead we can stop at to get warmed up.”
He nudged his horse into a canter, and hers followed suit. Sherry didn’t know how long it was before they got to the little house, but it felt like hours. Being outside town gave her a strangely vulnerable feeling, like driving a hundred miles an hour on a motorcycle without a helmet. The house, when she finally saw it, was a welcome sight. It was well hidden by folds in the land. She noticed that it was painted gray and had big black shutters, but what her eyes fixed on was the smoke coming from the chimney. That meant a fire to warm up at. Stag led the way around the back, to a stable almost as big as the house. When she dismounted she almost fell. Her legs refused to support her weight, but Stag caught her.
“Are you alright?” he demanded anxiously. “Is it the broken bones?”
“I don’t think so,” she groaned. “Just not used to riding.”
He picked her up like a baby. “I’ll get you settled inside and then come back to take care of the horses.”
The house was toasty warm inside. It was just one room, with a kitchen and eating area on one end, and a bed and chest of drawers on the other, with a big stone fireplace on the opposite wall. Stag carried her to the bed and set her down carefully. “I’ll be right back.”
Sherry took her hat off and looked around. It wasn’t a large room, but it was clean and uncluttered. The wood floor wasn’t polished, but the planks were smooth, covered with a few rugs. There was a square table with a couple chairs around it under one of the small windows. The bed was obviously homemade, a little smaller than her queen-sized bed at home. A simple quilt made of fabric squares in cheerfully clashing purples, oranges and reds covered it. Opposite the bed was the fireplace with a small fire snapping brightly. The scent of burning wood filled the room. Even here, ten feet away, she could feel the warmth of the flames. On top of the beat up chest of drawers beside the bed was a canvas sack that looked a lot like the bag she kept her knitting in, and on the floor was a duffel bag. She saw no knickknacks or personal items in the room.
Who lived here and where were they? Sherry hoped they wouldn’t mind that she and Stag were stopping here to warm up.
Stag came in a few minutes later and took his jacket off to hang on a peg by the door. He went to the fireplace to lay another log on the fire before moving the chairs by the window over in front of the fire. His eyes fixed on her with a strange intensity as he came over to squat at her feet.
“You can take your coat and boots off,” he said. “Here, I’ll help you with your boots.”
Sherry watched Stag set her boots beside the door and arrange them so they were at just the perfect angle to the door, and then hang her coat up for her. Why was he being so careful about it? He’d been acting strange all day.
“The fire is warm,” he said. “Come sit and relax. Should I get you a blanket to wrap up in?”
She stood up and walked over to the chair he indicated. Without her cane, she walked carefully, but it was only six or seven feet, an easy walk even for a saddle-sore woman whose legs had been broken three months before. But she was glad to sit down, since her legs still felt a bit like jelly. She had left her cane behind at the Plane Women’s House, since she didn’t think she would need it for a leisurely horseback ride. “I’m good. Whose house is this?”
Stag shrugged evasively. “A friend’s.”
“Where is he? He must be around; the fire is burning and the house is warm. Does he mind that we’ve just barged in?”
Stag sat in the other chair and looked into her eyes. “He’s not around. We have the place to ourselves for a week.”
“Oh, that’s ni … A week?”
Stag nodded solemnly. “We need some time to get to know each other without anyone bothering us. We’ll stay here for the next week.”<
br />
“A week?” Something in her throat ballooned, cutting off her breath. “Do you mean … Stay here for a week? In this house? By ourselves? Alone?”
He nodded, watching her with an odd look on his face, like a naughty little boy who knew he was in trouble but hoping he could talk his way out of a spanking.
“I’m supposed to be in the kitchen tonight!”
“Des is taking care of it.”
That’s what he said this morning when he invited her to go for a ride. “Oh. My. God!” She jumped out of the chair, her jelly legs forgotten until she stumbled and almost went down. She jerked away from Stag’s steadying hands. “Don’t touch me! Did you plan this? We weren’t just wandering around out there, were we? You brought us right here on purpose!”
“Yeah. We need some time alone.”
She backed so close to the fireplace she felt a spark land on her. She jerked forward, and when Stag stood and reached for her she stepped to the side, holding her hands out to warn him off.
“Don’t touch me! You lied!” She couldn’t believe he had practically kidnapped her. “I want to go back. Now.”
He folded his arms across his chest. “No.”
“What?” When had Stag ever told her no? When had he ever refused to give her what she asked for? “I want to go back,” she insisted.
“No,” he said again, mildly, firmly.
Sherry stared, stunned. “But … You have to. It’s too dangerous out here. Anyone could find us and kidnap me!”
She searched his face for some sign that he would give in. She found none in his calm, unyielding expression.
“Oh, wait,” she snorted disdainfully. “Someone already has.”
Stag unfolded his arms, drawing her attention to his bare, perfectly sculpted chest. “The house is being guarded by Taye’s Pack. You’re safe here.”
“Reeeeally.” The sarcasm she’d used all her life to defend herself burst into full bloom. “Safe from what? Huh? Safe from you? From where I’m sitting, that’s not what it looks like, boyfriend.”
Stag’s shoulders stiffened. “I won’t hurt you.”
“Reeeeally,” she repeated. It wasn’t a question; she loaded all the insulting doubt she could muster into the word. “Then take me back right now.”
He crossed his arms over his chest again. “No.”
Sherry mimicked his arms-crossed-over-the-chest pose, anger clenching her muscles tight. “What have I ever done to make you treat me like this?”
He ticked reasons off on his fingers. “When I first claimed you, you called me a monster. In the Clan’s camp you refused to even look at me. You refused to talk to me. When I brought you to Taye’s den to live with his Pack, you refused to stay there. At Christmas you demanded I give you time to see the counselors and promised you would talk to me afterward. But when I returned, you demanded more time. You are going to keep your promise, Sherry. We have a week to talk and get to know each other better.”
“Talk? Just talk?” Sherry was careful not to look at the only bed in the place. “I’ll go crazy with nothing to do.”
He nodded to the chest of drawers by the bed. “I had them pack your knitting.”
Tears threatened. “How can you do this? I want to go back. If I scream for help the wolves will come rescue me.”
Stag stepped closer but stopped when she retreated. “No. They’re here only to be sure no strangers come close. But I promise I’m not going to hurt you. I want you to love me and accept me. Why would I hurt you?”
“Because you’re a man!” she lashed out. “There’s only one bed. Where are you going to sleep?”
“In the bed. With you. But that’s all we’ll do. Sleep. I’m not gonna tie you up or force you to do anything.”
When she’d been making out with him in the pantry she thought he was overwhelming, like a steamroller flattening anything in his path. She hadn’t known the half of it. “Stag, please take me back.” She allowed the tears to well over. “Please.”
Stag turned away. “You know I can’t bear it when you cry.”
Duh. Why else was she doing it? A girl had to use what weapons she had. “Please, Stag.”
“No. I don’t like it when you cry, but if you need to cry, go ahead.”
Outrage smothered the tears. She glared holes into Stag’s back as he strolled to the kitchen area. “What will it take to get you to take me back? Huh? A couple hours in bed? Fine! Let’s go!” She tore at the buttons on her wool flannel shirt, furious enough to be reckless. She had the shirt open before she realized he wasn’t even paying attention.
“I hate you!” she screamed at him.
His back was rigid. “That’s what Lady Amber told Dante,” he sighed obscurely. “But I hope you’ll change your mind.”
He turned, and at the sight of her shirt hanging open his eyes popped wide. “Sherry? What are you doing?”
She jerked the shirt off her shoulders. “Whatever I have to.”
With the curiously elegant speed all the wolves had, he swept to stand in front of her, hauling her shirt back up. “Sherry, no.” He fumbled to fasten the top button.
“Don’t you want to sleep with me?” she demanded. By the look of the front of his breechcloth, that question was a no brainer.
“Not like this,” he answered grimly. “I want you so bad it hurts, but I want you to want me too, and right now, you don’t.”
He was right, but he could change that. Having him so close that his scent flooded her nose reminded her what a fine looking man he was. Her lips were only inches from his throat. It would be so easy to touch her tongue to his firm brown skin and lick her way up his neck to nibble his earlobe. But she was mad at him. Yeah, she was angry enough to want to hurt him. “How do you know I don’t?” she taunted. “Maybe I can’t wait to feel your mouth on me again.”
“No, you don’t. I can smell when you’re aroused and right now …” he trailed off, inhaling like a man sniffing a ritzy wine. His hands stilled on her buttons, eyes widening. “You do want me!”
Sherry jerked angrily away. “Guess again.” She buttoned her shirt with fingers made clumsy by embarrassment and anger. “I’m not turned on, I’m pissed off. There’s a difference, okay?”
“Okay,” he placated. “Come help me get supper started.”
* * *
What remained of the afternoon was awkward. They moved carefully around each other in the kitchen while preparing and eating supper, and then cleaning up afterward. Sherry was acutely aware that she was locked in a tiny cabin with a drop dead gorgeous man who wanted her. She’d spent the last two months struggling against her attraction to him. But she would not give in, no matter what he did to her.
She spent the first hour of the evening planted in one of the chairs in front of the fire, knitting in morose silence while Stag, as always, watched her with unnerving attention. When her tired hands needed a break from knitting, she counted the flagstones in the hearth. Stag was unnervingly content to gaze at her in silence.
Finally, she snapped, “You brought me here so we could talk and get to know one another, right? So talk!”
He did. He told her about his training to be the Clan’s next wicasa wakan. Sherry gathered a wicasa wakan was like a cross between a medicine man and a priest. She asked him to spell it, and he just blinked at her, as if she’d asked him how many miles it was to the moon. It was a guttural word, with soft, slurred consonants. As he spoke he touched the small leather bag he always wore around his neck and told her it held items that had personal and sacred significance to him. She actually found herself listening closely to him as he tried to explain to her what a wicasa wakan was, because he plainly was passionate about the topic in spite of his quiet voice. Sherry tried to understand what he was saying, but frankly, she didn’t understand the Lakota religion. It seemed nebulous, without the hard and fast rules she found so comforting about her Catholic faith.
Stag’s religion, in comparison, didn’t seem to have a lot of rules. W
hile he was trying to explain it to her, he used so many Lakota words that he said didn’t have English equivalents that she was reduced to just nodding now and then. She realized that he was telling her all this, which was very private, because he was trying to let her get to know him. Part of her wanted to tilt her nose in the air and ignore him. Another part of her was touched that he was willing to share something so personal. When he asked about her faith, she found herself telling him details she had never spoken of before.
In Korea, her grandparents hadn’t been at all religious. Many Koreans didn’t have a religion at all. When she had come to America she had been dragged along to Sunday School and church every Sunday and to the children’s missions program most Wednesday evenings. Her father served as a deacon at the First Baptist Church, a position he was very proud of. As she’d grown up, she’d come to realize that her father was an utter hypocrite. She was his illegitimate child, living proof of his adultery. He held her up as proof not of his sin, but of his Christian charity. Some of the people in that church were really nice. They convinced Sherry that true Christians did exist. But her father wasn’t one of them. His church said that children were a gift from the Lord, but he treated her like garbage. She became Catholic partly out of pure rebellion and partly because she found comfort in the unchanging rituals of the church. Whether she went to Mass at St. Joseph’s in Missouri or St. Anne’s in New York, she felt at home.
Stag listened to her with flattering attention. Except for the first few months they’d been together, LeRoi barely bothered to pretend to be interested in anything she had to say. If Stag weren’t such a stubborn, overbearing, high-handed, sexist bigot, maybe she’d be more willing to accept him.
There was no clock in the house, but Sherry felt the yawns coming on so she knew it must be bedtime. She glanced covertly at the bed. Of course Stag noticed. He noticed everything she did.
“Tired?” he asked casually.
“I’ll sleep here in front of the fire,” she announced.
