Elaine Barbieri (4 page)

The words
now or never
echoed in her mind as Miranda swam unseen toward the opposite bank.

“Where is the girl?”

Rattling Blanket turned toward Shadow Walker’s towering figure when he appeared in the doorway of her lodge. Her composure faded at the fury in his eyes. She had not wanted this to happen. While others questioned Shadow Walker’s wisdom in giving the girl as a gift to her, she had quickly sensed a depth within the girl that others did not see. She had recognized in the girl’s defiance a courage that forced her past fear, but she realized now that the girl’s courage also somehow blinded her. It did not allow her to see that in making a mockery of Shadow Walker’s gift she had mocked Shadow Walker as well.

Rattling Blanket’s small eyes filled. Yet the girl’s indomitable spirit drove her on—so like that of Dancing Star, Rattling Blanket’s own daughter, whose dauntless spirit and love of life had lent joy to every moment before the fever claimed her.

Rattling Blanket was brought back sharply to the present when Shadow Walker repeated, “Where is the girl? Walking Bird spoke to me. She told me that the girl has behaved badly, and that you protect her from the wrath of those around her.”

“The girl is young … foolish. She has much to learn.”

“She scorns your kindness.”

“Her courage rejects surrender.”

“She was warned.”

“A brave heart does not heed warning.”

“Then she must pay the consequences.” His expression brooking no further argument, Shadow Walker demanded, “Tell me where she is.”

Aware that further protest was futile, Rattling Blanket replied, “She left in anger. She walked toward the stream.”

Rattling Blanket’s heart sank as Shadow Walker turned in that direction.

Her breath all but expired from her extended underwater course across the pond, Miranda surfaced concealed in a thick patch of reeds on the opposite side. Furtively, she crawled out of the water into the thick shrubbery on the bank. She refused to look back as she made her way toward the treeline, then leaped to her feet and started for the horses at a run.

Morning Star’s shout echoed somewhere in the back of her mind as Miranda swung herself up onto the back of the nearest horse. With a sharp kick that sent the animal bolting forward, she was at the crest of the rise, her spirits winging, when she looked back for the first time.

But she was not alone! Behind her, a rider pursued her with astounding speed.

Panicking, Miranda leaned low over her mount’s neck and dug her heels into his sides to urge him on. So intent
was she in escaping her pursuer that she did not see the great dip in the terrain until she was upon it, until her mount dropped awkwardly into the depression and threw her head over heels and tumbling.

Shadow Walker held his mount to a firm forward pace as the girl’s Indian pony stumbled and threw her in a violent arc over its head.

The girl hit the ground with deadly impact and regret tugged somewhere in the back of Shadow Walker’s mind. He had not wanted the chase to end this way. He had wanted to overcome the girl as he had once before, so he might prove to her that all effort at escape was useless. He had also wanted to prove to her that with his return her defiance would come to an end.

Shadow Walker drew his mount to a sliding halt beside the girl’s motionless body. Her bright hair lying in wet, tangled strands across her face, her brief clothing muddied and torn, her limbs limply outstretched, she looked much like a white man’s ragged, discarded doll, but Shadow Walker knew that appearances could be deceiving.

Crouching beside her, Shadow Walker first felt for the pulsing of life in the girl’s throat. At the steady throbbing there, he ran his hands down her arms and the length of her legs with utmost care. Satisfied that there was no break in the bone, he pushed the heavy strands of hair back from her dirt-stained face and studied the blood that trickled
from the corner of her mouth. He saw a small, circular cut where her tooth had pierced her lip and dismissed the wound. He then turned her head slowly, searching for other injuries. The girl protested softly when he touched a swelling at the side of her head. He saw her eyelids flicker, then open to narrow slits—and he noted the exact moment when her vision cleared and awareness returned.

Fear dawned in her light eyes when he then repeated, “I speak only once in warning.”

The sun was rapidly slipping down behind the distant hills. Sitting astride in front of Shadow Walker, sharing his horse as they returned to the Cheyenne camp, Miranda remained stiffly silent.

She had recovered from her violent spill. Though she did not remember falling, she clearly recalled the moment when she had regained consciousness to find herself lying on the ground with a blurred figure looking down at her. She remembered thinking as the image cleared that this Indian was a stranger to her—and that he would be considered handsome if not for his emotionless gaze.

Then she saw the fading mark of her rope on his cheek and realized she was seeing Shadow Walker without war paint for the first time. When he spoke, his words echoed through her haze.

I speak only once in warning.

Waiting with unexpected patience for her to become
steady enough to ride, Shadow Walker had made no attempt to catch her horse but had instead pulled her up to sit astride, in front of him. She could not be certain whether their slow pace back to camp was in deference to her obvious pain, or if it was calculated so that all in the camp might clearly see that he had vanquished her.

Miranda saw malevolence in the eyes of all who looked at her as they rode through the village. She forced her chin to remain high despite the laughter and open ridicule of her condition. Hardly able to think past the pounding in her head, she was never more aware that her future hung at Shadow Walker’s whim.

She ached. Her stomach churned. She wanted nothing more at that moment than to lie down and let the darkness overwhelm her—yet she refused to allow Shadow Walker that final victory.

Fighting impending nausea, Miranda held one thought

No surrender.

CHAPTER FOUR

The predawn quiet of the lodge was broken by the distant howl of a coyote, the muted drone of night prey and a whir of swooping wings that induced a brief silence before the drone resumed—but Shadow Walker was alert to sounds of an entirely different kind.

Raising his head from his sleeping bench, he looked at the slender figure lying across from him. He studied the girl as she moved restlessly in the pale column of light streaming through the smoke outlet of his lodge. She was thin, almost fragile in appearance, her legs long where they protruded from the oversized shirt she wore. Her muddied features were almost obscured by wild, matted clumps of sun-colored hair that lay across her cheek, and her lower lip was swollen to twice its size. Through the night, she had stirred, moaning softly each time the injured side of her head touched the mat underneath her. Yet she had not complained when he had pulled her down from his horse earlier that evening and marched her through the camp so all might see who had emerged from their encounter the victor.

Shadow Walker recalled that the girl had not looked at
Rattling Blanket when they’d walked past the old squaw’s lodge, and that she had held her head high despite the laughter of the children. He knew her humiliation was complete when they reached the edge of the camp and she then raced to a spot where she had retched until her stomach was emptied.

She was staggering on shaky legs when he drew her to a halt at his lodge and ushered her inside. One look into her light eyes and he could see that her senses were reeling. When she finally sat on the sleeping bench behind her, he had known it was because her legs could no longer support her. Her struggle to stand again failed, but her chin was firm when her gaze sought his.

She displayed the courage of a lion, although she was little more than a child.

The girl still slept.

Cautiously, Shadow Walker stood up. Resolute, he slipped out of the lodge. He walked swiftly toward the place where a younger brave had turned out his horses to graze for the night. He had reached his favorite mount when the animal’s nervous whinny alerted him to a sound behind him. He turned abruptly, his hand moving to the knife at his waist in a blur of movement that halted when he saw the warrior approaching him.

Wary, Shadow Walker studied Spotted Bear’s countenance as he neared. He did not recall the exact day when he
had looked into Spotted Bear’s eyes and
realized
that the youthful competition between them had become more than that. He knew now, however, that although they often rode together, Spotted Bear’s jealousy of his fame as a warrior had become a silent menace. Yet presently, what was foremost in Shadow Walker’s mind was the realization that except for the moment when Spotted Bear’s horse had stumbled, allowing Shadow Walker’s mount to take the lead, it would have been Spotted Bear who had captured the girl instead of himself. That fact had gained import in his mind the previous evening when he had noted Spotted Bear’s expression as the girl marched past him.

Halting beside him, Spotted Bear prodded, “You awaken before the women this day.”

Shadow Walker’s response was cold. “As you do.”

The glimmer of derision in Spotted Bear’s eyes could not be missed as he said, “You prepare your horse. Do you hope to escape the criticism your captive has brought upon you?”

“I do not fear criticism.”

“Your captive mocks you with her behavior.”

“My captive has learned that is not wise.”

“She makes a joke of your gift to Rattling Blanket.”

“A mistake she will not repeat.”

“She scorns our people and our ways, and causes those in the camp who looked to you as a great warrior
to question their wisdom.”

Shadow Walker replied, “What do you want, Spotted Bear?”

His expression tightening, Spotted Bear said, “Red Shirt remains a prisoner in the white man’s fort and those close to him prepare to respond to the white man’s treachery. Those close to Red Shirt look to you for guidance.”

“Those close to Red Shirt respect and await White Horse’s word.”

“Your warrior status diminishes as you wait.”

“I serve the Cheyenne way, not my own desires.”

“The people laugh at you.”

“Only children and fools laugh when laughter brings retribution.”

“The girl causes our people to doubt you.”

His expression unyielding, Shadow Walker repeated, “What do you want, Spotted Bear?”

Spotted Bear’s gaze hardened. All pretense discarded, he responded, “I would buy the girl from you.”

“Why?”

“Many Cheyenne maidens look to me with favor, but I find none who pleases me, and my lodge is empty. The girl is young and strong. She would serve me well.”

“She has been injured.”

“She will heal.”

“She is headstrong and she mocks our ways.”

“I would teach her the proper conduct.”

“How would you do that?”

Spotted Bear’s gaze left no need for words.

“No. The girl is my captive and a gift to Rattling Blanket. She will serve Rattling Blanket well.”

“There is only one way the girl can be taught to serve.”

Shadow Walker spat, “We will speak of this no more!”

Spotted Bear’s countenance flushed with heat. His gaze narrowing, he turned and walked back to the camp with heavy strides—as Shadow Walker watched with an anger of his own.

Miranda awakened slowly. Her head ached. Her stomach was queasy. Her body felt as if it had been pounded by relentless hammers during the night. Several moments passed before she realized she was not lying in Rattling Blanket’s lodge. Full awareness dawned and her gaze snapped toward the sleeping bench on the opposite side of the lodge.

He wasn’t there.

Releasing a relieved breath, Miranda closed her eyes. Her attempt to escape had failed. She was no longer the captive of a soft-spoken squaw with kind eyes. Instead, she was the captive of a fierce warrior who had spoken a warning she had chosen to ignore.

He had said the time for warnings was over.

What came next?

A stabbing pain in her head interrupted Miranda’s
rioting thoughts and she squeezed her eyes more tightly shut. She snapped them open again at the sound of a step outside the lodge and held her breath when the flap was raised. Her heart thudded as Shadow Walker entered.

Unwilling to allow him the advantage of towering over her, Miranda stood up quickly, grabbing the pants she had discarded in her escape attempt. Who had left them for her? Rattling Blanket? She instantly regretted her hasty movement when the throbbing in her head worsened. Refusing to be the first to break the silence between them, she returned his stare with as much confidence as she could muster. Her silence allowed time for closer assessment of her captor.

Shadow Walker was tall—somehow, taller than she had realized. His broad shoulders encased in soft buckskin seemed to shrink the narrow confines of the lodge, exuding a power she attempted to ignore as he faced her. She had avoided looking at him as he had ridden her back to camp, but now, looking up at him in the dim light of dawn, she saw that the hair that hung past his shoulders was as black and shiny as a raven’s wing, that his eyes were dark and somehow fathomless, and that his features were even and sharply cut. He looked far different without the war paint that had transformed his handsome face into a fearsome mask, but she was reminded that although the mask was gone, the warrior remained, when he gripped her arm and pulled her toward the door.