Wind Rider (2 page)

Then, unaccountably, a vision of vivid green
eyes passed through his mind. Searching his
memory, he recalled the indentured servant he
had seen in Denver, remembering how she had
fought off her masters heavy hand and how
she had searched for help among the onlookers
without finding it.

Despite her youth, Wind Rider knew she was a
whore. His memory conjured up a small, nonde
script woman with plain features, matted hair
the color of dun, and bones protruding from
beneath her skin. She had been dirty beyond
imagination, but her one memorable feature
had been her compelling green eyes. Why he
should think of her now was beyond his com
prehension, but think of her he did, even though
she had lain with many men and was unworthy
of his consideration. Cheyenne men respected
virtue and modesty in a woman. They practiced
restraint in all their dealings with Cheyenne maidens and were accustomed to long periods
of celibacy. Loose women were scorned and
shunned among his people.

The moon was high in the sky when Wind
Rider neared the place where his friends had made their camp. By now his pain was excru
ciating, but he forced himself to keep going,
ignoring the agony in his wounded leg. The Sioux camp wasn’t far, and if he hurried, he
could reach it before his comrades left. But the
farther he walked, the more unbearable the
pain became. His swollen leg barely supported his weight and he was close to collapse. Dawn
had just painted the sky with streaks of gray and mauve when he stumbled upon a woman
sleeping beneath a tree, wrapped in the filthy
remnants of her tattered dress.

Hannah shifted uncomfortably on the hard ground, wishing she’d had the foresight to bring
a blanket with her. She had no idea how long it
would take to reach a road where she could hail
a stagecoach to Cheyenne but prayed it would
be soon. She’d made good time the first day and
hoped to do better today. Her eyes were still
tightly closed as she stretched the kinks out of her body and wished for a cup of hot coffee.

Wind Rider’s narrow-eyed gaze settled disconcertingly on the woman curled up on the
hard ground. He recognized her immediately. Dimly, he wondered what she was doing
so far from Denver. He thought it a strange coincidence that he had been thinking of this
very woman just a short time ago, reviling her
for being the kind of woman he could nev
er respect. Where was her master? he wondered curiously. What was he thinking to let her roam at will in the woods where danger
existed?

Wind Rider’s lip curled derisively when he
saw her stretch. She was so thin, one had to
look closely to tell that she was a woman. Her hair was tangled and covered with dirt and
leaves; she could have harbored an entire fami
ly of mice in the filthy mass.

Slowly, Hannah opened her eyes. She blinked
repeatedly, and when the apparition did not go
away she cried out in dismay. Some devil inside
Wind Rider made him nudge her with his toe.

Hannah stared at him in fear and awe, hoping
she was dreaming and fearing she wasn’t. She had never seen an Indian up close before, and
this one was truly frightening, with his paint
ed body and fierce expression. Nearly naked,
his muscular frame was sleek and golden. He
was tall and straight, the corded muscles of
his chest and shoulders rippling beneath his smooth flesh. His powerful physique blotted
out the rising sun, and just the sight of him
set her blood pounding in fear and wonder.
His nose wrinkled and his silver eyes glittered
as if he could smell her fear.

Silver? Her brow furrowed in concentration.
Where had she seen eyes like that before? She wasn’t aware that Indians had eyes any color
but brown. Yet there was no mistaking this
steely-eyed savage for anything but a fierce
Indian warrior. When he nudged her with his toe she gasped and scooted out of his reach.

“Go away!” Her voice trembled with fear.
When the Indian stared at her as if he had no
idea what she was saying, Hannah assumed he couldn’t understand English. “Go,” she repeated, making a swishing motion with her hands.
“Leave me alone.”

Reaching down, Wind Rider grasped her
shoulders and hauled her to her feet. The green
pools of her eyes were so entrancing, he felt an
inexplicable urge to plunge into them and never
come up for air. Hannah resisted, convinced he
meant to kill her.

“Don’t hurt me, please,” she whimpered, cringing beneath the hard grip of his hands.

Wind Rider’s nose twitched, as if he had just
sniffed something offensive. “Phew, you stink.”

Hannah blinked. ”Wh-what? You speak En
glish.”

“I speak the white man’s tongue but do not
like it.”

“Let me go, please,” Hannah pleaded. “I’m no threat to you.”

“Everyone with white skin is a threat to my
people. Your great numbers are depriving us of
our lands and livelihood.”

“What are you going to do with me?” Hannah
shuddered, recalling the lurid tales she’d heard
at the inn about Indians and what they did to
their captives.

Wind Rider’s eyes glittered unnaturally as
fever raged through his body. He knew he was strong and fit, but he wasn’t so naive as to think he was invincible. It was obvious his wound was festering, and he wasn’t certain how much longer he could continue without help. Finding
the woman was a stroke of luck.

“There is a bullet in my leg; you must remove
it.”

Hannah’s gaze flew to Wind Rider s thigh,
her eyes widening when she saw angry red
flesh surrounding the crude bandage of leaves.
Her mouth worked wordlessly, realizing that he
must be in terrible pain despite his stoic reserve.
She recoiled in revulsion. How could she touch
that bronze flesh without fainting dead away?

“I cannot. I-I’ve never done it before.”

Desperate, Wind Rider whipped out his knife,
pressing it against the tender curve of her neck.
“You will.”

Hannah gulped and stared at him, not trust
ing her voice. Would he kill her if she refused?
“Will you let me go afterward?” she dared to
ask.

“I will think about it,” Wind Rider promised.
“Is there water nearby?”

“There’s a stream a short distance away. Can
you walk?”

“You will help me,” Wind Rider said, clutch
ing her thin shoulders. Her bones felt so fragile
beneath his huge hands, he could easily crush
them with his fingers. He wasn’t certain her
slight weight could support him, but it did,
giving him the impression that she was stronger than she appeared. He allowed her to pick
up her sack, and they started off toward the
stream.

Wind Rider sat gingerly on the bank of the
stream while Hannah stared at his thigh in
utter fascination. She had never seen so much of a man’s body before, except for her younger brothers, and they didn’t count. She grudgingly
admitted his body was magnificent, though his proud, handsome features were as fierce as any
she’d ever seen. Stark and noble, savage, yet
somehow different from what she had expected
Indians to look like. Stranger still were his sil
ver eyes. Could he be a half-breed? she won
dered, regarding him from the corner of her
eye. If he was, he certainly gave no indication that he possessed a drop of white blood.

“I will soak my leg in the river while you
gather wood to start a fire,” Wind Rider told
her. “Once the bullet is removed you will need
to cauterize the wound. Do not attempt to
run away,” he cautioned when her expression turned speculative. “Even wounded I can run
faster than you.”

Hannah didn’t doubt him for a moment. It
didn’t take long to gather sticks of wood and dried grass. When she set the pile before Wind Rider he removed his flint from the parfleche he carried at his waist and struck a spark that caught immediately. “Wash your hands in the stream,” he said, thrusting his knife directly
into the fire. “Cheyenne maidens have more
pride than to abuse their bodies with filth. Do you never bathe?”

Hannah’s lips thinned resentfully. “You know nothing about me and certainly have no right to judge me.” Nevertheless, she knelt beside the
stream and washed the grime from her hands.
When she returned to Wind Rider’s side he
handed her the knife, staring at her strangely.

The woman didn’t recognize him, Wind Rid
er thought as he pulled the crude bandage of
leaves from his wound. But he remembered
her. No man could look into those compelling
green eyes and forget her. He knew she was
an indentured servant and a whore, that she
sold her body to men for money and, from
what he had observed in Denver, was abused by her master. She was skinny and plain, and
no decent Cheyenne warrior would look on her
with desire or wish to lie with her.

“The bullet,” Wind Rider said, gripping her arm as she accepted the knife with marked reluctance. “And do not make the mistake of
thinking I am incapable of swift retaliation
should you decide to attempt something fool
ish.”

Hannah tore her gaze from the icy menace in the Indian’s cold eyes, thinking him per
fectly capable of reacting swiftly and cruelly.
She gazed down at the swollen flesh surround
ing the wound and shivered. She had no idea
how to go about removing the bullet; it seemed
almost a sacrilege to mar that smooth bronze
flesh more than it already was.

“Do it!” Wind Rider gritted from between
clenched teeth. His brutal grip on her arm tightened.

Wincing in pain, Hannah uttered a silent prayer and pierced his flesh with the tip of
the knife. Hannah gagged and turned away,
but the pressure on her arm increased until
she was forced to return to her loathsome task. She spared a fleeting glance at Wind Rider,
amazed that he could bear the pain without
uttering a sound or passing out. He held
his leg absolutely still beneath her unskilled probing.

White beneath the bronze planes of his face,
his expression gave away nothing of the agony
he was suffering. All the while she worked over
him, he watched through slitted eyes, fully prepared to intervene should she attempt something reckless.

“I feel the bullet!” Hannah cried triumphantly as she probed deeper. The groan that slipped
from Wind Rider’s lips was scarcely audible
as Hannah carefully pried the bullet from the gaping wound. “There; it’s out!” Relief swept
through her like a tidal wave. Had she been required to dig into his flesh a moment longer
she couldn’t have borne it.

A lesser man would have passed out long ago, Hannah thought, amazed at the Indian’s fortitude. She wondered what his name was, and if he was, indeed, a half-breed, or merely
a strange breed of Indian with silver eyes.

“You must cauterize the wound,” Wind Rid
er said, his voice a raspy whisper. His eyes
were dilated, his skin ashen, but he was still watchful, still aware of what needed to be done to save his life. “Place the knife in the fire and
when it is red-hot hold it against the wound.”

Hannah’s eyes widened and she gasped in horror. “I cannot. How will you stand it?”

“I have gone through it before,” he said stoi
cally.

Her eyes traveled up the virile length of his body, noticing for the first time the wound just
below his ribs. The scar had healed but was
still red and puckered.

Following his instructions, Hannah heated the knife in the fire. When it was red-hot she
removed it, pausing a scant moment to search
his face. Impressed by his courage, she felt a grudging admiration for him and his ability to
withstand intense pain, despite the fact that he
was a savage heathen. When she placed the red-
hot blade against his flesh his body jerked con
vulsively, and a great shudder passed through
him. But his eyes never left hers. They clung to
her as if to a lifeline, impaling her with silver
shards, hard, relentless, probing . .. desperate.

Abruptly/Wind Rider released her arm, and
she shot to her feet, sickened by the stench of
burned flesh. With a cry of dismay she tossed the knife to the ground.