Savage Illusions

by Cassie Edwards

  Jolena sat on a blan­ket clo­se to the fi­re. She was trying to jo­in in with the la­ug­hing and joking as the ot­her mem­bers of the ex­pe­di­ti­on sat aro­und sip­ping cof­fee from tin cups. But her tho­ughts kept wan­de­ring to Spot­ted Eag­le. If his fat­her's he­alth was bad eno­ugh to draw him back to his vil­la­ge, then it might be bad eno­ugh to ca­use Spot­ted Eag­le to stay the­re to lo­ok af­ter him.

  Because she mis­sed Spot­ted Eag­le so much, the ex­ci­te­ment of the se­arch for the ra­re but­terfly had wa­ned.

  Jolena sat her empty cup on the gro­und and drew her kne­es to her chest, en­cir­c­ling her legs with her arms. She felt stran­gely empty, and she knew that was not only be­ca­use Spot­ted Eag­le wasn't the­re. It was al­so be­ca­use she had not le­ar­ned an­y­t­hing abo­ut her he­ri­ta­ge yet. She was angry at her­self for not ha­ving co­me right out and as­ked Spot­ted Eag­le when she had be­en gi­ven the chan­ce.

  Sighing he­avily, she stret­c­hed her legs out be­fo­re her and pla­ced one of her hands in­si­de her skirt poc­ket. Her fin­gers cir­c­led the buf­fa­lo rock. Brin­ging it out, she ga­zed down at it as she tur­ned it aro­und wit­hin the palm of her right hand, won­de­ring if she wo­uld ever ha­ve the chan­ce to gi­ve it back to Spot­ted Eag­le so that his next buf­fa­lo hunt wo­uld be bles­sed by the rock.

  Strange, how ever­y­t­hing that had tran­s­pi­red bet­we­en them now se­emed only an il­lu­si­on… a sa­va­ge il­lu­si­on.

  "Are you all right, sis?" Kirk as­ked, sco­oting clo­ser to her. "You've ba­rely sa­id a word sin­ce we ma­de camp." He glan­ced down at the rock in her hand, then mo­ved his eyes slowly up aga­in, gi­ving her an angry sta­re. "What're you do­ing with that thing? Throw it away. It's a use­less rock."

  Jolena slip­ped it back in­si­de her poc­ket. "To you it's use­less," she sa­id so­me­berly, elu­ding his ste­ady sta­re. "But to the Blac­k­fo­ot, and now to me, it has much me­aning." "Li­ke what?" Kirk as­ked, sar­casm thick in his words.

  "The I- nis-kim is strong me­di­ci­ne to the Blac­k­fo­ot," Two Rid­ges sa­id as he knelt down on his ha­un­c­hes on Jole­na's ot­her si­de. He ga­zed aro­und Jole­na at Kirk. "So it is not wi­se to ma­ke moc­kery of it."

  "I wasn't moc­king it," Kirk sa­id ir­ri­tably. "In fact, if you want to know, I don't ca­re a damn abo­ut it." He ga­ve Two Rid­ges a lo­ok of an­no­yan­ce. "Can my sis­ter and I ha­ve a lit­tle pri­vacy he­re? Or do you fe­el you ha­ve the right to in­ter­fe­re in an­yo­ne's con­ver­sa­ti­on just be­ca­use you are the only gu­ide left to ta­ke us thro­ugh this go­daw­ful land?"

  Two Rid­ges gla­red at Kirk, then jum­ped to his fe­et and stam­ped away. He squ­at­ted down on­to his ha­un­c­hes in the thic­ke­ning sha­dows of dusk and wat­c­hed Kirk un­til Kirk left to find re­fu­ge be­hind bus­hes to re­li­eve him­self be­fo­re re­ti­ring for the night in his tent.

  Two Rid­ges saw this as his chan­ce to ma­ke his first ad­van­ces to Jole­na. He jum­ped to his fe­et and to­ok a few steps, then stop­ped and sta­red as Jole­na qu­ickly went to her tent af­ter se­e­ing him wal­king to­ward her.

  Knowing that she was pur­po­sely eva­ding him, Two Rid­ges do­ub­led his hands in­to tight fists at his si­des. Lo­oking slowly aro­und him and no­ting how clo­se ever­yo­ne el­se's tent had be­en pit­c­hed to Jole­na's, he knew that this night he wo­uld not ap­pro­ach her with his skills of dra­wing a wo­man in­to wan­ting him. He wo­uld ha­ve to wa­it anot­her full night and day be­fo­re the op­por­tu­nity wo­uld ari­se aga­in.

  And that wo­uld be the last chan­ce he wo­uld get, for Spot­ted Eag­le wo­uld ha­ve had ti­me by then to re­ach his vil­la­ge and re­turn to the ex­pe­di­ti­on af­ter dis­co­ve­ring that his fat­her's he­alth was no wor­se than the last ti­me he had se­en him.

  Disappointment lay he­avily on his he­art. Two Rid­ges had tho­ught en­d­les­sly of Jole­na the who­le day, his ima­ges of be­ing with her bu­il­ding at each be­at of his he­art. He had be­li­eved that his de­si­res wo­uld be qu­en­c­hed to­night whi­le hol­ding her in his arms and ma­king lo­ve to her.

  Grumbling to him­self, Two Rid­ges tur­ned and mar­c­hed away from the camp.

  Hoping to find es­ca­pe from her lo­ne­li­ness and des­pa­ir, Jole­na set­tled her­self down on a blan­ket, stret­c­hing out on her right si­de as she drew anot­her blan­ket atop her. Clut­c­hing the buf­fa­lo rock, Jole­na sig­hed and drif­ted off in­to a res­t­less sle­ep.

  Suddenly her sle­ep was fil­led with ima­ges. It was the sa­me dre­am that had vi­si­ted her most nights in Sa­int Lo­u­is. She was dres­sed in a soft frin­ged do­es­kin dress, be­aded moc­ca­sins, and a he­ad­band abo­ut her he­ad to hold her long and flo­wing dark ha­ir in pla­ce as the wind blew briskly aro­und her.

  On each si­de of her we­re co­lor­ful­ly pa­in­ted te­pe­es, yet out­si­de the dwel­lings she saw no pe­op­le un­til sud­denly be­fo­re her was the hand- so­me war­ri­or whom she now knew as Spot­ted Eag­le!

  Her in­si­des mel­ted as he ap­pro­ac­hed her, for ne­ver had she se­en such a han­d­so­me, pro­ud man, and as his eyes loc­ked with hers, she co­uld fe­el him si­lently bid­ding her to co­me to him.

  Following this bid­ding, Jole­na be­gan wal­king slowly to­ward him, then bro­ke in­to a mad run. Yet she ne­ver se­emed to get clo­ser.

  The fas­ter she ran, the mo­re dis­tant he be­ca­me.

  She re­ac­hed her hands out to him, crying his na­me as she tos­sed, tur­ned, and swe­ated in her sle­ep.

  Then, fi­nal­ly, she re­ac­hed him.

  Sobbing with joy, she flung her­self in­to his arms, and when his lips bo­re down upon hers, te­ars flo­wed from her eyes from the than­k­ful bliss of the mo­ment.

  A stran­ge so­und drew Jole­na qu­ickly away from Spot­ted Eag­le. She step­ped asi­de and tur­ned to see what was ma­king the stran­ge swis­hing no­ise.

  Wild- eyed, she re­ali­zed that it was an ar­row!

  Her he­art sank as she tur­ned and wat­c­hed this ar­row pi­er­ce her lo­ver's he­art!

  A scre­am lod­ged in her thro­at, awa­ke­ning her in a cold swe­at. Her pul­se ra­cing, Jole­na sat up qu­ickly and sta­red wild-eyed aro­und her.

  Oh, Lord, the dre­am had se­emed so re­al!

  She pla­ced her fin­ger­tips to her mo­uth, still fe­eling Spot­ted Eag­le's lips war­ming hers. She put her hands over her ears and clo­sed her eyes, still ab­le to he­ar the eerie so­und of the ar­row as it whiz­zed thro­ugh the air.

  She gro­aned and mo­ved her he­ad back and forth, trying not to re­mem­ber how it had so­un­ded when the ar­row had pi­er­ced her lo­ver's body.

  ''Jolena?" Kirk sa­id, from out­si­de her tent. "Sis? Are you all right? Mo­ments ago it so­un­ded as tho­ugh you we­re cho­king. Tell me. Are you all right?"

  Trying to com­po­se her­self so that her vo­ice wo­uld ha­ve its na­tu­ral so­und, Jole­na swal­lo­wed over and over aga­in and wil­led her he­art to stop its po­un­ding. Then she craw­led to the tent en­t­ran­ce and drew the flap asi­de.

  "I'm fi­ne," she mur­mu­red. "I… I just had a nig­h­t­ma­re, that's all."

  "It must've be­en so­me nig­h­t­ma­re," Kirk sa­id, frow­ning at her, se­e­ing the per­s­pi­ra­ti­on-dam­p­ness of her ha­ir as it clung to her brow.

  Then he re­ac­hed a hand in­si­de and to­uc­hed her co­ol, clammy che­ek. "Are you go­ing to be all right?" he as­ked with brot­herly af­fec­ti­on.

  "Yes, I'll be fi­ne," Jole­na sa­id, then le­aned out and ga­ve him a soft kiss on his che­ek. "Sorry I awa­ke­ned you."

  "You didn't awa­ken me," Kirk sa­id, ta­king her hand. "So far this ex­pe­di­ti­on has be­en not­hing but tro­ub­le. I'll be glad when it's over and we can r
e­turn to so­me sort of na­tu­ral li­fe back in Sa­int Lo­u­is."

  Jolena ga­ve him a wis­t­ful sta­re, thin­king that not­hing wo­uld ever be the sa­me aga­in­not sin­ce she had ar­ri­ved at her ho­me­land, and had ex­pe­ri­en­ced how it felt to be to­tal­ly, min­d­les­sly in lo­ve.

  "Jolena?" Kirk sa­id, le­aning clo­ser. "You are go­ing to re­turn with me to Sa­int Lo­u­is, aren't you? You aren't go­ing to al­low yo­ur he­art to be swa­yed in­to sta­ying to se­arch out yo­ur In­di­an he­ri­ta­ge? If that hap­pens, I'll cur­se the day I ag­re­ed to ac­com­pany you on this ex­pe­di­ti­on."

  "Kirk, don't bla­me yo­ur­self for an­y­t­hing that might hap­pen," Jole­na sa­id softly. "Don't you know, de­ar brot­her, that so­oner or la­ter I wo­uld ha­ve co­me to the Mon­ta­na Ter­ri­tory an­y­how, to find an­s­wers to qu­es­ti­ons that ha­ve pla­gu­ed me sin­ce I re­ali­zed the­re was a dif­fe­ren­ce bet­we­en me and my whi­te play­ma­tes? I must find an­s­wers, Kirk."

  Kirk ga­zed at her si­lently for a mo­ment lon­ger, then pla­ced his arms aro­und her sho­ul­ders and drew her aga­inst him. He stro­ked her long, dark ha­ir, un­der­s­tan­ding the ye­ar­nings in her he­art.

  He knew that if it we­re he, it wo­uld be no dif­fe­rent.

  The mo­un­ta­ins in the dis­tan­ce we­re shro­uded be­ne­ath the pur­p­le clo­ak of night. The mo­on was dap­pling the land that stret­c­hed out be­fo­re Spot­ted Eag­le with a sil­ver she­en as he ro­de hard to­ward his vil­la­ge, fe­eling no less torn now than when he had cast that last lo­ok upon the wo­man he lo­ved. He wis­hed he we­re two per­sons so that he co­uld be in two pla­ces at on­ce­with his wo­man and with his fat­her.

  Until he ma­de Jole­na to­tal­ly his with a com­mit­ment of mar­ri­age, he had to ac­cept the­se ti­mes when he wo­uld be se­pa­ra­ted from her.

  In his mind's eye he was ac­ting out the­ir sen­su­al mo­ments to­get­her, and how it had felt to crad­le her clo­se whi­le they had ma­de pas­si­ona­te lo­ve.

  His body cra­ved to be with her now as then.

  He wis­hed to tas­te her lips.

  He wis­hed to fe­el the mag­ni­fi­cent sof­t­ness of her bre­asts aga­in wit­hin the palm of his hands.

  He qu­ave­red at the tho­ught of flic­king his ton­gue over one of her nip­ples, fe­eling how this wo­uld ma­ke Jole­na mo­an with ple­asu­re.

  Sweat be­ading his brow, the­se tho­ughts we­re the last thing that he sho­uld be thin­king abo­ut at such a gri­evo­us ti­me, when his fat­her might be spen­ding his last mo­ments on earth. Spot­ted Eag­le for­ced him­self only to con­cern him­self abo­ut his fat­her.

  He frow­ned and his jaw tig­h­te­ned as he re­mem­be­red exactly what Whi­te Mo­le had sa­id, trying to de­ter­mi­ne whet­her or not Spot­ted Eag­le, the son of the po­wer­ful Blac­k­fo­ot chi­ef, Chi­ef Gray Be­ar, might ha­ve over­re­ac­ted to the news bro­ught to him.

  It was stran­ge that it was Whi­te Mo­le who de­li­ve­red the mes­sa­ge to him. Stran­ge that it was not…

  A sud­den re­ali­za­ti­on stop­ped him in mid- tho­ught, as tho­ugh a bolt of lig­h­t­ning had struck him. If his fat­her was ailing, no war­ri­or from his vil­la­ge wo­uld send the mes­sa­ge by way of so­me­one not of his vil­la­ge, Spot­ted Eag­le tho­ught, sud­denly dra­wing his hor­se to a halt. If his fat­her was truly ailing, a war­ri­or of his vil­la­ge wo­uld ha­ve se­ar­c­hed un­til he fo­und him, to gi­ve him the mes­sa­ge fir­s­t­hand. De­pen­ding on ot­hers was not the way of his pe­op­le. The Blac­k­fo­ot of his vil­la­ge we­re a clo­se-knit pe­op­le who­se he­arts be­at in the sa­me rhythm.

  Something was not right abo­ut this mes­sa­ge that had be­en bro­ught to him.

  Especially the mes­sen­ger.

  All that he co­uld co­me up with was that his de­ep con­cern for his fat­her had pre­ven­ted him from thin­king cle­arly. He knew that his fat­her did not ha­ve many days left on this earth. Per­haps one mo­re win­ter, su­rely no mo­re than two. He even felt gu­ilty for le­aving the vil­la­ge for any length of ti­me, fe­aring his fat­her might ne­ed his de­ci­si­on on this or that.

  Yet if Spot­ted Eag­le sta­yed be­hind be­ca­use of this, he knew that it wo­uld ta­ke his fat­her's self-es­te­em away, es­pe­ci­al­ly if his fat­her gu­es­sed why his son wo­uld not le­ave him for mo­re than a sun­ri­se at a ti­me. His ta­king on the du­ti­es of a gu­ide had gi­ven his fat­her mo­re ti­me to fe­el im­por­tant and ne­eded.

  Spotted Eag­le's eyes nar­ro­wed, re­ali­zing that so­me­one had du­ped him, yet won­de­ring who­and why?

  What did an­yo­ne ga­in by his ab­sen­ce from the wa­gon tra­in of but­ter­f­ly-se­ekers?

  His bre­ath ca­ught in his thro­at when he ca­me up with an an­s­wer to his qu­es­ti­ons that se­emed lo­gi­cal.

  "Jolena's brot­her," Spot­ted Eag­le his­sed, his he­art po­un­ding an­g­rily at the tho­ught of her brot­her be­ing this de­ce­it­ful.

  Before the wa­gon tra­in left Fort Chan­ce, Kirk must ha­ve so­ught out Whi­te Mo­le and pa­id him many hor­ses to do this tric­kery. Spot­ted Eag­le re­mem­be­red how easily Whi­te Mo­le had li­ed.

  He felt a des­pe­ra­te ne­ed to get back to Jole­na. He wo­uld show her brot­her that no ploy his whi­te man's mind might co­nj­ure up wo­uld ke­ep Jole­na and Spot­ted Eag­le apart!

  He ga­zed down at his hor­se. He was a po­wer­ful stal­li­on that co­uld en­du­re hard tra­vel, but Spot­ted Eag­le did not want to push his hor­se to the li­mits of its en­du­ran­ce.

  Spotted Eag­le ga­ve the ri­ver at his right si­de a lin­ge­ring sta­re, then slap­ped his stal­li­on's rump and gently nud­ged it with his he­els, easing his mo­unt in­to the shal­low ri­ver.

  After his hor­se had drunk his fill and se­emed res­ted eno­ugh, Spot­ted Eag­le tur­ned his stal­li­on aro­und, left the ri­ver in a gre­at splash, and ro­de in a hard gal­lop ac­ross land that he had just tra­ve­led. He knew that by the ti­me the sun hung di­rectly over­he­ad in the sky to­mor­row, he wo­uld be ga­zing in­to his wo­man's eyes aga­in.

  Words wo­uld not be ne­eded bet­we­en them.

  In the­ir eyes wo­uld be the ex­ci­te­ment of be­ing to­get­her aga­in.

  Chapter Twelve

  In the slight bre­eze of the day ca­me the scent of blos­soms and a hum of be­es. Af­ter a cle­ar blue sky all mor­ning, du­ring which the cris­p­ness of the air was sap­ped away, the cle­ar calls of birds fa­ded to a de­ad­ness in the dro­ning, sticky air. No­on fo­und the fo­rest in which the ex­pe­di­ti­on was tra­ve­ling shim­me­ring with a la­yer of hot ha­ze abo­ve the dark-gre­en ca­nopy of tre­es.

  But it was a day that Jole­na had be­en wa­iting for.

  It was a day of but­ter­f­li­es!

  They se­emed ever­y­w­he­re­all co­lors, all si­zes, all kinds flit­ting ever­y­w­he­re!

  A thril­ling ex­ci­te­ment fil­led Jole­na as she ran thro­ugh the fo­rest with her but­terfly net, Kirk fol­lo­wing her with jars that we­re equ­ip­ped with cot­ton so­aked with al­co­hol which wo­uld qu­ickly numb, then kill the but­ter­f­li­es be­fo­re they we­re ab­le to des­t­roy the­ir wings by flap­ping them aga­inst the in­si­des of the jars.

  To Jole­na it was go­od to think abo­ut so­met­hing el­se be­si­des Spot­ted Eag­le and her qu­est to find her true pe­op­le. Pre­sently, all that she co­uld think abo­ut was col­lec­ting but­ter­f­li­es to ta­ke back to her fat­her in Sa­int Lo­u­is, ho­ping that among the­se hun­d­reds of but­ter­f­li­es that she was se­e­ing to­day wo­uld be that one which was the most elu­si­ve of all.

  "Slow down, sis," Kirk sho­uted as Jole­na ran aro­und, swin­ging her net in the air as she spot­ted anot­her spe­ci­men
of but­terfly that she had not yet ca­ught. "You've got the rest of the af­ter­no­on."

  "Perhaps not," Jole­na sa­id, bre­at­h­less. "They will pro­bably di­sap­pe­ar as qu­ickly as they ap­pe­ared."

  Casting all tho­ughts asi­de now ex­cept for cat­c­hing the but­ter­f­li­es to ta­ke back to Sa­int Lo­u­is, not only for her fat­her, but for ot­hers to see and study and re­cord in the­ir jo­ur­nals, Jole­na con­ti­nu­ed her hunt. As she wor­ked, her long skirt so­me­ti­mes thre­ate­ned to trip her. Her whi­te, long-sle­eved blo­use be­ca­me spot­ted and so­iled with dirt and sta­ins from scra­ping aga­inst tre­es and from the hu­mid mo­is­tu­re drip­ping from the le­aves over­he­ad. Her long ha­ir bo­un­ced on her sho­ul­ders, her fa­ce was flus­hed with a mix­tu­re of he­at and ex­ci­te­ment, and be­ads of swe­at pe­ar­led on her cop­per brow. "Oh, lo­ok and see, Kirk," Jole­na sa­id, her eyes wi­de as she spot­ted a gro­up of "pa­in­ted lady" or this­t­le but­ter­f­li­es. "Fol­low me. I must catch at le­ast one of them!"