Warrior's Embrace

by Peggy Webb

  o0o

  Hal waited until the house was quiet then climbed out the window. The minute his feet hit the ground he began to run. There was no need to look back. Nobody would pursue him. His father had been snoring like a downed buffalo when he left, and Deborah was out with one of her many boyfriends.

  He’d be back long before she was, tucked safely in bed when she checked, as innocent as a newborn babe. Hal tipped back his head and laughed. A coyote in the hills answered him.

  Hal wasn’t scared. Nothing scared him. He had the power of the wolf.

  His feet were swift and sure as he ran. He could outrun anybody in the Chickasaw Nation. Someday he would be a famous runner, earning lots of money, so everybody in Witch Dance would look at him driving by in his red Corvette and say, “There goes the luckiest man alive” instead of “Poor Hal.”

  He was sick of being Poor Hal, the boy whose mama got herself shot and whose daddy barely even knew he was alive.

  Or maybe he’d prefer a black Corvette.

  Wolf Man, he would call himself when he got famous. It would be a tribute to the great man who had shown him the future.

  The Great One was waiting for him inside a small hut tucked in the foothills of the Arbuckle Mountains.

  “You came.” The man sitting on the dirt floor of the hut with his legs crossed nodded wisely. “It is good.”

  “Eagle is looking for you,” Hal said, sitting opposite him and imitating the older man’s posture.

  “How long?”

  “Four days now.”

  “The others?”

  “They keep silent.”

  “Good. We will let the white medicine woman think peace has come to her clinic, then . . .” He made a slicing motion with his hands.

  “I understand.”

  In the dim lights of the hut, the older man looked like a god as he reached into his pouch.

  “To reward you for destroying the witch woman’s work,” he said, handing Hal a tiny packet.

  Hal’s palms dampened as he stuffed it into his pocket. He would save it for a time when he was alone in his room with no one to come and bother him.

  “I have to go now.”

  “You will remember?” The older man made the slicing motion with his hands once more.

  “I will remember.”

  He raced into the night, dreaming of fame and the kaleidoscopic journey he would take with the peyote.

  o0o

  They came suddenly upon his campsite. A blanket woven of all the colors of the sea lay upon the ground beside blackened embers from a recent fire, and the whisper of the river sang through the valley.

  Eagle dismounted, taking Kate with him, and when he spread her upon the sea-colored blanket, she knew she would remember the moment always, the song of the river and the brightness of his eyes as he undressed himself, then her. It was a slow unveiling, surprising considering the sexual frenzy that had brought them there.

  Bending low, he touched her—touched her breasts, the soft down of her abdomen, the tiny indentation of her navel, the blue-veined skin inside her thighs. And all the while he chanted the strange beautiful words of his people.

  He didn’t have to speak English for her to understand. Eagle was speaking the language of love.

  Breathless, she watched him. Every inch of her skin trembled under his inspection.

  Levering himself over her, he gazed deep into her eyes.

  “Say you want me, Kate.”

  “I want you, Eagle.”

  “Say you want me as I want you.”

  “I’m shameless. I would ride through an inferno to feel your arms around me. I would storm the very gates of hell to have you inside me, there” —she touched herself— “where I burn.”

  “Waka ahina uno, iskunosi Wictonaye. Waka.”

  “Yes. Teach me, Eagle.” She cupped his face. “Teach me to fly.”

  “Come.” Taking her by the hands, he lifted her up so that they were facing each other, kneeling. “In the ancient traditions of my people, there is a ceremony lovers use so that they may know each other.” He traced her lips with the tips of his fingers.

  She closed her eyes, breathing in the dark, musky scent of him. Behind her, the mountains cast giant shadows while the river murmured its timeless song.

  When Eagle withdrew his hands, she leaned toward him and raked the tips of her nails down his chest. “In the tradition of my people ...we would long since have been joined together, panting on this blanket.”

  “Patience, Wictonaye.” Smiling, he touched her breasts. “See what the waiting does.” Her nipples, already peaked, turned hard as diamonds in his skilled hands.

  He withdrew his touch once more. She was almost screaming with need.

  “I’ve never had patience.” She ran her hands over his chest. “If I had a weapon, I would take you at gunpoint.”

  “Will this do?” He pulled a lethal-looking knife from his belt and held it toward her, hilt first, the blade gleaming in the moonlight.

  She traced the flat side of the blade, shivering at the feel of the cold, deadly steel. Then, setting the knife aside, she scooted close to him, close enough so that their bodies touched from chest to knee. Lacing her arms around his neck, she bent down and slowly traced his lips with her tongue.

  She felt the shiver run through him, then leaned back, smiling.

  “So ...mighty warrior. Teach me patience.”

  “We will begin” —he took a deep shuddering breath, then reached for her right hand— “like this.” Slowly he laced their fingers together. His palm was warm and strong. “And then you will touch yourself” —he grazed her breasts with his fingertips— “like so, to indicate what you like.”

  “And you?”

  “I will do likewise.” He pressed his hand against the flat of his belly and ran it downward. Breathless, she watched. “It is the mirror dance ...an ancient and time-honored prelude to love.”

  With her eyes holding his, she touched herself, touched herself in all the places she wanted his hands, his lips, his tongue. She imagined him sliding through her slick, satiny passages, imagined the hard, heavy feel of him, the blessed friction that would both soothe and excite. Her breath sawed through her lungs, and her head fell back on a neck too limp to support its weight.

  Her right hand clenched, tightened, and Eagle felt the shudder that racked her. His blood roared in his ears. She was ready for him now, ready for the final dance that would send them flying to the skies.

  He loosened his hold on her hand, and slid his fingers slowly up the length of her arm, across the path of moonlight that gleamed on her bare shoulder and over her tender, blue-veined throat.

  “Fly with me, Wictonaye,”

  “Yes ...oh, yes,” she whispered, reaching for him.

  She was a lily stretched upon his Indian blanket, a fallen flower offering her nectar to him. And he took it, took all of it, searing her with fingers and tongue until she was thrumming with need.

  Humming low in her throat, a sound both musical and passionate, she rose from the blanket and bent over him. Her tongue made fire in his blood as her hair fell in a bright curtain across his belly.

  And Eagle knew that her hair was the thing he would remember most about this night, her shining hair strewn across his dark skin like blood.

  All the poetry in his soul spilled forth, and he whispered praises in the ancient tongue of his people, praises to her bright hair and her skin that was white as the wings of doves. Lowering her to the blanket, he covered her and together they soared.

  Eagle and his Wictonaye.

  Chapter 8

  She was totally without shame, lying on the Indian blanket in broad daylight, tangled with her lover. A pale pinkish glow lay on the land as the sun peeked over the mountain. In the early morning light his skin glowed, smooth and earth-colored. She knew how every inch of it looked, felt, tasted.

  Kate bent down and pressed her tongue against the base of his throat. So fast she hardly saw him m
ove, Eagle imprisoned her against his chest.

  “I see the new dawn in the East, Kate, We must greet it properly.”

  “I have to go back before Dr. Colbert discovers I’m missing.”

  “He knows you’re with me.”

  “No. I didn’t tell him.”

  “He doesn’t need to be told; he saw.”

  “When?”

  “The day I brought you flowers.”

  Not only was she shameless, but now Dr. Colbert knew, and everything she’d worked for would go up in smoke. She’d go home in disgrace, and he’d find somebody who was committed.

  And all because she couldn’t control her libido.

  “We won’t do this again,” she said.

  “No.” Eagle’s eyes gleamed as he wound her hair around his fingers.

  “No?” His ready agreement stung.

  “No. Each time will be different. We will love in as many ways as there are stars in the sky.”

  “I’m telling you that I came here to practice medicine, and I won’t let you interfere with that.”

  “Fate sent you to me. It’s useless to argue with fate.”

  It was also useless to argue with Eagle. Especially when he was naked.

  Kate sighed, leaning against him.

  “Tell me about greeting the new dawn properly.”

  “Everything goes in a circle, Kate, and that circle is sacred. The new dawn of the East becomes the wisdom of sunset. The rain that comes down from Father Sky drenches Mother Earth, then returns as vapor.” Eagle moved as he talked, running his hands through Kate’s hair, gliding his tongue along her throat and down to her breasts.

  “Someone will see,” she whispered, but she was beyond caring.

  He continued the erotic tongue bath as if he hadn’t heard. She shivered as he licked the flat planes of her belly.

  “In honor of nature’s sacred circle, we will perform the medicine wheel.” His tongue laved the skin of her inner thighs. Devilish lights twinkled in his eyes as he lifted his head to look at her. “I think you call it sixty-nine.”

  She didn’t care what it was called, for she was already on the wheel, spinning round and round.

  o0o

  He heard them come in, just after dawn.

  Standing in the shadows, Clayton watched as Eagle lifted Kate off his horse and kissed her. It was a kiss between lovers, a long, passionate embrace with their bodies melded and swaying together like two willows in the wind.

  He watched. Imagining he was the one with his arms around her. Imagining it was his name she murmured in her low, love-sated voice.

  Clayton couldn’t turn away, even when Kate faced the window, even when she started into the house. He had to see her, had to see the flush of sex on her skin and the brightness of passion in her eyes.

  His hands clenched into fists as she climbed the front porch steps. Even when she opened the front door, he couldn’t turn away.

  When she was inside the house, he slid behind the heavy drapery like a damned cowardly voyeur. Hiding in his own house.

  She passed so close, he could have touched her. The smell of the fresh morning breezes and recent sex mingled with her own floral fragrance to create an intoxicating scent that almost brought Clayton to his knees. He clamped his bottom lip with his teeth to keep from giving himself away.

  Her footsteps echoed across the wooden floor, then faded. Motionless, he stood behind the curtains with his mouth open in a silent scream of agony.

  The door to her bedroom closed, and the house grew quiet. Clayton stood until he felt the rising sun warm his back; then he went into the kitchen and put on a pot of coffee.

  It was only when he lifted the cup to his lips that he tasted his tears. He was just wiping them away when she came into the kitchen. Fresh and rosy from her bath. Bright-eyed. As if she hadn’t spent the night in the arms of that young warrior.

  “Good morning, Dr. Colbert.” She pecked him on the cheek.

  “ ‘Morning, Kate.”

  His hand tightened on the handle of the coffee cup as she walked to the refrigerator to get a glass of juice. Any faint hopes he’d harbored that Eagle wasn’t good in bed were dashed: She walked like a woman fulfilled.

  “It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.” He cleared his throat. “I was thinking of a picnic—”

  “Oh, Dr. Colbert—”

  “Maybe down by the river,” he said, hurrying on past the refusal he knew was inevitable. “We’ve worked every Saturday since you came. The change will do us both good.”

  “I promised Eagle. He called last night when you were in the shower.” She flushed at her lie.

  “Eagle?” As if he didn’t know.

  “Eagle Mingo. He’s coming to take me riding.”

  As if he hadn’t already taken her riding. All night long. Clayton was careful to set his coffee cup down without unnecessary noise and motion.

  “The Mingos have fine stables,” he said.

  “I love riding.” She pushed her hair back from her hot face. “I used to visit cousins up in Virginia and ride with the hounds. It’s really a lovely way to relax.”

  What other lovely ways would they use to relax?

  He might have made a complete fool of himself and asked if the sound of hoof beats hadn’t saved him. Kate flew to the window and drew the curtain aside.

  Eagle Mingo—virile, handsome, young—came into view, riding a black stallion and leading a snow-white mare. He rode Indian-style, with nothing but bridle and blanket.

  How could Clayton possibly hope to compete with him?

  Kate raced to the door without even saying good-bye. Eagle dismounted and cupped his hands for her to swing onto the back of the mare. When she was seated, he slowly ran his hands the length of her leg.

  Clayton didn’t hear what he said, but he heard Kate’s reply,

  “I can hardly wait.”

  Moving swiftly, Clayton went into Kate’s bedroom and lay upon her bed. Then he pulled the sheet that smelled like her over himself.

  o0o

  “You ride like a Chickasaw, Kate,”

  “I feel like a Chickasaw. Wild and free.” She gave a war whoop, then bent low over the mare’s neck. “Race you!”

  Hooves thundered over the prairie floor as Eagle took her challenge. The white mare was no match for the black stallion, but Eagle let her lead for a distance in order to enjoy the view. He enjoyed watching fine horsemanship, and Kate had a firm seat and a sure hand.

  His eyes darkened, then he put troubling thoughts out of his mind.

  “Aiya,” he urged his mount, and soon he was beside Kate, reaching for her bridle. He drew the two horses to a stop beside a deep bend in the river. A stand of silver maple and elm created a natural shelter.

  Scooping Kate into his arms, he waded into the river. When they were waist-deep, with the river soaking his jeans and the bottom of her shorts, he nudged her hair aside and whispered, “I’m in need of being rescued, Kate.”

  She cupped his face and looked into his eyes. “You’re full-blood ...all the way back to Piomingo.”

  “You’ve inquired?”

  “Of Deborah Lightfoot. In a casual way.”

  “This is not casual, Kate.”

  “What is it?”

  He unbuttoned her blouse, his fingers dark upon her creamy skin.

  “Fate,” he said.

  All her years of study, all her lofty plans, even the deep schism between herself and her father, were nothing beside the reality of Eagle Mingo.

  “Who can fight fate?” she whispered, reaching for his zipper.

  His jeans floated downstream and snagged on a tree branch over the river, and her shorts landed atop a large rock. Sleek as otters, they came together in the water. They rose and fell upon the waves, as skilled as the water creatures in their natural habitat. And when their need demanded a greater intimacy, Eagle carried her from the river and spread her upon a carpet of moss underneath the silver maples.


  With fingers laced and eyes locked, they loved until their cries mingled and joined his namesake circling the sky.

  “You will come to me, Kate, at night, at my campsite beside the river.” She lay still, watching his eyes. They were both beautiful and terrible, filled with passion and the desperate knowledge that they could never be more than lovers, stealing moments in each other’s arms.

  “You will come on the white mare . . .”

  “I won’t . . .”

  He put his hand over her lips. “Her name is Mahli. It means the wind.”

  The power of him made her tremble. He touched her as no man ever had, touched her in all the secret places of her body and in that shining place known as the soul. How could she deny him anything?

  “I will come ...but only because I choose to.”

  Smiling, he began to move in her once more.

  As Kate spiraled upward, she thought it was appropriate that she would fly to him on the wind.

  Chapter 9

  Anna’s baby kicked inside her as if she already knew the sound of her father’s voice. Anna placed her hand over her protruding stomach.

  “Yes, my precious one. You know him, don’t you, Mary Doe?”

  She’d named her little girl, although she was careful not to use the name in front of Cole. He was thoroughly convinced that he’d fathered yet another son who would carry on the Mingo name.

  Anna hid the tiny dress she was embroidering underneath the balls of yarn and the knitting needles in her sewing basket as Cole came through the door with Bucky riding on his shoulders. Clint trotted along beside Cole, swinging his daddy’s hand.

  “You should have seen them, Anna. Bucky’s going to be a quarterback and Clint’s going to be a fullback.” Cole set Bucky on a kitchen stool, then patted Anna’s stomach on the way to the refrigerator to pour four glasses of milk. “Pretty soon we’re going to have our own football team.”

  “I saw you out the window. All three of you were marvelous.”

  “Drink your milk, sweetheart.” Cole pulled out a chair for her. “We want to make that little linebacker you’re carrying big and strong.”

  She sank into the chair and lifted the glass to her lips. Anna knew the value of prenatal care. When Mary Doe was born, she’d have strong bones and a head start on growing fine, white teeth. She’d have Cole’s straight nose and glorious cheekbones and Anna’s full lips. Her little Mary Doe was going to be the most beautiful girl in Witch Dance.