Savage Illusions

by Cassie Edwards

  A shi­ver so­ared thro­ugh Spot­ted Eag­le. The owl was war­ning him that it was ti­me to le­ave his sor­rows be­hind. With a lif­ted chin, a pro­ud stan­ce, and dri­ed eyes, he be­gan des­cen­ding from this pla­ce of pri­va­te pra­yers and knew that one day, he wo­uld see Swe­et Do­ve aga­in.

  And he now felt mo­re man than child.

  Chapter Three

  Eig­h­te­en Ye­ars La­ter

  Saint Lo­u­is, Mis­so­uri 1870

  The te­pe­es we­re co­lor­ful­ly de­sig­ned with pa­in­tings de­pic­ting the sun, lig­h­t­ning, and the va­ri­o­us se­asons of the ye­ar. The vil­la­ge se­emed de­ser­ted as Jole­na crept thro­ugh it af­ter ha­ving be­co­me se­pa­ra­ted from her com­pa­ni­ons in Blac­k­fo­ot co­untry.

  Scarcely bre­at­hing, she tip­to­ed thro­ugh the vil­la­ge. The smell of me­at co­oking so­mew­he­re clo­se by ca­me to her, but fo­od was the last thing on her mind. She was ter­ri­fi­ed to be alo­ne in the de­ser­ted Blac­k­fo­ot vil­la­ge, won­de­ring whe­re ever­yo­ne was. She ex­pec­ted them to po­un­ce on her from all di­rec­ti­ons at any mo­ment now. Even tho­ugh Jole­na's own skin was of a cop­per co­lo­ring and her ha­ir was jet black, pro­ving her In­di­an he­ri­ta­ge, she was dres­sed as a whi­te wo­man dres­ses, and she knew not a word of the Blac­k­fo­ot lan­gu­age sho­uld she co­me fa­ce to fa­ce with one.

  How wo­uld she ex­p­la­in her di­lem­ma?

  Would they even ca­re?

  Suddenly she stop­ped with a start and gas­ped when a Blac­k­fo­ot war­ri­or ca­me from one of the te­pe­es and bloc­ked her way. She so­on dis­co­ve­red that she was not so stun­ned by his sud­den pre­sen­ce as she was by the war­ri­or's ut­ter han­d­so­me­ness, and when he re­ac­hed a hand out and very gently to­uc­hed her fa­ce, all of Jole­na's fe­ars mel­ted away…

  Jolena's bed­ro­om win­dows we­re swat­hed with she­er, lacy cur­ta­ins, gen­t­ling the first be­ams of sun­light to re­ach her pil­low, awa­ke­ning her. Her dark eyes flic­ke­red open. Her pul­se was ra­cing; she still felt the sa­me mel­ting sen­sa­ti­ons that she had just ex­pe­ri­en­ced in the dre­am. So many nights now she had dre­amed the sa­me dre­am of the sa­me han­d­so­me war­ri­oronly this dre­am was dif­fe­rent.

  He had ac­tu­al­ly to­uc­hed her!

  Placing her hand on the sa­me che­ek that he had to­uc­hed in her dre­am, she clo­sed her eyes and al­lo­wed her­self to ima­gi­ne that her hand was his and, go­ing even fur­t­her, ima­gi­ned that she was fe­eling his lips aga­inst hers…

  Knowing that she must stop the­se fan­ta­si­es, Jole­na wren­c­hed her eyes open and drop­ped her hand from her fa­ce. In­s­te­ad of the han­d­so­me In­di­an, now the cen­ter of her at­ten­ti­on was the sud­den ex­ci­te­ment fil­ling her with the re­mem­b­ran­ce of what lay ahe­ad of her, be­gin­ning to­day.

  As she plum­ped the pil­lows mo­re com­for­tably be­ne­ath her he­ad and ran her hands along her sa­tin co­ver­let, she ga­zed to­ward the win­dow and wat­c­hed the sun etch its pat­terns thro­ugh the la­ce, kno­wing that this wo­uld be the last mor­ning in her bed­ro­om for many months, per­haps even as long as a ye­ar.

  That she wo­uld ac­tu­al­ly tra­vel cle­ar to the wil­der­ness of the Mon­ta­na Ter­ri­tory se­emed hard to be­li­eve. She had fo­ught hard to con­vin­ce her fat­her to al­low her to tra­vel with the party of le­pi­dop­te­rists who we­re se­ar­c­hing for the eup­ha­ed­ra, the ra­re but­terfly that had on­ce aga­in mig­ra­ted far from the jun­g­les of Ve­ne­zu­ela. So long ago her fat­her had fol­lo­wed the sa­me le­ad and had not fo­und the but­terfly. It se­emed that the only thing he had dis­co­ve­red and ta­ken back to Sa­int Lo­u­is with him was a da­ug­h­ter…

  Slipping out of her fo­ur-pos­ter bed, her ba­re fe­et sin­king in­to a thick car­pet, Jole­na co­uld not help be­aming, ca­ught up aga­in in the ta­le that her mot­her and fat­her had sha­red with her af­ter she had be­en ta­un­ted on­ce too of­ten by her play­ma­tes for be­ing an In­di­an.

  Her flo­or-length she­er nig­h­t­gown stre­aming along be­hind her, Jole­na went to a full-length mir­ror and ga­zed in­ten­sely at her­self. She ran her fin­gers over her fa­ce, stud­ying her smo­oth, cop­per skin, high che­ek­bo­nes, and dark brown eyes.

  Then she ran her fin­gers thro­ugh her wa­ist-length ha­ir that was blac­ker than char­co­al. When she had just be­en six ye­ars old, she had be­gun to re­ali­ze the dif­fe­ren­ce bet­we­en her­self and the ot­her girls with whom she at­ten­ded scho­ol.

  It had be­en a ru­de awa­ke­ning when so­me had moc­ked her for be­ing an In­di­an, even cal­ling her a "sa­va­ge."

  She had qu­ickly le­ar­ned that ha­ving a dif­fe­rent co­lor of skin ma­de a dif­fe­ren­ce.

  She had as­ked her pa­rents to ex­p­la­in abo­ut her "dif­fe­ren­ce"why wasn't her skin li­ke the­irs if she was the­ir da­ug­h­ter?

  She had lis­te­ned raptly when they had told her abo­ut ha­ving fo­und her lying with her de­ad In­di­an mot­her on the tra­il whi­le they had be­en se­ar­c­hing for the ra­re but­terfly. They had fal­len in­s­tantly in lo­ve with her, had ta­ken her in, and had ra­ised her as the­ir own.

  She had be­en told that they did not know her In­di­an tri­be, nor did they know who her true fat­her was.

  Ever sin­ce then, she had won­de­red abo­ut her true he­ri­ta­ge­her true pe­op­le.

  Yet she had held her he­ad high and had ac­cep­ted what li­fe had han­ded her. Her adop­ti­ve pa­rents had al­ways tre­ated her won­der­ful­ly and she was as clo­se to her adop­ti­ve brot­her, Kirk, as any sis­ter co­uld be to an ol­der brot­her­well, he was only a few months ol­der.

  Kirk was pos­t­po­ning his fur­t­her col­le­ge stu­di­es to ac­com­pany her on this jo­ur­ney to the Mon­ta­na Ter­ri­tory, ho­ping to suc­ce­ed at what the­ir fat­her had fa­iled at all tho­se ye­ars ago­to find the ra­re but­terfly that had be­en sig­h­ted the­re.

  A shi­ver ra­ced up and down Jole­na's spi­ne when she tho­ught abo­ut the In­di­ans of the Mon­ta­na Ter­ri­tory. The Blac­k­fo­ot we­re among tho­se tri­bes, and her dre­ams had al­ways be­en abo­ut the Blac­k­fo­ot. She had known this by the co­lor of moc­ca­sins the han­d­so­me In­di­an al­ways wo­re.

  Black.

  In her stu­di­es of the In­di­ans of that re­gi­on, she had le­ar­ned that the Blac­k­fo­ot In­di­ans al­ways wo­re black moc­ca­sins.

  It ga­ve her a stran­ge sort of thrill to know that she wo­uld so­on be min­g­ling among the In­di­ans of the Mon­ta­na Ter­ri­tory. The gu­ides for this ex­pe­di­ti­on we­re, in fact, sup­po­sed to be In­di­ans… per­haps one of the gu­ides might be as han­d­so­me as the war­ri­or in her dre­ams!

  And per­haps she might even dis­co­ver her true he­ri­ta­ge. Yet she do­ub­ted she wo­uld. She was now eig­h­te­en ye­ars old. Her In­di­an mot­her had di­ed long ago, and her In­di­an fat­her had pro­bably for­got­ten the child that had be­en born the day he had lost his wi­fe.

  And the Mon­ta­na Ter­ri­tory was a wi­de and spa­ci­o­us land.

  It did not se­em at all pos­sib­le, or lo­gi­cal, to Jole­na that her true he­ri­ta­ge wo­uld be re­ve­aled to her all that easily, if ever at all.

  Sighing, Jole­na hug­ged her nig­h­t­gown aro­und her and went to the win­dow. Out­si­de, she co­uld see wil­lowy bran­c­hes of pur­p­le spi­rea dro­oping over the whi­te pic­ket fen­ce se­pa­ra­ting the front lawn from the stre­et. Da­isi­es flo­uris­hed in­si­de the fen­ce, and red­bud, dog­wo­od, and aza­le­as span­g­led the lan­d­s­ca­pe with the­ir pas­tel glory. If her win­dow we­re open, she knew that the air wo­uld be thick with the scent of flo­wers.

  Saint Lo­u­is was a lo
­vely city, a city that had be­en go­od to her.

  But it was June, the be­gin­ning of sum­mer, the se­ason that stir­red the si­de of Jole­na's per­so­na­lity that ye­ar­ned for ad­ven­tu­re.

  She was go­ing to bid Sa­int Lo­u­is a fond fa­re­well, lo­oking for­ward to the land that awa­ited he­rand per­haps her pre­ci­o­us dis­co­ve­ri­es!

  Eager to get her day on its way, Jole­na hur­ri­edly dres­sed in a flo­or-length de­mu­re gray dress. It was vo­id of any frills or fan­ci­ness of any sort for this, her first day of tra­vel on the ste­am­bo­at Yel­low­s­tone up the Mis­so­uri Ri­ver.

  After she was dres­sed and her long, black ha­ir was spil­ling down her back, she went to her desk and be­gan sor­ting thro­ugh pa­pers and bo­oks, de­ci­ding which ones to ta­ke that wo­uld be the most va­lu­ab­le in her se­arch for the ra­re but­terfly.

  Choosing one and then anot­her, she so­on had mo­re than one va­li­se stuf­fed with jo­ur­nals and bo­oks. Smi­ling, she grab­bed them up in­to her arms and left her bed­ro­om.

  Her arms too full even to see her fe­et, Jole­na ma­de her way slowly down the ste­ep sta­ir­ca­se. ''That's a su­re-fi­re way to bre­ak yo­ur neck, sis," Kirk sa­id, co­ming qu­ickly up the sta­irs to res­cue her. He to­ok her he­avi­est bo­oks and tuc­ked them be­ne­ath his own arms. "Lord, Jole­na, are you ta­king yo­ur who­le lib­rary with you? You know it's only go­ing to ma­ke the jo­ur­ney mo­re cum­ber­so­me for you. I don't see that as wi­se."

  Jolena did not ha­ve ti­me to com­ment be­fo­re a lo­ud, com­man­ding vo­ice spo­ke from the fo­ot of the sta­irs.

  "I think this who­le fo­olis­h­ness abo­ut go­ing af­ter that elu­si­ve but­terfly isn't wi­se," Bryce Ed­monds sa­id firmly. "I'd ho­ped you'd re­con­si­der, but by the lo­oks of tho­se trunks by the do­or and tho­se stuf­fed va­li­ses, I see that I was fo­olish to think that you might de­ci­de aga­inst this ven­tu­re at the last mi­nu­te."

  Jolena ga­ve her brot­her a ner­vo­us grin as he glan­ced at her, then smi­led mo­re gently at her fat­her. She was al­ways sad­de­ned to see how he was was­ting away with a stran­ge sort of pa­ral­y­sis, now con­fi­ned to a whe­el­c­ha­ir for the rest of his li­fe. The­re was only a tra­ce of his for­mer han­d­so­me­ness in his smi­le and eyes. His ha­ir was gray and thin­ning. His fa­ce was all li­nes and sha­dow. His sho­ul­ders we­re bent and le­an.

  She co­uld hardly be­ar to lo­ok at his legs as they res­ted limply in the whe­el­c­ha­ir. They we­re me­re bo­nes, his mus­c­les ha­ving at­rop­hi­ed al­most to not­hing.

  She scar­cely re­mem­be­red how he had on­ce lo­oked, ex­cept that when she lo­oked at her brot­her, she knew that she was se­e­ing the mir­ror- ima­ge of the­ir fat­her with his bo­yish frec­k­les, blond ha­ir, and a fa­ce that ma­de girls ta­ke a se­cond lo­ok at him.

  She co­uld en­vi­si­on her be­a­uti­ful mot­her ha­ving be­en ena­mo­red by her yo­ung hus­band all of tho­se ye­ars ago, and it sad­de­ned her that her mot­her was no lon­ger the­re to sha­re li­fe with her hus­band and chil­d­ren. Char­lot­te had di­ed trying to gi­ve birth to a se­cond child.

  Jolena tho­ught that if her mot­her we­re still the­re to lo­ok af­ter her fat­her, he wo­uld not ha­ve that lo­nely, ha­un­ted lo­ok in his eyes as of­ten as he did now.

  She felt gu­ilty for be­ing so eager to le­ave him. Wit­ho­ut her and Kirk the­re to ke­ep him com­pany, what might his days and eve­nings be li­ke? Tho­ugh the­re we­re many ser­vants at his beck and call in this gre­at man­si­on per­c­hed on a high cliff that over­lo­oked the Mis­sis­sip­pi Ri­ver, they might not be eno­ugh.

  But not­hing was go­ing to stop Jole­na from go­ing to the Mon­ta­na Ter­ri­tory.

  She was be­ing drawn the­re for mo­re than one re­ason.

  She ra­ced on down the sta­irs and ga­ve her fat­her a warm hug and a kiss on his che­ek. "Ple­ase be happy for me," she whis­pe­red to him. "I so badly want to go. Say that you un­der­s­tand?"

  Bryce pla­ced his bony fin­gers to Jole­na's sho­ul­ders and le­aned her away from him, his eyes me­eting hers as he grip­ped her sho­ul­ders. "Da­ug­h­ter, I don't think I've ever be­en ab­le to talk you out of an­y­t­hing," he sa­id thickly. "You've be­en wil­lful and ad­ven­tu­ro­us for as long as you've be­en ab­le to walk and talk. As for go­ing to se­arch for that dam­nab­le but­ter­f­l­yI un­der­s­tand. I was dri­ven to se­arch wi­de and far for it myself. But damn it, Jole­na, Mon­ta­na Ter­ri­tory is so far away. An­y­t­hing can hap­pen."

  "Yes, I know," Jole­na sa­id, easing from his grasp. She to­ok her va­li­ses and set them on top of her trunks, then tur­ned and fa­ced her fat­her aga­in as he whe­eled his whe­el­c­ha­ir aro­und to me­et her sad sta­re. "But I do so badly want to go, fat­her."

  "And I do gi­ve you my per­mis­si­on and bles­sing," Bryce sa­id, han­ging on to how she cal­led him fat­her to­day­for next we­ek, even next ye­ar, she might be sa­ying that to so­me­one el­se. If she sho­uld ma­na­ge to so­me­how dis­co­ver her true he­ri­ta­ge and find her true fat­her, he wo­uld lo­se ever­y­t­hing that was most pre­ci­o­us.

  His da­ug­h­ter­his be­lo­ved da­ug­h­ter!

  He wasn't su­re if he co­uld be­ar it.

  "Now let's not talk an­y­mo­re abo­ut it," he qu­ickly ad­ded. "Bre­ak­fast is wa­iting in the di­ning ro­om. Let's go and eat our fill. Es­pe­ci­al­ly you two yo­ung'uns. Who's to say what sort of fo­od you're go­ing to get on that ste­am­bo­at?"

  Kirk la­id the rest of Jole­na's va­li­ses asi­de and went to his fat­her's cha­ir and to­ok over pus­hing it for him. He ga­ve Jole­na a ner­vo­us sta­re as she wal­ked on ahe­ad of the whe­el­c­ha­ir, a bo­un­ce in her steps this mor­ning that se­emed dif­fe­rent.

  And he knew why.

  Though she had not spo­ken abo­ut it, he knew that she was an­xi­o­us to see if she co­uld find which tri­be of In­di­ans was her own, and to see if she co­uld even find her true fat­her. Al­t­ho­ugh she was not go­ing to just out-and-out se­arch for the­se things of her past, he knew that it wo­uld be at the back of her mind day in and out, and that so­me­how she just might co­me upon the an­s­wers by chan­ce.

  He fe­ared this cle­an to the co­re of him­self, for he knew what this wo­uld do to the­ir fat­her. It wo­uld de­vas­ta­te him, per­haps even kill him from the he­ar­tac­he of lo­sing her to anot­her. Lo­sing her to a man by ex­c­han­ged mar­ri­age vows was one thing. Lo­sing her to a man whom she wo­uld be cal­ling "fat­her" was anot­her.

  Kirk had tri­ed his dam­n­dest to talk Jole­na out of go­ing on this ex­pe­di­ti­on with the ot­her le­pi­dop­te­rists, des­pi­te ha­ving be­co­me one her­self at the age of six­te­en be­ca­use of the­ir fat­her's te­ac­hings.

  But she had vo­wed to her fat­her that she wo­uld find the elu­si­ve, ra­re but­terfly and bring it ho­me to him for his col­lec­ti­on.

  No mat­ter how hard the­ir fat­her had de­ni­ed wan­ting to ha­ve the but­terfly, no mat­ter if de­ep wit­hin his he­art he wis­hed now that he had not ta­ught her the skills of his sci­en­ce­do­ing so ma­inly to fill the vo­id in his li­fe that his pa­ral­y­sis had ca­use­dJ­ole­na wo­uld not be con­vin­ced that this ra­re but­terfly was not still as im­por­tant to him as it had be­en tho­se many ye­ars ago when he had al­so tra­ve­led far to se­arch for it.

  Jolena co­uld fe­el the stra­in bet­we­en her­self and her fat­her and brot­her. She knew she was the ca­use, yet she wo­uld not al­low an­y­t­hing to ru­in this won­der­ful­ly ex­ci­ting day for her. As each mo­ment pas­sed, her ex­ci­te­ment bu­ilt in le­aps and bo­unds.

  She wal­ked smo­othly on down the long cor­ri­dor, whe­re do­ors ope­ned on each si­de of her in­to a ho�
�me en­c­han­ted by the play of the light from the chan­de­li­er in each ro­om.

  Jolena mo­ved in­to the di­ning ro­om with eager steps. The walls we­re mel­low with flic­ke­ring light from the gre­at sto­ne fi­rep­la­ce along the far wall, the fur­ni­tu­re and glass and me­mo­ra­bi­lia in the spa­ci­o­us ro­om glin­ting in sun­s­hi­ne as it po­ured thro­ugh the row of win­dows op­po­si­te the fi­rep­la­ce.

  She step­ped up to the tab­le and sto­od be­hind her cha­ir. She wa­ited to sit down af­ter Kirk ar­ri­ved and po­si­ti­oned the­ir fat­her's whe­el­c­ha­ir at the he­ad of the tab­le.

  Placing her hands be­hind her, an­xi­o­usly clas­ping and un­c­las­ping them, she ga­zed aro­und her, kno­wing that when she be­ca­me ho­me­sick, she wo­uld re­mem­ber this ro­om best of all. It wasn't only a di­ning ro­om. The­re we­re al­so com­for­tably plush cha­irs and a so­fa that sat in a wi­de cir­c­le be­fo­re the fi­rep­la­ce. The ro­om was pa­in­ted a glossy bur­gundy, ma­king it a co­ol ret­re­at at lun­c­he­on and a warm ha­ven at night as the fa­mily nes­t­led aro­und the fi­re.