Somewhere to Dream (Berkley Sensation) (5 page)

“Who’s next?” he demanded.

In the moment when the man looked away, Dustu reached into his holster and unsheathed his hunting knife. With all his strength, he slammed the handle into the prisoner’s thigh wound, and I grabbed Soquili’s arm.

“Make him stop!” I demanded. “Dustu is fighting unfairly.”

“
Shh
, Ad-layd. My brother will take care of that.”

I didn’t see how. All the blood had drained from the man’s dirt-encrusted face and seemed to be spilling from his thigh. Dustu, grinning madly, had gotten to his feet and now slammed his fist into the captive’s stomach, catching his face when he curled reflexively in half. The prisoner staggered sideways before his injured leg finally gave in, and he fell.

“Soquili,” I hissed, watching Dustu’s determined expression as he circled the injured man. I had seen wolves surround an injured stag, tearing it to bits while the beast twisted and thrust uselessly with his antlers. I had seen cats play with mice, tossing them from paw to paw until the little creatures lay listlessly, wishing for the end. I had no desire to witness this. I stepped forward, wanting to put a stop to the violence, but Soquili grabbed my arm and jerked me back.

Dustu kicked the man’s open thigh wound, then lifted his hands over his head, grinning and nodding at his tribe.
See? See who is the man here?
Dustu’s enthusiasm was contagious. He returned to kick again, and the prisoner made a gurgling sound through clenched teeth. Before long, the others were cheering along with Dustu.

Soquili shifted beside me, the only indication of his concern a subtle clenching of his jaw. Dustu went back a third time, but before he could connect again, the prisoner grabbed Dustu’s foot and yanked it in a savage twist. I heard the bone crack, Dustu shriek, and Soquili hoot with laughter, his voice rich with approval.

The man was forgotten as the others gathered around Dustu. The warrior rolled and howled, clutching at his broken leg. As I approached Dustu, keen on my duty as healer, I glanced down at the white man. He lay curled off to the side, much paler than before, with one hand pressed to his bleeding thigh. He blinked up at me through his swollen face, seeming confused at the sight of my blond hair. I met his golden eyes, those eyes I knew from my dreams, and my breath stopped for an instant. What did I see in them beside hatred? Violence, unquestionably. Intelligence was there as well, calculating all the time. And deeper within, even beyond the wounds of his body, I sensed pain. So much bitter pain, but not the kind that could be healed with salves or stitches. I fought the urge to drop to my knees beside him. I had to tend to the Cherokee first.

It was difficult to look away. I’d never met the man before, but I knew those eyes so well they might have been with me all my life. After he’d been cleaned a bit, I knew his hair would be golden, his body sleek and strong as a mountain cat’s. I had spent my life running from my dreams. This man lying bleeding on the ground, blinking through the eyes that had haunted those dreams . . . he was as real as could be.

CHAPTER
7

Healing

“Ad-layd.”

I stepped away with reluctance and crouched beside Dustu. I did a quick check of his injuries, called for what I needed, and two young boys ran to get it. I ran my fingers over the break gently, trying not to make Dustu yelp.

“You must be calm,” I said to him. “Breathe through your nose.”

“Ha!” he replied. His eyes shifted cruelly toward the prisoner. “He cannot breathe through his beak. I broke it.”

I shook my head and lifted one eyebrow. “Sorry, Dustu. It was already broken before you hit him. You just got his lip going again.”

“Quiet, woman,” he grumbled, but Soquili chuckled beside me. He folded his arms over his chest and glared down at Dustu, pale and sweating into the dirt.

“I told you this man is mine,” Soquili told him. “Why do this?”

“Soquili, you are a fool,” Dustu spat through clenched teeth. “This is no man like your brother. This is a toad. He is not worthy of your family.”

Soquili spoke briskly before turning away. “That is not for you to say. Especially now. You are a small man for fighting an injured man. I had thought you braver than that.” Dustu made a furious noise, but Soquili shook his head with disgust and addressed me. “Fix the coward, Ad-layd, then go to your house. I will bring this man for you to heal.”

Once the others dwindled and I had Dustu in place, he seemed to get over his initial agony and bite down on his sounds of pain. Dustu wasn’t prone to sitting still for long. A broken bone would take a long time to heal with a man like this. I told him what I suggested he do, including rest, then said I would stop in at his house later to check on him. He frowned, then nodded once, dismissing me. I rose and collected my things, then left.

By the time I arrived at my house, Soquili had already brought the prisoner. He sat in a corner, glaring at us like a cornered bear. Except a bear would have had a thicker, more impressive coat. This man’s torn clothing was a dull mud brown, patched with blackened blood.

“I need to clean you off so I can see to your wounds,” I said.

It was an odd experience, speaking English after so many months. The prisoner looked slightly startled, but said nothing, only maintained his forbidding glare. I approached cautiously, thinking this would be like treating a wild animal. I half feared he might bite. I dipped a cloth into a wooden bowl set at his side, disturbing the still surface and inviting the aroma of sweet herbs into the air. I wrung out the cloth, watching the man closely, then held it out for him to assess. He seethed.

“It’s only water,” I assured him, then pressed the cloth against my cheek in illustration.

His chin lifted, seeing proof that whatever was in the bowl was safe, then he gave me a brief, almost imperceptible nod. I took his wrist between my fingers, feeling the rounded sharpness of his bones, then gently caressed his forearm with the cloth so he could feel the truth. He flinched at my touch, then slowly relaxed and let me cut through the dirt with the cloth.

From across the room, Soquili watched, then grunted as if he’d just remembered something. He came toward us and reached in the direction of the man’s throat. The prisoner instantly jolted backward, pressing his back against the wall of the house, fists raised. I barely caught my bowl before it was kicked over.

“What are you—” I began, just as confused as the man.

“His shirt,” Soquili explained.

I glanced at Soquili, then back to the man. “Of course,” I said, then sighed. “But I think he can do that himself, don’t you?”

The prisoner’s gaze shifted from Soquili to me, and the slightest twinkle of hope shone in the back of those amber eyes as he waited for my explanation. I thought it likely that he saw me, my language, my blond hair, and my blue eyes as a sign that he might survive this.

“He didn’t mean to frighten you. It’s only you need to take off your shirt. Your chest is bleeding.”

The man sniffed, studying both our faces. Soquili gave him a tentative smile and obligingly moved away. Keeping his eyes trained on Soquili, the man wriggled painfully out of his filthy shirt, yanked it over his head, then tossed it beside him.

I was used to men in various states of undress. After all, the Cherokee rarely wore much of anything during the summer months. But the lean lines of this man’s muscles, stretched tight across his chest, drew my gaze. Under his shirt, the skin was almost clean, the colour of cream, making him somehow seem more vulnerable. I examined a deep gash on his arm, trying not to touch his chest, though I knew I would have to when I tended to his wounds. A thin line of blood snaked down from over his right breast, following the contours of his ribs and congealing on the pale blond hairs of his stomach.

“What? Never seen a white man before?” he muttered, lifting my eyes to his.

“I’ve seen plenty,” I assured him, returning my attention to his arm. I decided the wound would heal without stitches, as would the one on his chest. They needed cleaning, though. Blood had trapped grime and pebbles on the shredded lips of the cuts.

Soquili sat quietly on the other side of the house, watching.

“Does he know why he is here?” I asked in Cherokee.

“How could he know?” Soquili asked, shrugging.

I nodded. Just as I thought. The man must be thoroughly confused, expecting to be killed, yet here he was being tended and healed. “Should I tell him?”

Soquili considered this. I looked over my shoulder at him, waiting for an answer. Finally, he shook his head. “Not yet.”

“What’s going on?” the man asked.

He hissed through his teeth when I dabbed at the cut on his chest. “I’ll put balm on all of these. It’ll help.” He closed his eyes while I continued to clean him up and smear small patches of melted bear grease across the injuries. My patient wrinkled his nose, and I shrugged.

“It will help the healing.”

It was like a map, this body, and my eyes followed roadways of past injuries marked by various lines and scars. It had seen a great deal of abuse. Four deep pink lines stretched across his belly. I touched them, and he jumped as if I’d tickled him.

“Cougar?” I asked gently.

He looked away, but nodded. “Why didn’t they kill me?” His voice was hoarse, tired.

“I can’t explain that to you yet.”

“But why—”

“I can’t. Just wait awhile, and you’ll find out.”

His glare returned. I could feel his eyes burning me, though I kept my attention on his wounds. “What’s awhile?” he demanded. “An hour? A week? Give me something, girl. Am I just waiting to be tortured to death? Because if that’s it, you might want to save your medicines for the next man.”

“Sorry. I don’t know the answer. You’ll just have to bide your time.”

“But—”

I turned toward Soquili and held out my hands in question. “He wants to know why he’s not dead.”

Soquili scowled, not changing his mind.

I studied the cuts I’d tended. The bear grease flickered slightly with the light of the hearth fire, and I tried not to shake my head with disgust. Such a waste of time. They’d let these injuries heal, then they’d tear them open again. I knew the Cherokee. This poor, bewildered man was only going to get more confused. I could tell him everything—Soquili would never know—but I wasn’t sure that would help. The stranger still stared at me, waiting, though my focus was on his chest. His gaze was so intense, I felt I could be at the other side of the room and still feel the beam of those eyes. I looked up.

“I deserve to know,” he said quietly, echoing my thoughts. I continued to look at him, saying nothing, and he took that as an invitation to explain more. “When I was a kid, these sons of bitches killed my mother, my sisters, and my brother. I ain’t got no love for Injuns. But I ain’t afraid, neither. I just wanna know what’s going on.”

I squeezed the cloth under the water and touched the side of his face, hiding my smile. Not afraid. He wasn’t much of a liar. He winced but didn’t pull away.

“And I have no love for white men,” I said. He was silent, but I’d already said too much. What could have prompted me to share my secret with a stranger? I bit my lip.

Frustration creased his brow, but he didn’t ask anything else about me. His immediate concern had to be for himself, and that was a relief.

“Are you gonna tell me what’s going on?”

“I can’t. I don’t know exactly, to be honest.”

I slid the cloth over his brow and felt him relax a little further. I knew my touch was soothing, the sweet-scented water refreshing. His hair was cut short so it curled behind his ears, tickled the bottom of his neck, and I knew once it was cleaned, it would be golden. Not white blond like mine, but gold. One stubborn curl in the middle of his forehead twisted away from the rest, and another flicked like a wave over one ear. His eyes watched me as I worked, a beast of prey scouting the territory, but he said nothing. When his face was clean, I leaned back and examined it.

“What you looking at?”

“Seeing if you have more damage,” I lied.

In truth, I wanted to admire him. Now that most of his face was revealed, the pictures from my dreams were coming together, touching in his eyes, shaping around the strong set of his battered shoulders. He was about my age. And despite the swelling, he was undeniably handsome.

But he was a man. And a white man, at that. I shoved the traitorous thought out of my head.

“Well?”

I reached into a small cup by my knee and pulled out a leech, black and wriggling between my fingers. My patient was no stranger to the treatment, because he didn’t object when I gently pressed three of the creatures to the swollen skin around his eye.

“You’re not going to impress the ladies for a while, I’m afraid,” I said with a vague smile.

“No?” A hint of humor curled in his voice. “Not even you?”

I was surprised to feel blood rush into my cheeks. “No. Not even me.”

He was still pale, and I knew it had to do with his leg. I looked down at the tear in his trousers and saw the bleeding had stopped, but it was a long cut. It would need attention. When I glanced up at him, he was frowning.

“You ain’t gonna need to see that, are you?”

“Of course I am.”

“Well, I ain’t gonna—”

From the other side of the room, Soquili chuckled. I glared at him. He got to his feet and went to the far end of the house, leaning down to reach for a blanket. He dropped it beside my patient.

“Look away, Shadow Girl,” he said, grinning. “You will see all of him soon enough.”

I stood and looked toward the open doorway, arms crossed over my chest. I knew I was blushing and hated myself for it. “Why would you say that, Soquili? I have no desire to see him.”

The prisoner grunted with effort as he worked his way out of his trousers then hid under the blanket. When Soquili said it was safe, I turned back. My patient leaned against the wall, slightly paler than he had been, wearing nothing but a blanket from his waist to his knees. An unwelcome shiver passed down my spine and settled with heat in my belly. I fought the sensation, reminding myself that I knew well what was beneath that blanket. I knew what men could do with the weapons God had given them. No. I wouldn’t allow myself to feel anything for this man. I knelt beside him and rolled the blanket up the side of his thigh so I could heal the ugly gash. It stretched almost all the way from hip to knee.

“Why did I say that?” Soquili chuckled. “I thought you would know that by now. This man carries the spirit of my brother. That means he is my brother, but he is also your betrothed.”