by Jenna Kernan
He hurried on his way and came to the general place where her snare was set. At first he could not see her, then the silvery moon revealed a spot where the grass was absent, as if a deer slept in the field. He crept forward and found her curled like a child, her joined hands tucked beneath her chin, her arms tucked to her chest. She was shivering. Why had he not given her a blanket?
In sleep, her mouth was parted slightly. Her skin shone bright and pale in the moonlight. Her hair gleamed silver with dew. He paused, finding himself again of two minds. One part of him wanted to wake her and get rid of her before the women found her. But the selfish part wanted to lie down beside her and draw her into his arms. He wanted to feel her soft, pliant flesh pressed to his.
But he did neither of those things.
He did not wake her or join her. Instead, he released the blanket he wore about his shoulders and dropped it over her. If Turtle Rattler deemed her a threat, he would bring her to safety. He wanted her to stay, and it angered him more than all reason to think of her returning to the Crow warrior, especially now that he knew this was the son of Six Elks. But he would not see her sacrificed. For it served no purpose. In the meantime, he would see how much her father had really taught her.
* * *
Snow Raven woke to find the moonlight on her face and a red blanket draped over her body. She thought she heard something, but when she sat up it was to find herself alone. She clutched the blanket to her naked breast knowing that Running Wolf had been here, given her this.
She had listened to the drums and the chanting from her place among the tall grasses. She had gone exactly where Running Wolf had told her to go, and this bothered her. Why hadn’t she chosen another place in the meadow? She drew the blanket about her shoulders and lay back down in her bed of grass. The wool helped against the chill. Now that the night held the land, the biting flies and mosquitoes had vanished. She wrapped the blanket twice about her and lay on her back, chewing on the pemmican she had taken from his mother’s stores.
Raven gazed up at the stars and prayed for her brother’s recovery and the safety of her family. Had they reached the Black Lodges or Shallow Water people?
Then she thought of what the shaman had said. Something about hard choices and losing her love and then forsaking her people. He was wrong, of course. She had no love but her people. They were one and the same and she would never forsake them. What else had he said? She could not remember. Her eyelids were so heavy now and her brain did not work. She yawned and turned to her side and thought no more.
She slept soundly but woke in the blue hours before dawn to a rustling near her head that ceased the moment she moved. She had fallen asleep with the pemmican still in her hand. Had a mouse smelled the bounty?
Raven gazed up at the fading stars, seeing only the brightest remained. She could no longer see the Sky Road cast across the sky. But the moon shone bright and in the silvery glow she could see her own shadow. The Hunter’s Moon, she thought, was a good time for a hunt. Raven ran her traps, finding five long-legged jackrabbits waiting for her. She removed the limp bodies and reset the traps, thinking she might catch another before the dawn broke. When she returned to her place she saw a man wrapped in a buffalo robe waiting there.
She paused and glanced about. There was no good cover here, or anywhere on this plain. One had to run far to be swallowed up in the rolling hills and shallow valleys. How she missed her forests and mountains.
Was this Running Wolf? Even if it was her captor, she did not care to speak to him in the darkness, alone, away from the village.
“Come here,” he said, and she knew it was Running Wolf from his voice.
He seemed larger in the darkness, with the moon casting his shadow out before him.
“Where were you?” His voice sounded gruff. Was he angry, or was this just the sound of his voice upon waking from sleep?
“I have been here. Thank you for the blanket.”
He ignored her thanks and pointed at her catch. “What do you carry?”
She lifted the five lanky carcasses in answer.
“What will you do with these?”
“Eat, perhaps. Skin them for their coats as I have none of my own.”
“You are a captive. You cannot have anything that the people do not give you. You cannot keep them.”
“Then, may I keep the blanket?”
“For now.”
She offered the rabbits to him. “Now why don’t you give them back to me?”
He took the rope holding her catch but did not return them. “You may keep the skins of what you catch. Bring the carcasses to my mother.”
Her throat burned as she realized what he had done. He had given her a way to cover herself and a chance to survive, perhaps even feed the other captives. Impulsively she threw her arms about him. She felt his body stiffen and she recognized too late what she had done. The gift he’d offered was great, but why had she embraced him?
She drew back her flaming face. “I am sorry. I only meant to offer my thanks.”
His eyes narrowed and then he snorted, a sound that was either amusement or dismissal. She did not know. She only knew that she could keep the skins because of him.
“I will not give you a knife.”
That was wise, she thought, but said nothing.
“But you may have a scraper.”
She gaped at this and waited for him to think better of the offer. But when he did not, she felt obliged to warn him.
“I could cut your throat with that.”
“Will you?”
“I should.”
“It was not what I asked.”
“No,” she whispered. “I will not.”
“Why?”
“I still owe you for my life.”
“You will not harm my mother.”
“Never.”
“Come to my mother’s lodge at sunrise.”
He turned and left her. She took one step after him, realized what she was doing and stopped. Why would she follow a Sioux? He was nothing to her.
But despite her convictions, her body would not rest. She tossed for a long time as she thought of his handsome face and deep rumbling voice that made her shiver even while wrapped in a fine blanket. She could not sleep but lay restless as she recalled the touch of his mouth and the feel of his hard body pressed to hers.
For a captive to desire a warrior was madness. He would likely take what she offered, and if she succumbed, she would earn her place beside the others in the common woman’s lodge. She was not a fool, she told herself. She might just as well desire the sun as the war chief of the Sioux.
But why, then, did this truth make her heart ache? And why, whenever he was near, did her body vibrate like the head of a drum?
Chapter Eight
Running Wolf tumbled into his sleeping robe with the scent of Snow Raven still clinging to his skin like honey. Was the blanket keeping her warm? Not as warm as he could, he realized.
He had planned to wake at dawn and see that Snow Raven made it safely to his mother’s lodge, but when he finally opened his eyes the golden color of the buffalo hide of the tepee told him that the day was half over. He jerked upright and slid from his sleeping skins, then grabbed one of the blankets and pushed back the closed flap opening. His mother had not wanted him disturbed.
Where was Snow Raven?
He poked his head from the lodge and did not see his mother or his captive. A sick feeling stirred in his empty stomach. What if they had hurt her while he was sleeping? She was his and her safety was his responsibility.
He stepped from his lodge and offered his morning song of thanks to the Creator. Then he rounded the tepee, going where, he did not know. His mother called to him.
Running Wolf turned to find both his mother and Snow Ra
ven working with the rabbit hides. His mother scraped and Snow Raven tied the hairless leather to a circular hoop of wood with bits of cord.
“Another,” said his mother. “She caught another rabbit in the night. Did you say she could have the hides?”
But Running Wolf was no longer listening. Instead, he was looking at Snow Raven and most especially at the purple welt above her left eye.
“Who struck you?” he asked.
She tugged at her hair, pulling the long locks more securely over her naked chest. “I do not know.”
“Stand up,” he said.
Snow Raven scrambled to her feet.
“Mother, give her a dress.”
He waited while his mother ducked into their lodge and returned with a folded garment. “It will be too large.”
“She will have one of her own soon.” He turned to his captive. “Put it on.”
She did, and the two-skin dress hung to her ankles. But it did remove the terrible bruises from his sight. He gathered up his weapons, saddle, blanket and bridle. Then he motioned to her with his head.
“Come with me,” he said.
His mother said nothing as he stormed away. He took Raven to the horses and saddled her gray mare. He swung up and reached for her. She accepted his help as she swept up behind his saddle, sitting on her horse’s rump.
He rode away from the village, past the boys snickering at their passing. They were so sure what the war chief would do with his captive and they were so wrong.
He rode them far down the river to a flat stretch of sand surrounded by thick cottonwood trees. Then he helped her down, only then noticing the many grass cuts oozing blood. She needed moccasins.
“What did your father teach you?”
“What?” She looked startled and confused and more beautiful than the first time he saw her.
“Riding, shooting, what else?”
“Snares. Tracking, and I know how to throw a lance.”
He lifted his bow from his back and handed it to her. “Show me.”
She hesitated, her eyes moving from the bow and then to him. “It is taboo for a woman to touch a man’s weapons.”
“Because you will draw away my power.”
She nodded.
“Do you bleed?”
Her eyes rounded and she shook her head.
“Then, if anything, you will add power to them. Take it.”
She did, her slim hand circling the smooth surface and hefting the weapon, measuring its weight. No doubt the bow was tighter than hers, and he did not know if she was strong enough to draw back the string. He slung the full quiver across her back.
She glanced over her shoulder at it. When she met his gaze, she was smiling. “Are you not afraid I will shoot you?”
“No.”
She notched an arrow, fingering the end. “Why not?”
In answer he drew out one of his knives and hurled it with enough force that the steel tip sank two inches into the trunk of a nearby tree. Raven gaped as he retrieved the weapon.
Her smile was now conspiratorial. “What would you have me hit?”
He pointed at a log on the bank, some twenty paces away. “That.”
She drew, sighted and released. The metal tip sank into a knothole that he only now noticed. Had she intended to hit that?
He retrieved his bow and handed her one of the knives. She did not know how to throw, but she was a fast learner and practiced diligently.
“If I use that on anyone, they will kill me,” she muttered.
“Use it only to protect your life.”
Next he turned to hand-to-hand combat. Her father had taught her nothing in this regard, and he savored pinning her far more than he should have. Then he showed her how to use the momentum of another’s attack to her advantage.
“You are small. So you cannot escape a bigger person, unless you find their weakness.” He taught her eye gouges, how to draw back a finger or a thumb, how to drop to her knees and roll clear. How to kick out a man’s knee or sweep him from his feet. On this, she had little success. But she did manage to throw him over her head, clumsily at first, but finally with some expertise.
She stood, panting, grinning and streaked with mud. “Why are you teaching me this?”
“So you will be safe.”
Her lower lip began to tremble. Her eyes swam as tears welled and then fell over her lower lids, wetting her lashes so they stuck in dark clumps. The bruise above her brow had swelled and the color had begun to creep beneath her left eye.
He felt his own throat tighten at her suffering.
“I do not understand,” he said, his voice nearly unfamiliar to his own ears. “You were captured, tied, dragged before the village and did not cry. Why now?”
“Because kindness is harder to accept than blows.”
He opened his arms and she stepped into his embrace. He held her as she wept, rocking her as he cradled her head in one hand. Finally her tears turned to sniffles and she drew back.
It was hard to let her go.
“I want you to survive, Little Warrior.”
That made her cry again. “Little Warrior,” she muttered.
He drew back to look at her, his expression a question. She bowed her head, her hair a mask covering her features. She shook her head and he hooked his finger beneath her chin so he could see her expression.
“I did not mean to bring you more sorrow.”
“I know.” She wiped her face with both hands. “I have not cried so since my mother crossed the Way of Souls.”
She stared up at him with those wide dark eyes luminous with tears.
“Well, past time, then.” He took hold of her hand and helped her mount. She let him, though he knew she needed no help. She waited as he retrieved his weapons. Was it the knowledge of how he threw a knife that kept her, or did she feel the same respect for him that he did for her?
He paused a moment, standing by her horse, his hand on her calf muscle.
“You are a very unusual woman, Raven. I am sorry for your capture, but I am also glad to know you.”
“And I thank you for the lesson. It is not what I expected.”
“Did you think I meant to take your virtue?”
She nodded, her face flushed now.
“I would take it, if you would give it to me.”
She looked away. “I cannot.”
He drew up behind her and wrapped his arms about her waist. “If I were not your enemy?”
She leaned back against him and let him take the reins.
“But you are. How can that ever change?”
There were ways, he thought, recalling his shaman, Turtle Rattler, and his captive. But for him, taking a captive for his own would carry a heavy cost. One he was not prepared to pay.
They returned to camp to find his mother none too happy over the state of the dress. She sent Raven to clean the mud from the buckskin with white clay, and she studied her son.
“What do you do with that one?” she asked.
He shrugged.
“Be careful, son. A beautiful woman can make a man her captive.”
“Do not talk nonsense.”
His mother merely shook her head and fed him a hefty bowl of rabbit stew. When he finished, he told his mother to be sure that Raven ate some of what she caught. His mother’s reply was a sullen nod.
He went to find Raven, but was caught up instead with the distribution of the captured horses. It seemed to take forever, and when he returned to his lodge he was famished.
The cooking pot bubbled with more rabbit stew, and his mother turned the horn ladle, calling a greeting. Raven sat beside her, tying a rabbit hide.
“Another?” he asked.
“Yes,”
said his mother. “This one has had a busy afternoon. Three more rabbits and another fight.”
He tensed, looking at Raven, who now sat in only her loincloth, her long hair running in parallel streams down her breasts. He could see no new injury.
“Who attacked her?” said Running Wolf, barely able to contain his rage.
“Why don’t you ask her who ended the fight, instead of who began it?” asked his mother.
He looked from one to the other.
“She was carrying the rabbits and Buffalo Calf called her a witch. Some of the women began to throw stones. One hit her here.” His mother pointed to the bruise on the back of her hand that he had not noticed until Ebbing Water pointed it out. It was blue and puffy and looked sore. “Buffalo Calf pushed her. And she let her, did not lift a hand or say a word. But when Buffalo Calf tried to take her catch, this one waited until Buffalo Calf is tugging with all her might and then just let go.” His mother laughed. “She fell on her bottom in the mud.”
Seemed to run in the family, thought Running Wolf.
“So now she is furious. Spitting mad and as red as fresh meat. She runs at your captive with her claws bared. But this one just grabs her by each shoulder and rolls to her own back with two feet planted in Buffalo Calf’s soft belly. Did you ever see a buffalo fly? I did.” Ebbing Water laughed. “If Weasel hears of this, there will be no stopping him.”
He and Raven shared a conspiratorial smile, for she had already put into use the lessons of the day, using Buffalo Calf’s own force against her. He nodded his approval as he spoke to his mother.
“What happened then?”
“Nothing. This one picked up her rabbits and walked away as if she was the daughter of the chief. The women are calling her Kicking Rabbit now.”
“Will they attack her again?”
“I would not.”
Snow Raven continued tying the wet rabbit skin to the circular frame to stretch and dry.
“Nine rabbits. At this rate she’ll have her own tepee by the Hard Freeze Moon.”
The thought of Snow Raven with her own tepee made him hard so fast that he gasped.
“What’s the matter?” asked his mother.
