A Whisper In The Wind (12 page)

“Who’s Lance?” He spoke to her without looking up.

Elayna grinned. So, he was worried, was he? Well, good. “He’s a lieutenant at the fort,” she said brightly, “and he’s probably right behind us.”

“Probably,” Michael muttered. “Is he sweet on you?”

“Maybe.”

“And are you sweet on him?”

“That’s none of your business!”

Michael grunted softly, surprised to find he was jealous of a pale-faced lieutenant.

Elayna ate ravenously, not caring that the venison was rare, or that she had to share a knife and fork with Michael Wolf. The meat was tender and succulent, but she would gladly have eaten it raw, she thought, for she’d never been so hungry in her life.

She had eaten her fill and was ready for a long nap when Michael pulled her to her feet.

“Let’s go.”

“So soon?” she wailed.

He did not bother with a reply, merely lifted her into the saddle. He had extinguished the fire. The cooked venison was wrapped in a square of hide; the rest had been left for the scavengers. Ordinarily he would have burned it or buried it in an effort to cover his trail, but he knew the Army had an Indian scout who would have no trouble following their tracks. No trouble at all.

Elayna’s spirits perked up as she gazed at the countryside. The plains stretched endlessly westward, thick with grass. Stands of timber stood like wooded islands in a grassy sea, and she began to understand why the Indians were fighting so hard to keep their land. Who could blame them for refusing to surrender, to leave the beauty of the plains for the misery of the reservation?

They rode until dusk, then stopped in the lee of a tall, rocky spire. She was too weary to put up any fight when Michael lifted her to the ground; she only stood there, shoulders slumped, awaiting his commands.

He unsaddled the horses, rubbed them down with a handful of dry grass, hobbled her horse, knowing the other one would not wander far from its companion.

That done, he spread the saddle blankets on the ground and motioned for Elayna to sit down. She did so without question, grateful to be sitting on something that wasn’t moving beneath her. She watched as Michael quickly and efficiently built a fire, accepted a strip of cold meat with a curt nod.

He had filled the deer’s bladder with water. At first she refused to drink from anything so disgusting, but finally her thirst won out. Closing her eyes, she took a long drink.

When she opened her eyes again, he was watching her, his dark eyes unfathomable. She felt a sudden tremor in the pit of her stomach, a quick heat in her veins. Would he take her now that his other hungers had been satisfied?

Michael saw the fear surface in Elayna’s eyes as he reached out to brush a wisp of hair from her face. Even now, with her hair mussed, her clothing covered with trail dust, and her cheeks stained with perspiration, she was lovely. She lifted her bound hands as if to ward him off, and he caught both her hands in one of his.

She froze at his touch, her eyes showing white, like a rabbit caught in the clutches of a…Michael grinned…in the clutches of a wolf.

He felt the need rise hot and quick within him, aroused by her scent and her nearness. Was it possible he had always wanted her, that he’d been blind to it all this time because of his grief at Winter Song’s death?

Winter Song…she had been young and beautiful, and he had been drawn to her from the moment they met. He knew now that part of Winter Song’s attraction had been the fact that she was Indian, as he was. The same blood, the same heritage. He had been fascinated by her naiveté, charmed by her smile. Now, he realized that what he’d felt for her had been a first, sweet love, one that might be followed by a fiercer passion.

His gaze lingered on Elayna’s face. She was trembling now. He saw the shine of tears in her eyes, read the silent plea on her lips, but he could not resist touching her again. His fingers brushed her cheek, and he marveled at the softness of her skin. He lifted a lock of her hair and pressed it to his lips, inhaling the faint fragrance of lilacs that lingered in the soft strands despite their grueling ride.

He wanted her. But not like this. He wanted her warm and willing and eager, not helpless and frightened.

“Go to sleep,” he said gently, and left her there, wide-eyed and trembling.

There was a new awareness between them now, a raw and primal tension that hummed and sparked like static electricity.

He wanted her. The thought was never far from her mind. Each look, each accidental touch, was an unspoken declaration of his desire. He had untied her hands, confident she would not make a run for it. And the idea never seriously occurred to her. She could not survive out here in the wilderness alone and they both knew it. She was at his mercy now, dependent on him for food and water and protection.

* * * * *

He drew his horse to a halt on a flat-topped ridge at noon. His hand brushed hers as he offered her a slice of cold venison, and she felt her nerve endings tingle at his nearness. She had never been so aware of a man before, or so attuned to another human being. Time and again her gaze wandered in his direction, her eyes pleased with what they saw. He had removed his overcoat, and she could not help admiring the play of muscles in his shoulders and arms as he checked the rigging on his saddle and tightened the cinch.

The bandage was very white against his skin, and even as she watched, he removed it, exposing a broad expanse of bronzed flesh crisscrossed with half healed scars left by the whip.

Michael turned then, his face going hard when he saw the expression of horror on her face.

“Not very pretty, I guess,” he muttered, and his voice was cold and bitter.

“There will only be a few scars,” Elayna assured him, “and they’ll fade in time.”

“Time,” Michael repeated. If he went back to his own time, would the scars disappear, or were they a part of him now, an ever-present reminder of his journey into the past?

They were riding westward again when it began to rain. One minute the sky was clear and blue, the next great, dark clouds had gathered overhead.

They were both soaked to the skin by the time they found shelter under a large outcropping of rock. They sat close together, not quite touching, the overcoat spread over their shoulders. Elayna stared at the rain, acutely aware of the man sitting beside her, of the narrow space between them, of the heat radiating from his thigh where it almost brushed her leg.

“It shouldn’t last long,” Michael remarked. “It’s only a summer shower.”

Elayna nodded. She had always loved the rain. She liked to sit wrapped in a warm blanket by the window and watch the lightning, listen to the thunder, the soft splash of the raindrops against the windowpane. She did not, she realized, care as much for the rain when she was drenched to the skin.

Michael gazed into the distance, trying to ignore the woman beside him. Her dress clung to her, the damp cloth clearly outlining every curve. Her hair fell down her back, unbound, like a dark waterfall. Her cheeks were red where the wind had kissed them, her lips moist from the rain, her eyes luminous. Her scent tickled his nostrils, unmistakably feminine.

She was shivering. And so was he. There was only one way to get warm, but he doubted she’d care for it.

Surprisingly, she didn’t resist when he put his arm around her and drew her body against his.

“I’m so cold,” she murmured. “So cold.”

His right arm was around her shoulders and now he placed his left arm around her waist, hugging her to him. Their faces were only a breath apart, and as he gazed into her eyes he saw the fear, and the waiting.

He lowered his head to hers, his lips feather light as he kissed her, drinking in her sweetness, savoring the taste of her. Her eyelids fluttered down and a long, shuddering sigh escaped her lips, her breath mingling with his.

His arms drew her closer as he kissed her again, more deeply this time. She was trembling, but it had nothing to do with the cold, for she was no longer aware of the rain or the wind, only his lips on hers, his hand moving under her hair, stroking the sensitive skin of her neck. His tongue laved her lower lip, then slid to caress the side of her neck, the lobe of her ear, releasing a thousand quivering butterflies to dance in her belly and make her heart pound erratically.

She sighed as his lips returned to hers, his tongue sliding into her mouth to explore the depths within. It was only when his hand cupped her breast that sanity returned. Her eyes flew open and she twisted out of his arms, her shame and embarrassment clearly etched on her face.

A muscle worked in Michael’s jaw as he fought the urge to finish what he had started. He had been long without a woman. Too long.

He drew his gaze from Elayna’s face and stared out at the rain-swept plains. The storm had passed and a rainbow stretched across the sky. Raindrops glistened in the tall yellow grass and adorned the leaves of the trees.

He stood abruptly, knowing he had to put some distance between himself and Elayna before he did something they’d both regret.

“Let’s go,” he said curtly. Swinging onto his horse’s back, he moved out at a brisk trot, not even looking back to make sure Elayna was following.

Chapter Twenty-One

The search party left at first light. Robert O’Brien
watched them out of sight, his expression troubled. Lance was a good officer. Crowfoot was the best tracker the Army had. If anyone could find Elayna, they would. He tried not to think of his daughter at the mercy of a damned redskin. He had seen what Indians did to white women, the torture, the mutilation.

He shook the grisly images from his mind. Lance and Crowfoot would find her. With any luck, she’d be back by tomorrow night, scared but unhurt.

And yet he could not shake off the niggling fear that he’d seen his daughter for the last time. The Indian had a nine-hour head start. And even Crowfoot might have trouble trailing an Indian who didn’t want to be found.

The patrol returned to the fort five days later, saddle-weary and empty-handed.

O’Brien was in Cathcart’s office when Lance made his report. The patrol had followed the Indian’s tracks out of the fort, Lance said. They had followed the trail easily at first, had located the place where Elayna and the Indian had stopped to rest. And then it rained.

Lance made a gesture of helplessness. “The trail was completely washed out. Even Crowfoot couldn’t pick it up again.”

O’Brien nodded, his expression bleak. Where was she now? Dead? Lying out on the plains, prey to scavengers? Or was she a prisoner in some Cheyenne camp, being passed from one buck to another?

Better she should be dead than the plaything of some Cheyenne warrior, he thought miserably, and cursed the day he had saved Michael Wolf’s life.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Michael and Elayna reached the Cheyenne camp on the South Platte late in the afternoon. Elayna could not stifle the tremor of apprehension that rose within her as she gazed at the numerous Indian lodges spread beside the shallow river. She stared at the men and women going about their business as she followed Michael into the camp. These were godless savages, cruel and barbaric. They killed soldiers and tortured settlers, scalped women and children, destroyed homes and lives. She was a white woman, an enemy. What if they demanded her death? Would Michael protect her, or would her scalp adorn his lodge? The Indians paused in their labors as Michael and Elayna rode into the heart of the village. Young children ran to their mothers, pointing and talking excitedly as they stared at the white woman, fascinated by her red hair and fair skin.

Elayna swallowed hard as a tall warrior rode into camp, a long blond scalp fluttering from the tip of his lance. Her mouth was suddenly dry, her palms damp, as she looked at the people around her. She turned toward Michael, saw him smiling at a tall, handsome young man.

“We have missed you,” Yellow Spotted Wolf said, grasping Michael’s forearm in a gesture of welcome. He stared at Elayna. “Who is the woman?”

“A captive,” Michael replied, dismounting.

Yellow Spotted Wolf grunted softly. His cousin had good taste in women.

“Perhaps you will want a lodge of your own now,” Yellow Spotted Wolf suggested, still eying the woman.

“Perhaps.”

“I will speak to my mother about it.”

Yellow Spotted Wolf was about to say more when Two Ponies pushed his way between Yellow Spotted Wolf and Michael.

“She who should have been my wife is dead,” Two Ponies said gruffly.

A cold fist wrapped itself around Michael’s heart at the mention of Winter Song. “I know.”

“She has been avenged.”

“She will not be avenged until I dip my hands in the blood of the Pawnee,” Michael declared fervently. “And I will do it.”

Two Ponies glared at Michael, and then his gaze swung in Elayna’s direction. “Who is this white woman?”

“She is mine,” Michael replied tersely. “That is all you need to know.”

Two Ponies nodded curtly, then turned on his heel and walked away, his head high and proud.

“He will never forgive you for winning the heart of she who is dead,” Yellow Spotted Wolf remarked.

“I know.”

“You have been gone from us a long time,” Yellow Spotted Wolf said, changing the subject. “Will you tell me what kept you away?”

“Later,” Michael promised.

Yellow Spotted Wolf looked at Elayna and smiled a knowing smile. “Come, my mother has food waiting.”

“Get down,” Michael told Elayna, “and follow me.”

Elayna did as she was told, keenly aware of the many curious eyes that followed her every move. She was an outsider, the enemy. A prisoner. What would Michael do with her now? Humiliate her? Torture her?

Other, more degrading, more intimate alternatives rose in her mind and she pushed them away. She would worry about such things when they were alone.

With great trepidation, she followed Michael into a large, hide-covered tipi.

The mother of Yellow Spotted Wolf welcomed Michael warmly and immediately offered him something to eat. Michael accepted, and in a short time Hemene served them bowls of roast hump meat, wild berries, and strong black tea.

Elayna sat in the rear of the lodge, filled with resentment because she was being ignored, relegated to the back of the lodge as if she were a child or a servant.

She did not care for the food. It tasted wild and gamy, the tea needed sugar, the berries were tart. Worst of all was the fact that she could not understand the conversation, though she was certain Michael was telling his family, if indeed they were his family, what had happened to him at Camp Robinson and how he had managed to escape. Occasionally one of the Indians glanced in Elayna’s direction and grunted something unintelligible.

She was seeing Michael Wolf in a new light, too. Before, she had fooled herself into believing that he was a civilized man. He spoke her language. He seemed intelligent. But he looked wholly Indian now. He spoke his native language fluently, his skin was as dark as that of the others, his hair as black if not as long. He scooped the meat from the bowl with a knife, wiped his mouth on his arm, dried his hands on the sides of his leggings. It took no wild stretches of imagination to visualize him in paint and feathers, wildly gyrating around a campfire, with a war club in one hand and a scalp in the other…a long red scalp. Her scalp.

Yellow Spotted Wolf was as good as his word, and when he told his mother that Wolf wanted a lodge of his own now that he had a woman, she immediately told Mo’ohta-vo’nehe that they needed a number of hides for the new dwelling. Mo’ohta-vo’nehe set out the very next day to trade horses and furs for the required skins, and Hemene called on her friends and relatives for help with the sewing.

The women started on the new lodge early the following morning. Elayna, bone-weary after a restless night spent in the unfamiliar confines of the hide lodge, sat in the shade and watched as the Indian women worked on the new lodge. It took twenty-one buffalo hides, thinned and tanned, to make the cover. The process of cutting and sewing and fitting the pieces together took most of the day.

“Don’t you want to help?”

She looked up to find Michael standing beside her. “No.”

He shrugged. “It’ll be your home. I just thought you might want to help.”

“I don’t want to live in a house made of skins,” she retorted. “Nor do I want to be here with you. I want to go home, to my father.”

Michael shook his head. “You’re going to stay here. With me.”

“Why?”

Why, indeed? His eyes swept her face and figure and he felt a sharp stab of desire, and in the back of his mind he heard a voice whispering,
She is waiting, waiting for you.
What did it mean? He told himself he was only keeping her here because he wanted an answer to the riddle, but that wasn’t the reason at all. He wanted her, and that was why she was here, why he wouldn’t let her go.

“Why?” she asked again, but there was no need for him to reply; she had seen the answer in his eyes.

The lodge was completed by nightfall. It was then that Soaring Eagle, the bravest man in the village, stepped forward and counted coup on the lodge. When that was done, he ducked inside, followed by several other outstanding warriors, including Mo’ohta-vo’nehe and Yellow Spotted Wolf.

Elayna stared at Michael in disbelief when he explained what was going on. Counting coup on a lodge, indeed! It was the silliest thing she had ever heard of.

“The women have completed a hard task,” Michael told her. “By counting coup on the lodge, Soaring Eagle is recognizing what they have accomplished.”

Hemene smiled at Elayna as she offered her an odd-looking bundle, then, bidding Michael and Elayna good night, she ushered everyone out of the lodge.

“It’s a tanning kit,” Michael said as Elayna examined the strange-looking items. “The scraper is used to remove meat and fat from the inside surface of a hide, the flesher is used to pare down the hide until it’s the right thickness. That one’s a drawblade. It’s used to shave the hair from the outside of a hide, and that’s a softening rope. It’s drawn over the hide until it’s soft and pliable.”

“I don’t want it.”

A muscle twitched in Michael’s jaw. “Those tools belonged to Mo’ohta-vo’nehe’s mother,” he said, hoping he could make Elayna see what an honor it was for her to have them. “A woman’s sewing kit is buried with her, but her tanning kit is passed on to her daughter or daughter-in-law. Hemene has the one that belonged to her own mother, so she has given you her mother-in-law’s. It’s a fine gift.”

“I don’t care. I don’t want it.”

She dropped the tools on the floor, her gaze falling on the cooking utensils that Michael’s family had provided, spoons made of buffalo horn, bowls made of wood, pots made of clay. Two beds made of buffalo robes were spread in the back of the lodge. Everything was foreign to her, reminding her again that she was among an alien people, alone with a man who was a stranger. A man whose eyes were hot when he looked at her.

It was suddenly quiet save for the crackling of the flames. Michael stared at Elayna’s back. Her hair was as red as the glowing coals, and he felt a sudden heat in his loins as he gazed at her, wanting her.

Her gingham dress was covered with trail dust, the lace collar limp. The hem was torn where she’d caught it on a bush, her shoes were scuffed and caked with mud. He wondered if she felt as out of place as she looked.

He should not have brought her here. He was of the People, a Cheyenne, and sometimes even he felt like an outsider. How much worse would it be for her? What right did he have to keep her here, away from everything she knew and loved?

And still he wanted her. Regardless of right or wrong, regardless of whispered voices in the back of his mind, he wanted her. And she wanted him. Whether she admitted it or not, it was true. And he meant to have her, would not rest until she was his. A wry grin twisted his lips. Perhaps he was more of a savage than he cared to admit.

Elayna stood staring at the wall of the lodge, her arms wrapped around her waist. She could feel Michael’s eyes on her back. Unbidden, came the memory of his kisses and her unexpected reaction. She had enjoyed his kisses, enjoyed the pleasure his touch aroused. She had drawn away, not because she was afraid of him, but because she had been afraid of her own desires, her own turbulent emotions. She was a white woman and he was an Indian. It was wrong for her to want him, and even worse because she hated him. It didn’t make sense, she thought, to want to be held by a man she despised, a man who had slapped her. A man who had kidnapped her at gunpoint and threatened her life.

She turned, unable to resist the pull of his eyes, and found herself trapped in the hard web of his gaze. She stood frozen, unable to move, as he crossed the lodge toward her. For a moment he just stood there, staring down at her, and then, unable to resist the powerful urgings of his heart, he kissed her. Desire hotter and brighter than the rays of the sun exploded in his veins as his tongue plundered the silky depths of her mouth. He did not close the narrow space between them, did not take her in his arms. Only their mouths touched, and he thought that if she pulled away, he would let her go. But she did not pull away. Her eyelids fluttered down and she swayed against him, surrendering to the yearning she had been denying for too long.

His right arm went around her waist, drawing her length against him, letting her feel the heat of his desire. She moaned softly, and for one fleeting moment, sanity returned to him. He had to let her go. She did not belong here, in his world. He had no right to involve her in his life, no right at all, and nothing to offer her…

Only his love. He was here, and she was here, and he wanted her in his life more than he’d ever wanted anything.

He bent to kiss her, his hands playing over her back and buttocks as she pressed against him, the womanly warmth of her igniting the fires of passion. He kissed her until she was breathless, soft and pliant in his embrace. Gently he carried her down to the floor and undressed her, his own breathing becoming rapid as he gazed at her. She was a study in alabaster perfection, from her full, rosy-tipped breasts and narrow waist to her long, coltish legs and shapely calves.

He whispered her name as he drew her close, burying his face in the heavy silken mass of her hair.

Elayna tugged at his leggings, wanting to see him, all of him, and blushing furiously because of it. Michael sucked in a deep breath as he removed his clout, leggings, and moccasins, then stretched out beside her. For a moment they stared at each other, Michael’s gaze bold and admiring as he let his gaze wander over her smooth ivory flesh, Elayna’s gaze shy and curious as she marveled at the hard-muscled beauty of Michael’s face and form.

And then he was caressing her, arousing her, until there was no room in her thoughts for anything but the wonder of his touch, the pleasure of his kisses, the magic of his hands. He was whispering to her, words she did not understand. Later she would wonder what he had said, and why he spoke to her in his native tongue, but for now nothing mattered but the touch of his hands and his kisses, kisses that filled her with breathless elation. Her own hands were never still. They moved over his back and shoulders and arms, marveling at the smooth silk of his skin, at the muscles that bunched beneath her questing fingertips. His eyes were as black as the sky on a dark night, his lips firm and demanding as he savored every inch of her face and neck, his tongue like a darting finger of flame, igniting new fires wherever it touched.

Only when she cried his name did he take her, fulfilling her, satisfying every longing, every desire, as their bodies melded together, heat to heat.

His voice, muffled against her neck, followed her to sleep. “I love you,” he murmured. “God help me, I love you.”