by kps
Sleep finally came that night, though more from Jenny's exhausted emotional state than from physical weariness. Her lids grew heavy as though weights pressed them downwards and she abandoned the attempt to read through the diary she had kept since her marriage.
At last, unable to resist the sweet lure of sleep, she surrendered, and the small, leather-bound book slipped from her fingers to fall at her side.
For a few moments she tossed uncomfortably. Finally she relaxed, dismissing conscious thought, as she slipped into vague dreams, disoriented scenes that shifted often and abruptly like the colors in a kaleidoscope.
Through a shifting white mist, her mind focused on the day she had been married. Pleasant
... she was ecstatically happy then at finally winning her parents' consent to her marriage to Rodrigo.
In what seemed like a split second, a new dream found her in America, racing over the hills near her parents' Montana home, feeling free as the wind as she rode the spirited white mare that had been her thirteenth birthday present. A bloody and divisive war had raged between the North and South, but Montana was peaceful and untouched-a land of cool, clear streams and fresh, mountain air.
She clearly saw the innocence of youth in her own face, the exotic cast of features that would become beautiful as she matured. A mane of jet curls bounced across her shoulders and back as the mare galloped across land r with such graceful speed that she seemed to be flying. She had never returned after that one, golden summer. London had a lure all its own for a young girl rapidly maturing into womanhood. Parties, teas, socials, and trips to the Continent had erased those childhood memories. Then just two months past her sixteenth birthday, Rodrigo had appeared to sweep her off of her feet.
Though the land she saw in her dreams was still Montana, Jenny somehow knew she was not in the past. For moments she was the confused, invisible spectator at a large gathering of Indians. From the tales her mother had told her drawn from a period of living in their midst, Jenny recognized the clothing and stylized forelock only the Blackfoot men wore.
She drifted through the crowd, felt the blazing warmth of a sun that hung like a white-gold fireball in a clear, startlingly blue sky and caught a few words of the language that Mariah had taught her. Faces were solemn, but excitement seemed to boil beneath the surface calm of the assembled Indians.
Attention appeared to be divided between a large, grass-thatched lodge to the left of the encampment and a much larger, open-sided circular lodge fifteen yards beyond it. From the gathering an audible sigh arose as the powerful, compelling sound of drums suddenly filled the air. The pounding rhythm was purposeful, building steadily in anticipation of an event to come. The women of the tribe separated from the crowd and began to move toward the circular lodge, surrounding it and chanting to the insistent throbbing of the drums.
The covering of the other lodge was suddenly cast open, radiating waves of heat, and a group of ten braves emerged. Their bodies, naked but for a brief loincloth of deerskin, glistened in the strong sunlight. The older men of the tribe, already gathered at the ceremonial lodge of the sun, parted to allow the braves to pass, nodding approval at the fierceness of the shouting.
The beat of the leather drums grew stronger, more erratic-a pulsing similar to that of a heartbeat. Excitement and anticipation shifted and swirled like an invisible mist through the gathered Blackfeet spectators. Jenny drifted, her dream-spirit blending effortlessly with .the air to settle among those who sat in the tiered rows of seats within the lodge's perimeter.
Above, the sky gleamed an. azure blue, broken only by poles spaced evenly at intervals to form an umbrella-ribbed, open roof over the coming ritual.
Jenny felt the spiritual mysticism that entranced the braves, the strength of the soul they had gained in the purification ceremonies just completed. One warrior stood out from the others. His tall, lean body was as sun-dark as those of his fellow braves, but his long, wavy hair was oddly light for a Blackfoot, its pale brown streaked golden by the sun.
The elders of the tribe, their own sun-baked chests striped white to memorialize other dances, stepped forward to prepare the dancers for the coming ordeal. Each held two narrow ribbons of rawhide, attached at one end to the center pole of the lodge, the other.
end securely fixed to a razor-sharp piece of bone. .
Two parallel cuts were made on each side of the braves' chests. They remained immobile, completely expressionless even as the sliced muscle flowed scarlet with rivulets of blood.
The cuts were deepened, the bone driven beneath the pectoral muscles to reappear through the parallel cut and be tied to the rawhide.
Finally, the ten stood ranged about the center of the lodge, each literally attached to the roof supports like a live marionette, awaiting the manipulations of an invisible master puppeteer. The drumbeat intensified at a nod from the shaman. The Sun Dance had begun.
Each dancer stepped to the left, moving with the slow, forward twitch of a clock's secondhand. Step-shuffle, shuffle-step, a continuous pattern repeating until each, at his own volition, jerked backwards, straining at the ribboned thongs, stretching agonized flesh into points of red-flowing muscle, then gradually returned to the dance step. Even as Jenny rebelled at the pain they experienced, she watched in fascination, drawn to the inner strength of the light-haired brave. Dream hours slipped by like minutes, and still the ritual of endurance played on.
The lodge shimmered in the undulating waves of heat that radiated from the blood-stained earth beneath the dancers' feet. Frequently a dancer would slip into unconsciousness, hanging suspended by rawhide until the very pain that had made him faint revived him.
Some, driven to end the ordeal, thrust themselves back so violently that flesh yielded and ripped them free of their bonds. They collapsed until helped from the floor to clear the way for those who continued. '
Though Jenny found it hard to accept, she understood that the pain was an offering to the Great Spirit in return for his blessings on the tribe. Torn flesh, ripped muscle, spilled blood ...
these were the utmost human petitions, save sacrificial death, for divine intervention.
Day had passed into night. Finally only two dancers were left. Bone whistles, held to dry lips by trembling fingers, blew short, erratic bursts of ancient melodies. A tall. strikingly dark dancer and his near-blond companion shuffled the circle with the last of their strength, each determined to be the last brave on his feet.
The dark one suddenly threw himself back with an unearthly cry of spiritual ecstasy, tearing his flesh from the secured thongs. The other lasted minutes longer, until he, too, fell. The long, thin rones of rawhide swung gently, almost innocently, against the lodge pole.
Jenny had experienced it all-the tearing, flesh, the smell of bodies broiling under a merciless sun, the pain and sweat, the sight of blood puddling the dust like spilled wine. Sudden blackness obliterated the scene so abruptly that she bolted awake, fighting the twisted bed-sheets, until reality cleared her head and the last fragments of the nightmare were chased away.
The room was dark, but she knew it was her room, far from the sun-baked land where she had witnessed the agonies of the Sun Dance. She ached in every muscle of her body, her skin hot to the touch, as though she had truly experienced the brutal sun of the dream. Even the drumbeat seemed to remain, throbbing rhythmically now at her temples.
With hands that shook, Jenny fumbled through the dark for the oil lamp on the nightstand beside her bed. The room came alive with its glow, familiar as her own reflection in a mirror.
She rose, crossing the room to a mahogany chest and the silver tray that held a decanter of rare brandy. Two glasses, shaped like delicate, stemmed rosebuds, stood next to it, and she filled one with the amber liquid. In her eagerness to blur the all-too-real visions, she carelessly tossed it down her throat, sputtering as the strong drink burned and slammed into her stomach with a jolt.
The effect was immediate, for she was used to nothing stronger tha
n champagne. Tense muscles relaxed and Jenny returned to bed, convincing herself with slightly intoxicated reasoning that the shock of Rodrigo's burial had precipitated the strange dreams. Somehow she had drawn on her mother's memories of life with the Black-foot and her imagination to create a bizarre fantasy.
Slipping again beneath the gold damask coverlet, she plumped her pillow until she was comfortable. Everything would be much less frightening in the morning's light, she assured herself, as the brandy lulled her to sleep. This time she slipped into a deep, dreamless sleep that would carry her safely forward to meet the day.
PART ONE
Langdon,Monlana-April 20) 1873
One
The timbered, two-story house was built in the style of an English hunting lodge. Its split-shingle roof and g,{bled windows gave it a rustic look, but its very size was imposing, even against a backdrop of breath-taking, snow-capped mountains. A huge spring-fed lake, whose icy waters abounded in trout and northern pike, was situated to the left of the house. A bam and corral were in the rear. The property stretched for miles in all directions before it reached the fences that marked the boundaries of Jared Bryant's Montana estate.
As was their custom in midsummer, the Bryants were in residence at their year-round home in London. Each spring they sailed from England to spend several months of leisure time at their estate. After months of life as a conservative English gentleman, Jared always looked forward to returning to the wide onen spaces and sprawling lands of Montana, where he had met his beloved Mariah. Despite the owners' absence, the house was obviously being readied for company. Colorful Aubusson rugs and brilliantly embroidered tapestries were hung over clotheslines at the back of the house, and the windows were opened wide to air the rooms.
Only one room was darkened-the fair-sized room in the servants' quarters that had been set aside for the housekeeper. The shades were drawn on its two windows, the heavy curtains pulled tight against the glare of a late morning sun.
No one was about to hear the low, muffled moans that issued from the room, the breathless cries of ecstasy on a silent, spring morn; no one to discover that the proper, red-headed daughter of the very pious, very righteous Reverend Solomon Sparks lay pinned to the bed, encouraging her darkly tanned lover to greater prowess.
Dev Cantrell was pleased to answer Sally's needs-more than pleased, he was appreciative and a bit overcome by the wild abandon that had surfaced after he'd managed to persuade her that there were more pleasant ways to pass a morning than dusting furniture.
As his lips planted a trail of searching kisses across Sally's bountiful breasts, Dev reminded himself to be more observant in the future. He should have known there was something simmering beneath the girl's religious maiden lady facade. The bright fiery hair that was always bound in a severe knot, the plain, prim dresses. Sally had done her best to keep her virtue intact by appearing as unattractive as possible. More'n likely with the full approval of that Hellfire'n' brimstone spouting pa of hers!
"Oh, Dev ... oh, I never …" Sally's voice trailed off to a whisper, a gasp that built to a shuddering sigh as Dev noted her obvious enjoyment and increased the pace of his movements. Her plump, white thighs were draped over his shoulders, easily facilitating the deepest penetration of the soft, rosy flesh, allowing his hard, pulsing length to enter and withdraw, to enter again until dark, golden-brown curls met and fused with coppery red. A gleam of sweat frosted skin so white it appeared as translucent as fine china.
Sally's eyes closed as her head whipped from side to side, letting the feelings her prudish nature had dammed flow forth unrestrained. Dev's lean body mastering her own set her pulses racing madly, chasing away inhibitions that had kept her alone and frustrated for many years. One scream escaped her as the sensations that assaulted her mounted to a feverish, unbearable pitch. Dev's mouth ground against her bruised lips, claiming the cry of ecstasy even as it left her. Together they rode the crest of aroused passion, their bodies straining together, heated flesh against flesh until the last ounce of pleasure was exacted.
Dev eased himself away from Sally, collapsing at her side with a weary but satisfied sigh. He was drenched in sweat, and every muscle seemed to tingle from the exertion. A quick glance at Sally brought a grin of satisfaction at the dazed happiness on her face.
Dev was not arrogant, but a sure confidence in himself and his ability to stir a woman into passionate abandon showed in every movement of his lean, muscled body. He settled back now, resting his head on one arm. Even in repose, his strong, angular features radiated the pride and innate self-possession of a young lion.
His face was large but in no way raw or undefined.The lines of his high cheekbones and firm, strong chin were inherently aristocratic, his forehead high and well-formed above a long, Roman nose. An upper lip that curved like a gull's wings in flight served to emphasize the full, sensual shape of his lower lip. Most appealing,' though, to women were Dev Cantrell's eyes. They were arresting. Their odd, gold-flecked color was ever-changing -at times a pale brown, at others, a leonine golden glare that intimidated those who had drawn him to anger. Full, straight brows framed the commanding eyes, in a shade slightly darker than his sun-burnished hair. Amber-brown lashes, as thick and long as any woman might covet, seemed at times to make his gaze inscrutable.
At the moment, Sally was not concerned with the attractiveness of the man sharing her bed.
Already, as the intense feelings of pleasure faded, she was considering the consequences of her surrender. Dear Lord, she thought, taken with a sudden fit of trembling, what would Pa do to her? Only once before had she given in to the temptation of sin. Somehow her Pa had found out and whipped her for the indiscretion. Since then she had maintained a firm grip on her sinful nature, but now she had slipped, and Pa would only have to take one look at her guilty face to know it!
"Dev?" In the half-light of the darkened room, Sally poked at his ribs. This was as much his fault as hers, maybe more, 'cause he was so blasted good-looking! "Dev, my Pa ain't gonna take kindly to this. I don't think you've ever seen him when he's all riled." Her voice shook a little, revealing her apprehension.
Dev sighed heavily, sitting up and shoving a pillow behind his back to soften the hard surface of the wooden headboard. "Unless you feel like confessing, girl, how will he ever know?" His tone was reasonable, soothing, as though he were explaining a simple fact to a child. "He'll know!"
"Believe me, honey, you aren't wearing a brand just because you did what comes natural."
He leaned over, reaching for his shirt on the floor. A second later his face was illuminated briefly as he lit a long, thin cigar. "Besides, your Pa won't be back from the mines for another six weeks. And who knows when your houseguest'll show?" A warm hand touched the edge of her breast and Sally shivered involuntarily at the intimate caress. "There's plenty of time to indulge a bit, and no one'Il ever be the wiser." His voice was as persuasive as the fingers that now traced light circles over her belly.
"Damn you, Dev Cantrell!" Sally felt wanton and immoral and she loved it, despite the fact that his teasing had drawn a rare cirss word from 'her. "Sometimes I think you got the devil guidin' you!" She heard a deep chuckle from his side of the bed and a brief sizzle as he tossed his cigar into the glass of water on the nightstand. A moment later she found herself drawn against his warm, naked body and as her fingers curved together behind his head, she added with a soft, resigned sigh, "Course they say he was a handsome one, too damn good-lookin', just like you!"
Later that same day, Dev rode reluctantly into town to meet the stage from Helena. He'd been expecting the "houseguest" for over a week now, and his temper had grown more testy with each hour-long ride into Langdon and each stage that failed to deliver Jennifer Bryant. He could have made the sixty-mile trip south to Helena, met the girl there, and escorted her back to her parents' home, but it had also been left to him to find a housekeeper and oversee the arrangements for this visit.
What had started as a simple requ
est from his old friend Jared Bryant had become an irritating and disagreeable task. He had a brief rebellious notion simply to stay at the house and let the tardy Miss Bryant make her own arrangements, but he dismissed it immediately.
He owed Jared more loyalty than that and was determined to see this through until the girl was off his hands.
On his ride, he let his mount take the lead, knowing the sorrel was well-acquainted with the path. Dev's association with Jared went back some eight years now. He had been seventeen the year they met, and he might not have seen eighteen if Jared hadn't found him lying unconscious near the border of his property and brought him back to the house for Mariah to nurse. A stupid, foolish act of his own had made the palomino throw him. He'd been crossing the Bryant land on his way home to the tribe, returning from a barely successful hunting trip. Game had been scarce that year and many of the braves had lit out on their own, hoping to replenish the dwindling food supplies in the village.
Coming over a rise, he'd been startled to spot a deer, a large buck grazing beneath a stand of trees. Thinking only of how much meat he could bring home, he'd raced forward at breakneck speed, forgetting that neither he nor the stallion was familiar with the lay of the land. The horse stumbled, catching his foreleg in a gopher hole, and, though the animal recovered his footing, Dev was thrown and slammed to the ground, striking his head on a rock.
Dev stayed with the Bryants for weeks, and when he had stubbornly insisted that he must get up and continue to hunt, an even more stubborn Mariah insisted he stay. Jared had wholeheartedly agreed that Dev hadn't the strength to travel, much less hunt. Jared had come up with the idea of taking some of the staples in their well-stocked cellar to the Blackfoot; and when Dev explained that Gray Hawk would be too proud to accept such an offering from a white man, Jared had made a cryptic statement that "he would from this white man."
