White Wolf (4 page)

Elliot moved quickly, blocking her way. His glance shifted sideways, as if he were seeking help. “Come on, Jess,” he coaxed. “Let’s go for a walk and talk about this. There’s nothing you can do to change the marriage plans. Accept it. You’ll only end up embarrassing yourself if you don’t.”

“It’s not just them marrying and you know it,” Jessie spat. “Now let go of me.”

“No. I won’t let you do something foolish. It’s not James’s fault Able broke his leg. If you’re going to blame anyone, blame the new wagon master.”

Jessie froze. Her eyes narrowed and her mind raced. Elliot was right. This was all Wolf’s fault. He was destroying her family. Well, she’d stop him—someone had to put him in his place. She grinned in anticipation, her eyes narrowed with intent. “You’re right, Elliot,” she said angrily. “I’m going to give that half-breed bastard a piece of my mind. He can’t do this to us!”

With that, she sprinted off in the direction of the livery, where her brothers had met earlier with the new wagon master. If this White Wolf wasn’t there, she’d hunt him down, even if it took all night.

“Jessie, wait. Come back—you can’t—Jess!”

Wolf patted the flank of his new black stallion and smiled in satisfaction. Speaking Lakota, the language of the Teton Sioux, he addressed the tall, broad-shouldered Indian standing beside him. “He’ll father many strong colts and fillies, my brother. It’s been a long time since I’ve found horseflesh of this quality.”

Striking Thunder reached out to touch the horse, but the wild-eyed stallion snorted and pulled away. Wolf held the reins firmly. “Shh, easy, boy,” he crooned, his voice low and soothing. When the animal calmed, Wolf led him into an empty stall.

“You always did have the touch with the animals who roam across the
Maka,
” Striking Thunder said. A thread of wistfulness floated through his voice. “Many times I have wished for your gift.” He swept one large hand toward a corner of the barn. “Wahoska responds only to you.”

Wolf glanced at the silvery white wolf sitting in one corner of the barn, its pale blue eyes watching them intently. His brother’s confession surprised Wolf. He lifted one brow. “You envy the second son of our father? You, the bravest warrior of our tribe, the one chosen to lead our people? You, who will follow in our father’s and grandfather’s steps? Why would you envy a brother who is said to have received more white blood in his veins from our mother than the Sioux blood of our father?”

Striking Thunder shrugged and leaned against a stall door. “Have you never considered the demands, the responsibilities that I must shoulder in order to protect our tribe, while you are free to spend your days walking the earth or tending your horses?”

Wolf turned away, closed the stall door and repacked his saddlebags. The old, familiar resentment crept unbidden into his system. Striking Thunder had been chosen by the council to replace their father, Chief Golden Eagle, when the time came. Though he was happy for his brother, none of his family ever understood that all Wolf had ever wanted was to be part of the family, part of his tribe, not an outsider. “Be thankful you were not sent away from our people,
my brother. It was never my choice to live the white man’s life,” he finished, his voice hard, cold and bitter.

White Wind, their half-English, half-Sioux mother, had taught her children the ways of the white man, teaching them about their mixed heritage. But unlike his siblings, Wolf had been sent away for an extensive education. Memories of the years spent in the white man’s boarding school still gave him nightmares.

Wolf hung the lantern on a nail near the door, then tossed the leather bags to the ground by the open door and stared out into the night. He and Striking Thunder were alone. Everyone else was either in one of the saloons or at the social held at the other end of town. In the maze of corrals outside, horses snorted and cattle lowed at the moon. Behind him, bedded down in their stalls, several mares, including his other horse, Lady Sarah, nickered softly. His new stallion answered back.

“At least you have a purpose to your life. You are needed by our people. But look at me, my brother.” Wolf waved his hand. “I have no such purpose. I am told by our
Wicasa,
our shaman, that I must live as a white man in order to serve my people with my gift of knowledge. But how? For many years I have searched for the answers, but they do not come.” He stared into the heavens above as if what he sought was written in the stars. “I travel across the land, seek visions on the highest mountains and pray to my
Wakan
for answers, but the spirits do not hear.”

He turned away, hiding the bleakness in his eyes. “Perhaps I am destined to walk the path of life alone, not needed by my people, neither white nor Sioux. You, my brother, carry our white blood in your veins but not in your spirit—as does my twin sister, Star Dreamer. Her gift of sight, given to her by our grandmother, is revered by our people. Even our youngest sister is much sought after for her knowledge of herbs and healing. But what of me? How am I to use my gift? What good does my knowledge bring to the People?” His voice dropped. “There is no place of importance in our tribe for this son.”

Striking Thunder frowned and crossed his arms across his vest-covered chest. “How can my brother hear the spirits speak? Your heart and mind are filled with bitterness and anger. You must clear your mind, find peace
within
before you can hear the voices of
Wakan Tanka.
”

Wolf glanced over his shoulder and frowned, but before he could dispute his brother’s words, Striking Thunder moved to stand before him.

“Clear your mind and heart of all bitterness. Look to your future. This may be the reason that you have been chosen to make another journey across the
Maka.
”

Wolf was long past believing. “We shall see,” he said, and changed the subject to a less painful one. “Why are you here? Your presence will rile the townfolk, especially those coming into town to buy supplies for their trip overland. They already fear Indians on the trail.” Unlike Wolf, Striking Thunder was all Sioux in looks, thoughts and actions, and showed no outward sign of his white heritage.

Striking Thunder shrugged. “It’s night. The strangers are not about, and the whites who live in town know me as brother to Wolf. I am safe. The spirits watch over me.” He took a leather thong from around his neck and held it up to reveal a small leather pouch.

“I bring you this. Wear it. The spirits will go with you as you travel far from home. They will keep you safe and return you to our mother and father. My brother is not to worry, I will deliver the needed supplies to our people and inform our parents of the reason for your absence from their tipi.”

Wolf took the leather thong and slipped it over his head, relieved that his brother would be able to deliver the supplies and horses he’d purchased for his family back in the Nebraska Territory. “You and the others are leaving for home tomorrow?”

Striking Thunder nodded. “We leave before
Wi
rises to show her face. Woodcarver-Who-Lives-in-the-Woods will be eager for my return. Do not fear his being alone. Our people will help him with your horses while you are gone.”

Wolf grinned, his dark thoughts lifting. Striking Thunder never called Ben, an old friend of their mother’s, by his given name, preferring to use the name his people had bestowed upon the old man when his mother, White Wind, had married their father, Golden Eagle. “Go safely, my brother.” The two clasped each other on the shoulders. It would be many months before they met again.

Striking Thunder left to join the rest of his warriors camped outside of town. At the end of the street, he heard running feet and stopped—but not in time to sidestep a dark figure who hurtled into him. He reached out to steady the boy, but his feet slid out from beneath him. The two of them fell onto the wet and muddy road, with Striking Thunder taking the brunt of the fall. Flat on his back, he quickly realized that the softness crushed against his chest didn’t belong to a boy.

Light from an upstairs window nearby splashed onto them. Looking up, he found himself staring into eyes the color of spring grass. He felt her rapid breathing and watched her eyes widen as she looked at him. She stared first at his jet-black braids; then her gaze flickered to the bronzed skin of his high cheekbones. When those bright green eyes narrowed on his hawkish nose, he realized something else. She was very angry.

“Let go of me,” she demanded, pushing against him. In her haste to get off him, she fell into a puddle of muddy water.

Getting to his feet, Striking Thunder kept a wary watch on the young girl, unsure of the cause of her anger. He knew from experience that most white people either despised or feared Indians. He wanted no trouble with the townspeople.

Suddenly she jumped to her feet and jabbed his buckskin-covered chest with a mud-coated finger. “White Wolf, I’ve got words to say to you, you…”

Startled, Striking Thunder held up a hand for silence. In an expression of surprise similar to his brother’s, he lifted a brow. “I am not White Wolf,” he corrected. “I am Striking Thunder, his brother.”

The girl seemed momentarily taken aback. She took a step back and glared up at him. “Are you sure?” she demanded.

His lips twitched with amusement. “Of this I am sure.” He watched as she brushed her tangled curls from her eyes and attempted to wipe the drops of water from her face. But it only made matters worse. Streaks of mud now covered her cheeks and forehead, giving her the appearance of a young brave painted for war.

“Fine. Where is that no-account brother of yours?”

Striking Thunder shrugged and pointed the way he’d come. “White Wolf is tending to his animals.” To his surprise and amusement, she stalked off without another word. Intrigued, he stared after the mud-soaked figure. He didn’t possess the gift of sight as his sister did, but somehow he knew with absolute certainty he would see again this strange white girl who dressed as a boy. He headed toward the outskirts of town, but curiosity got the better of him. On silent feet, he kept to the shadows and retraced his steps back to the barn.

Wolf stared out into the night, tired, ready to return to the boardinghouse where he had taken a room. He frowned and hoped Lolita wasn’t waiting for him. He’d endured two days of her clinging possessiveness—and that was more than enough. She was shallow-minded, concerned only with money and bedding any male who caught her eye or offered enough coin.

Six months ago, that wouldn’t have bothered him. Now he wanted more from life. A strange restlessness had seized him. He felt like a fish tossed on the bank. He was floundering his way through life. To counter the useless feeling, he’d thrown himself into the necessary preparations for the overland trip. He was grateful that the coming year would be hard, leaving little room for discontent. He took one last look at his new horse. The stallion had settled. If he spooked during the night, Rook, asleep in the loft, would be there to calm him.

His gaze shifted to a mound of hay in one corner of the barn. “You stay away from the farmer’s chickens, my friend,” he told the animal. The white wolf, curled in a tight ball, lifted his muzzle and stared at him with unblinking blue eyes. With a low whine, the animal lowered his head to his paws.

Wolf grinned at his companion’s woebegone expression. “Yeah, I know, old boy, but you got shot last time you messed with a chicken house.”

Suddenly, an angry voice yelled out, “White Wolf, you no-account scalawag. I want a word with you.”

In one smooth movement, Wolf dropped to a crouch, palmed the knife hidden inside his boot and spun around to face the intruder. His brows lowered when his gaze encountered a filthy youngster with furious green eyes standing in the pool of light just inside the barn. He straightened, his weight on the balls of his moccasin-clad feet. “Dammit, boy,” he ground out furiously, “you could’ve gotten yourself killed. Don’t you know better than to sneak up on a man like that?”

The boy, barely over five feet tall, stomped toward him. “It’s all your fault that my brothers are leaving me behind so they can take Able’s cattle to Oregon. You can’t separate us. We’re a family. I won’t let you!”

Before Wolf had time to make sense of the angry words, a fist flew at him, catching him square in the chest. Tossing his knife into the nearest bale of hay, Wolf swore beneath his breath and jumped back to avoid another well-aimed blow.

He wrapped his fingers around two thin wrists, then yelped when the sharp toe of a booted foot caught him squarely on the shin. He grimaced at the pain from the kicks and stepped on the boy’s toes to prevent further bruising of his smarting shins. “Settle down, you hellion,” he said with a growl. One hand wiggled free of his grip and lashed out, catching him on the chin. Wolf yanked the offending arm behind the kid’s back. “One more kick or punch out of you and I’m gonna put you over my knees and paddle the tar out of you, understand?”

His assailant stopped struggling and stood there, breathing hard. Wolf relaxed his hold, grateful the threat had worked—not that he’d have carried it out. He knew firsthand, from his years as a reluctant boarder in the white man’s school, how demeaning corporal punishment was. Staring down at his unwanted captive, he wondered what to do with him. Who was in charge of this cub?

“Touch me, and my brother James will tear your hide into strips.”

Wolf narrowed his eyes. There was something familiar about the kid glaring at him. “What’s your name?”

“Jessie,” came the low reply.

Something tugged at the back of his mind. He’d heard that name before. Then it dawned on him. Yesterday, at Lolita’s window, the dark-haired rider who’d nearly run over the young ladies. Yes, he was sure this was the mischief-maker, yet seeing him up close, there was something else that was familiar. He narrowed his eyes, concentrating on the dirty face and the glaring green eyes.

Recognition dawned. It was the eyes and hair that gave away the boy’s identity. The spunky and foolish kid bore a definite likeness to James Jones, the man hired to be in charge of the cattle. He grimaced when he recalled hearing that all the Jones boys—except James—had quick tempers.