Читать книгу The Warrior's Captive Bride - Jenna Kernan, Jenna Kernan - Страница 13

Chapter Four

Skylark met the smoldering fury of his stare and realized that her assumption had injured his pride. She shook her head in answer to his question, did she come to swim? The truth, she wondered, or a lie. Truth, she decided. “I heard the splash and...”

“Naturally you thought I was drowning. Why should I be capable of taking care of myself?” He spun in the water and swam smoothly back to the rocky bank beside their camp. She watched him stride quickly from the water, trying and failing not to stare at his wide shoulders, narrow waist and muscular backside. Then she turned tail and threaded herself more carefully through the reeds, recovering her bag and knife. She sat on the bank to pour the water out of her moccasins and decided to carry them. He wanted her help. But she must find a way to do so without stealing away his dignity. Besides, she would be here only two nights. After that there would be no one to watch him but Frost.

As if thinking of the dog had conjured him, the dog charged out of the reeds and then shook away the water droplets clinging to his skin. Skylark squeaked and vainly tried to ward off the unwelcome shower with her hands. Frost sat, tongue lolling, eyes half-closed, as she stood and shouldered her bag. She slipped the cord holding her skinning knife over her head and then completed the circle, returning toward their camp. She paused at the fast-moving stream to wash away the mud that speckled her arms and legs.

She removed her dress, thinking she must find some clay to clean away the mud stains when next she came upon some. As she splashed off the grime and sweat, she thought of him, perfect and in motion. The need came upon her unawares. Her breasts ached and her body trembled. She wanted him in all the ways a woman needs a man but she knew why she couldn’t.

She thought of all the men she had met at the fall gathering when they camped with the Wind Basin tribe and how none had chosen to court her. What if this man was her only chance to experience the coupling that her aunt and uncle obviously enjoyed in the night?

She crossed her arms over her heavy breasts, her nipples hardening instantly. Then she splashed a fist down into the water. No, she would not repeat the mistakes of her mother. Storm was promised to another and Sky would never be a second wife. She must be strong and live alone.

She finished her bathing quickly and donned her dress over damp skin. Then she returned to camp to see Storm striking flint with a steel ring and sending a shower of sparks onto carefully gathered tinder of inner bark and the fluff pulled from the dry cattail flower heads. This method of fire starting was usually faster than the cord and stick, but it required steel, which she did not have. Her skinning knife was red flint that came from far to the east.

Storm glanced at her and then returned his attention to his work. Beside him lay three trout, two small and one enormous.

Soon one of the sparks caught and a wisp of smoke emerged from the nest of cattails. Expertly, he lifted the dry white fluff and blew into his hands. The dander caught, glowed, and then a flame erupted from within. He carefully set the flame inside the tepee of tinder and the flames began to catch and rise.

He had already gutted the fish, so she cut green skewers and returned to construct a simple rack for the whole fish. Then she peeled the cattail tubers and cut the inner tender shoots into manageable sizes. She left the cactus and thistle roots for another meal but crushed several juniper berries and stuffed them inside the hollow cavities of the fish.

When the fire had burned for a time, she set her moccasins to dry but not too close to the flames. They were precious to her, because, like her knife sheath, they had been made by her mother, the best quill worker in her village. Or she had been.

When the larger logs began to collapse into glowing embers, she raked the coals into a neat pile and set the shoots to roast while he tended the fish. Frost watched his every motion with hungry eyes and a drooling mouth. Despite the warmth of the fire, the air surrounding Night Storm was still cold and he did not look at her.

“I am sorry,” she said. “I meant no insult.”

Finally he met her gaze. “It is why I do not speak of it and why I do not want those in my tribe to know. Then they will see me as you do.”

“How is that?”

“Imperfect. Weak. Helpless.”

Her shoulders sank at the truth of that. But she also thought they might see him as dangerous and frightening because of the owls.

“I am sorry. I know you are strong. I see you are capable. But everyone has a weakness of some kind.”

“I never did.”

She turned the subject to something that troubled her.

“How have you kept the others from seeing you fall?”

“I spend more and more time away, alone.”

She thought of him, unaided in a falling spell and frowned. “That is dangerous.”

“No worse than losing everything I am,” he said.

“Is your life worth any less?”

“Less and less every day.”

She reached in her bag and drew out a leaf from the nosebleed plant she had collected. Then she crushed the leaf between her fingers and applied it to the scabbing wound on her hand.

“You have been alone during each spell?”

“But I usually have warning. I did not recognize it at first, but now I do and I move away from others.”

Her anger faded as her curiosity was piqued. “What warning?”

“I smell the odor of burning flesh. Then my vision wavers as if I am looking through lake water or like staring through the bands of heat that rise from ground baking in the summer sun.”

“You see movement?”

“A wavering or trembling of the world around me.”

“Can you see the spirit world beyond?”

His brow furrowed. “I have not tried that. I think I see only this world. Sometimes it is just in one eye. I notice this because I closed one eye and then the other.”

“Which eye?”

He pointed to his right.

“Is that all?”

“Once my hand began to tremble and I left the hunt. I found a place to hide, curled on my side and held my pounding head.”

That was incredibly dangerous. If he had choked, none would know where to find him.

“When I woke, it was evening. My mouth was bleeding and my head ached.”

He returned his attention to the fish, and she rolled the cattail shoots and tubers.

He offered her a stick with the two smaller fish and she passed him a portion of the roasted tubers and tender steamed shoots. He shared some of his trout with Frost, who gobbled without the bother of chewing. Once Storm motioned the dog away with a hand, his dog went with good nature and settled to sleep beside the fire and his master.

The fish was flaky and sweet and the tubers starchy and savory. The tart flavor of the junipers came through with each bite. As he ate he told her of the time that he and his brother had put a fish in his youngest sister’s dress when she was bathing and she had thought the spirit of the deer had returned to its skin.

“She screamed so loud it brought the men to the woman’s bathing place.”

Skylark laughed at his imitation of his sister and then the escaping fish. She told of how she had once been so preoccupied finding a curative for burns that she had been caught in the forest at night and slept in the crotch of a tree because she was certain she heard wolves nearby.

“How did you keep from falling?” he asked.

“I used my belt to tie myself to the tree trunk. And do you know, there were wolf tracks all around the tree in the morning.”

“You came down in the morning?”

“No. I didn’t. I waited until I heard my uncle calling.”

“That was wise. Wolves can run very fast.”

“It was the first night I slept out in the forest, but not the last. My aunt and uncle are used to my wanderings.”

“Most women stay together and keep close to the village.”

“Most men hunt in groups, raid in groups, war in groups.”

He smiled at her answer. Somehow the meal had changed them, made their conversation relaxed and more personal. She’d glimpsed a part of him that was comfortable. She felt content and even happy. It was wonderful to be away from the responsibility of shepherding after her father and helping her aunt tend their home. She did not want to think she was like her mother. But perhaps she was more like her than she cared to admit.

No, she was not like that. She wanted a man, a home and children. But she would heed her mother’s words and choose a man who wanted only her.

She gazed skyward, seeing the pink bands of clouds beyond the aspen and pine. Still, she knew a part of her enjoyed her work and her time alone. Sometimes it was a struggle to be like other women. But it was important, too.

When she returned her gaze to the fire it was to note that their conversation had ceased and he was staring at her with a strange, speculative expression.

“What?”

“You look happy.”

She smiled and nodded. “There is nothing like a fire against the growing darkness. A full belly and a full bag of roots and plants.” She patted the bag at her side. “What about you? What makes you happy?”

His smile faded. “Riding. Riding, fast.”

And now he walked.

The conversation that had flowed as naturally as a river came to a sudden stop. She glanced at him, his face glowing with the warm colors of the fire.

“You have more questions?” he asked.

“Many.”

He drew up his knees and wrapped his strong arms about them. “All right then. Ask your questions.”

“When you smell the searing flesh or your vision shakes or your hand trembles, do you always fall down?”

“Yes.”

“Do you hear anything?”

“When the falling begins, I hear a hum.”

“Like bees?”

“No, more like the ring, when you strike metal to metal. But it does not fade. It grows louder and louder, until I cannot hear anything else, and then I fall.”

She thought on all he had said, trying to make some meaning out of it.

“You said that you never had unclean relations with a family member. Is that right?”

He sighed glumly. “Never.”

“That eliminates illness brought by breaking a taboo. But we need to eliminate spirits and ghosts. If we can do so, that will leave only curses and illness. I can help only if you are ill. You understand?”

“Yes. How do we eliminate spirits and ghosts?”

“Spirits act out of offense. Have you failed to offer prayers of thanks or ignored any other required prayers and offerings?”

“I have not.”

“Do you belong to a medicine society?”

“Black War Bonnet.”

She paused at this. The men of that society were the bravest of warriors because they put the mark of death upon their shields. She was familiar with the unique design of this medicine society. A circle of black symbols on robe or shield meant this man held back death.

She lifted her brows and he endured her scrutiny. The owls. The Black War Bonnet society. Who was this man?

“And you perform all rites?” she asked.

“I do.”

“That eliminates spirits. They do not attack the living without cause.”

“Ghosts?” he asked.

“Ghosts are either enemies you have killed or those you know who are not at peace. Sometimes if a life’s circle is not complete, a soul can feel cheated and try to finish their journey with the body of the living. Have all those of your family been properly set to rest in either the ground or the sky?”

“Always.”

“Possession of your body can cause ghost sickness. You would feel fevered, nauseous and sometimes have the sensation of suffocating. Usually those with ghost sickness see visions that are not there.”

“I have seen things that are not there. But not the fever or suffocating sensation.”

She nodded. They could not rule out ghosts then.

“Any recent deaths of someone near to you?”

“I lost a friend in the same battle when I was injured.”

She straightened at this revelation as possibilities danced in her mind. “Injured. When?”

Night Storm hesitated, rubbing the back of his head as he stared at the ground.

From the lake, bullfrogs began their deep belching call. The burning wood popped and crackled as the fire consumed it, but Night Storm seemed to notice none of it.

Skylark was just about to remind him that she could do little without knowing what troubles he had and everything she could learn about his injury. Her grandmother was very insistent that she discover all she could about a person seeking care. That included minute details regarding his habits and all his past wounds.

At last he met her gaze and she again felt the punch of physical attraction hit her low in the belly. He held her attention and the pull to move near to him became more insistent. She set aside the remains of her meal, knowing that she had no further appetite for food. A different hunger gnawed.

His shoulders lifted and then settled as he blew out a long breath. Then he gave a little nod, as if he had decided something.

“We battled against the Lakota who were pursuing the white men who dress in the colors of the wolf. We had seen the white men who dress in blue cross our territory with people of a tribe we do not know. These warriors dress like the whites, but their skin was like the people and their hair was long and black and braided in the proper way.

All the white soldiers travel in groups and carry large guns, like the ones in the forts, and so we let them pass. We might have let the gray men pass, as well, but they brought our enemy into our territory. So we attacked. I have had many coups in battle. This I would say first. But in this fight, I was unseated and one of my horse’s hind hooves struck me here.” He pointed to the back of his head.

She drew air through her teeth at the image of him being kicked by his horse. “May I feel this place?”

Instantly she realized the problem with this request. She had touched the wounds of countless men and women in her tribe from the very old to the very young. But never had she anticipated the contact with such a yawning need. Eagerness, yes, that was what she felt.

He nodded his consent and she fairly leaped to her feet to close the distance that separated them. She knelt beside him and began as she had been taught, with a gentle touch to his arm. It was not right to immediately grope a place that might cause pain. She worked from the strong column of his neck to the base of his skull, trying to ignore the tingling awareness her fingers relayed with the contact of her flesh to his flesh. Her physical enjoyment of the contact ended when she found the place where he had been kicked. There was no lump. Rather, she found a shallow depression.

“Were you kicked or stepped on?” she asked.

“I was struck here with a war club.” He pointed to the tiny red scar that sliced through one of his eyebrows. How had she not noticed that before?

“This was a glancing blow. But it caused me to lose my balance. Then our horses collided and I fell backward.”

She examined the scar, her awareness of him now mixed with the need to solve this puzzle.

“Do you remember the blow or the fall?” She released him and sat at his side, turning toward him as he spoke.

“Neither. My friend, Two Hawks, saw the blow and watched me become unseated. He said I killed the man with my lance, but he hit me before leaving his horse. Two Hawks said that I did not fall like a man who knows he is falling. He said the horse’s rear foot hit me here and that after they had chased away the intruders they came back for me, surprised to find me alive. I did not wake until late in the evening and I do not recall the battle or the blow or the fall or even the days that followed.”

“I am not surprised. The bone of your skull was crushed. The swelling from this break should have taken you from this world and into the next.”

“Perhaps it did,” he muttered.

“Yet here you are,” she countered. “How can that be?”

“I think I walked the ghost road and then came back.”

They stared at each other. Owls...a death, his death, and then his return to this world. She drew up her knees and hugged them tight. Her heart beat in her throat as she resisted the urge to draw away from him. Had he walked across the sky to the spirit world? Had he stopped on his own or had the one who guards the road set his feet back to the world of the living?

Was that why he heard the owl?

She shivered against the clammy chill that took her.

“My shaman said he sang me awake,” said Night Storm.

“Did he give you anything to bring down the swelling?”

“He called on the power of the spirit world to heal me or take me.”

“But no medicine?” She could not believe his shaman had not given Storm something for pain and to bring down the swelling.

“You said that someone close to you died?” she said.

“Yes. My friend and cousin. We were raised together. We went on our vision quest together, and we were inducted into the same medicine society.” He shook his head and looked truly miserable.

She did not ask the name of his cousin because it was both impolite and dangerous to speak of the dead. To do so was to disturb their rest and risk inviting them to return to haunt the living. But some souls did not rest because they refused to walk the ghost road to the spirit world, lingering instead among them. These ghosts could cause havoc if measures were not taken to send them away.

“We can look into this possibility. Did he die a good death?” She was asking if he had fought bravely or, if captured, if he represented his people and himself with pride and dignity under torture.

“His death was good, quick. The gray white men shot him with their rifles.”

“And his body was recovered?”

“Yes, and he was sent on a scaffold with his things.”

“That is good. You said that you have seen things that were not there. Will you tell me of them?”

“Not tonight.”

She pursed her lips at this delaying tactic and thought to remind him that he said he would be forthcoming. But he rubbed his forehead again, as he had done earlier when he said he had pain. She did not want to cause another fall by her questions.

“These wounds look recent.” She laid an open palm on the scarred flesh at his chest. There were two ragged, raised places on each side of his upper torso that could mean only one thing. This man had tested his devotion and bravery in the most sacred of all ways.

“I have the honor of success in the sun dance,” he said, his voice humble.

This was no small feat. She had watched the sun dance in her tribe. Young warriors volunteered to have wooden spikes inserted through the skin of their chest or upper back. The spikes pierced in and then out at a different place, like a bone awl through a buckskin. From these dowels, long rawhide tethers were tied. The other ends of these ropes were fixed to a tall pole, set deep in the ground solely for this purpose. Then the men would dance as sweat streamed down their bodies. They would dance and chant and blow whistles made from the bones of an eagle’s wing. All the while they would stare at the sun and try to tear free of their bonds. This might take a day or more. Some men passed out during the dance only to revive to try again. Not all tore free. To voluntarily submit to such an ordeal was a true test of courage. And this man had succeeded.

“I was the first to free myself.”

“The first?” It was a great coup. Skylark did not think she could be more impressed. “That is amazing.”

“It was not. I tore free only because I fell.”

Unease prickled.

“Your second fall.”

Beyond the circle of their fire and past the open ground now fading with twilight came the hoot of a great horned owl. She stilled as the chill of night seemed to seep into every pore.