Cheyenne Captive

Book 1: Heartfire

by Georgina Gentry

Genres: Historical Fiction; Sagas; Historical Romance

Synopsis

SCANDALOUS THOUGHTS When headstrong, golden-haired Summer ran away from home, all she could think of was leaving her strict father behind. But after a vengeance-seeking Indian attacked her stage, threatening her with a fate worse than death, the tempestuous girl yarned for her parents' overbearing rules. . . until the savage's cruel grip changed to a tantalizing touch! His sensuous caress banished all ties to the past, the exciting things he did with his lips made her yearn for an unknown fulfillment. From that moment the spirited innocent knew that her future was bound to his—and she'd cherish whatever relationship the uncivilized brave decided to have with her. FORBIDDEN DESIRES From the years he was forced to live in Texas, the handsome half-breed Iron Knife knew how deceptive palefaces could be. Surely this creamy-skinned, blue-eyed beauty was no different. But even as he tried to brutally punish her for her heritage, he was ensnared by the hip-length strands of wheat-hued tresses, enchanted by the firm curves of her nubile white body. Before the ruthless warrior could control himself, he was whispering of love, swearing there'd be no others. He could never marry this ignoble slave, but he'd sooner slay her than ever give up his bewitching CHEYENNE CAPTIVE.

Release date: May 16, 2014

Publisher: Heartfire

Print pages: 496

Sample

September, 1858

Summer Priscilla Van Schuyler had never given a thought to the possibility of being raped and murdered by a band of renegade-Indians. With all her other problems, Indians were the last thing on her mind as she fled down the dark street to board the 3:30 A.M. stage out of Fort Smith.

The bearded driver eyed her with suspicion as he took her small bag. “You all alone, miss?”

“Well, yes.” She avoided his dark eyes with her pale blue ones. “I have a job to get to in San Francisco,” she lied lamely. That city seemed like a safe destination because of its distance. All she’d managed to grab was one small bag, forgetting even her corset in her headlong flight from the hotel.

The driver said nothing more as he loaded her bag and helped her into the coach, but she felt his eyes taking in the cheap red dress that clung revealingly to her tiny waist and full bosom. Her face flamed as she settled herself. She was glad now she had traded clothes with the dance-hall girl. Her own blue silk, Parisian-made gown would have brought her too much notice and too many questions. Wealthy girls of good family did not travel alone.

Overhead, she heard the driver climb up beside the guard and crack his whip. Summer heaved a sigh of relief as the Butterfield Overland lurched away. With any luck, she would be miles away before her maid awakened back at the hotel.

There was only one other passenger, a fat man snoring loudly, his doughy hands clasped across his plaid vest. He reeked of cheap, barbershop hair tonic. Finally, Summer dozed off, too, as the stage swayed rhythmically and the hours passed as they headed southwest across the corner of the Indian Territory.

She was startled awake by the sudden speed of the coach and the driver’s shout, “Indians! Indians!”

The guard leaned down to shout in the window, his gray hair blowing in the wind. “We’re being attacked! Cheyennes!”

Summer crashed to the floor as the coach raced forward, the driver cracking his whip to urge the snorting horses on. Choking on the swirling dust, she leaned out the window to peer behind the stage. The east gave an agonizingly slow and bloody birth to dawn, barely outlining a half dozen whooping Indians on paint ponies a few hundred yards behind.

The fat little man stared out his window. “It’s Cheyennes, by God! And they’re gainin’ on us!”

She clamped her soft hands over her mouth for a moment, willing herself not to panic. Torn between excitement and terror, she watched sweat bead on the man’s upper lip, his hands tremble as he dug in his valise.

“Lucky I still got my old Colt dragoon from my army days!” He cocked the big pistol and commenced firing out the window.

Summer vowed she would not give way to hysteria as she gripped the seat with white knuckles. The roar of the pistol and the guns above her set her ears ringing, and the interior reeked with the smell of gunpowder and the fat man’s sweat.

The coach bounced wildly, and she felt her hairpins loosen in the chignon of long blond locks that now cascaded down her slender neck.

A scream of agony, and the guard fell from the top of the stage, falling past her window and into the dust of the road behind them.

Summer never knew what happened next—maybe they hit a rock in the road, or maybe an arrow brought down one of the team horses, but the coach lurched abruptly. Everything was topsy-turvy, turning over and over in a swirl of cheap red satin and white crinoline petticoats. She lay where she fell a long moment, uncomprehending, the horsehair cushion harsh against her creamy cheek.

Dazed, she crawled across the plaid vest of the hapless fat man. His dead eyes stared in a last, surprised look at the doorpost, which had given him a fatal blow across the forehead. Blood ran scarlet down the pasty skin.

The coach wheels still whirled and creaked as she crawled out of the wreckage into the September chill. The stage horses, broken free, stood trembling and lathered under a nearby blackjack oak. Shouts and hoofbeats warned her the savages were almost upon her.

Looking around for the stage driver, she found him, three arrows sticking at odd angles from his back.

She promised herself that she wouldn’t cry and she wouldn’t faint as tears threatened to overflow her big eyes. With teeth clenched to stop her lips from trembling, she crawled back into the overturned stage, wrenching the pistol from the dead man’s fingers. Fear tasted like bitter metal to her mouth, and she gagged on the sweetish smell of blood. Oh, how she wished now that proper young society ladies were taught to shoot instead of-waltzing and speaking French.

Hiding behind the wrecked door, she watched the Cheyennes joking and laughing as they fanned out and crawled toward the stage to finish off any survivors. If she could only hold them off for a little while, the stage would be overdue at the next stop, and a search party might be sent out. And back at Fort Smith, Mrs. O’Malley had surely recovered from the sherry and would send help for her missing charge. But the maid didn’t know she was on this stage, wouldn’t know where to look, Summer remembered with a sinking heart. Anyway, she couldn’t hold the savages off ten minutes, she realized, checking the Colt’s chambers. She only had one shot left.

Frantically, she dug into the dead man’s valise, hoping to find more ammunition. There was none. Should she use the last bullet on herself? She recalled the story in the Boston Journal, hinting at the terrible things Indians did to white women.

No, she decided, lifting her chin in that stubborn way of hers, she was going to get one more of those murdering savages and the devil take the hindmost!

Overhead, the sky clouded and a drop of rain plunked on the coach. Encouraged by the lack of movement from the wreckage, the Indians stood and moved toward her. Why, they’re drunk! she realized, trying to cock the pistol at the nearest swaying figure.

She steadied the barrel against the window edge to stop her own trembling and pulled the trigger. The recoil threw her across the floor, and her ears rang. But over the roar, she heard the unmistakable howl of a wounded man, and peeked to see a dirty, pock-marked savage clutching his arm and dodging behind a boulder.

Darn! She had only creased him. Why was it acceptable for a proper Boston girl to learn to ride but not to shoot? Regretfully, she reached up to touch the tiny miniature of her mother hanging from a fine gold neck, chain. She had been too sentimental last night to part with it when she had sold her other jewelry to pay her passage. Well, she’d see those bloodthirsty savages didn’t get it! Summer jerked at it, breaking the delicate chain as she did so, tucking it carefully under one of the seat cushions.

Then, resolutely, she gripped the big Colt by its barrel, wondering just how much damage she could do with a gun butt before it was twisted from her hands and her skull cleaved by a tomahawk. She intended to go down fighting. Not for her the weepy hysterics and the begging for mercy! Some of the bluest blood in Massachusetts might flow in her veins, but somewhere in her past was a tempestuous vixen, coming through now, ready to claw and fight.

She could hear the braves rustling in the weeds just a few feet away. She held her breath, waiting, not wanting to give away her position, but knowing they must hear her heart hammering.

Any minute now, they would realize that her gun was empty when no more shots were forthcoming. Summer wondered for a split second if it would hurt as she died, and almost regretted that she had not obeyed her father.

The pock-marked one she had creased with her last bullet was at the end of the coach now. He was close enough for her to see the red paint smeared on his dirty face. She waited, gripping the pistol barrel with clammy fingers.

And then he exploded up out of the grass, jerked open the door and grappled with Summer.

“How dare you!” she screamed in fury. “How dare you attack a Van Schuyler! I’m not afraid! Do you hear? Not afraid!”

He seemed momentarily stunned both by her furious anger and her attack as she beat him about the face with the gun butt. Then she screamed in pain as his knife flashed, slashing her arm, and she dropped the gun.

Dizzy, she staggered as she fought him and smelled the rancid stink of him. His hands were like iron bands on her small wrists as she struggled, and then his arms went around her narrow waist, lifting her clear of the wreckage and carrying her out on the open prairie.

“You pay, white whore!” he said in broken English. “You pay now for everything!”

“Let go of me!” she shrieked, struggling. “Let go of me!”

But his brute strength overpowered her, and he dragged her out on the grass. The others ran out of the brush, dancing about, laughing and pointing at her. It must be high humor, she thought, to have been held at bay by a mere slip of a girl with an empty gun.

“You pay now, white woman!” her captor said again. “You pay for making Angry Wolf look the fool to his men! Tonight your mane of gold hair hangs from my lodge pole!”

Weakly, Summer struggled as he pulled her closer to him. The others yelped and danced about, helping themselves to trinkets, money from the strongbox, the coach horses. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a knife flash over the fallen driver and willed herself not to faint as the culprit waved the scalp for the approval of the others. Then, satisfied with their loot, the pack gathered around Angry Wolf and his captive. They chortled and poked at her as they swayed drunkenly, seemingly excited over what was about to happen. Now they fell silent, like hungry wolves waiting to tear apart one small rabbit.

Angry Wolf jerked Summer hard against him. Her breasts ached from the hard pressure of his chest and she could feel the heat of his hands through the back of her flimsy crimson dress. His eyes gleamed moist with eagerness, and now his hot mouth was on hers, forcing her lips open, cutting off her screams. Summer gagged on the whiskey taste of his mouth and closed her eyes against the lust in the circling faces. The Indian twisted his hands in her blond curls, trying to force her to the ground.

Struggling, she attempted to run. But as she broke away from him, his fingers caught the low-cut bodice of the red dress, jerking her around. The fabric gave way, ripping almost to the waist, exposing her full, perfect breasts.

The pack set off a howl of approval, stamping their feet, eager now for their turn at the captive. She pulled her tattered bodice together, backing away slowly. It was impossible not to see the hunger in the drunken eyes as they devoured the image of the rose-tipped mounds. Angry Wolf’s chest heaved, and he licked his thin lips. His eyes never left her breasts and his manhood was very apparent under the skimpy loincloth.

“Now, white bitch,” he breathed heavily, “we will teach you what you were born for and use you like a dog pack does a bitch in heat, again and again!”

He fingered the knife in his beaded belt and moved toward her stealthily. “And when we have had enough of your body, we will enjoy you in other ways, taking a very long time to finish you, making you beg for death!”

The others shouted approval at his words. “Tell her, Angry Wolf, tell her what we will do to her pale body with fire and blade! But let us get on with the sharing of her!”

Desperately, Summer backed away, but the pock-marked one grabbed her, lifting her completely off the ground as he buried his face greedily in her breasts. He swore angry Cheyenne curses as her nails raked his face and tore at his beaded shirt. He wrapped one leg around her long, slender ones and tripped her, falling heavily on her as they went to the grass. His mouth cut into hers brutally, and he struggled to jerk her dress up, forcing himself between her thighs.

Abruptly, she was aware of three riders charging into the confusion and her attacker being jerked away from her, thrown to his feet, and he stumbled backward. She raised weakly on one elbow, modestly pulling at her torn clothing and watching as her big Indian rescuer engaged in a hot argument with the one called Angry Wolf.

The three new Indians were obviously sober and wore no paint. Perhaps they had been hunting in the area, because two rabbits hung from the leader’s Appaloosa stallion. She wondered if this were a prearranged meeting place or if the three had been drawn to the scene by shots or Summer’s screams. The two men shouted at each other angrily, and there was much pushing and gesturing.

She studied her rescuer, thrilling in spite of herself at the knowledge that these two stallions clashed because of her.

The new Indian was much larger than the others, and not as dark. It dawned on her that he had white blood, for although he dressed like the others in beaded buckskin, his skin was lighter bronze.

His ebony hair pulled to a braid over his left ear, the right shone with an earring, a large gold coin. Scars showed in the neck of his open shirt and powerful muscles rippled as he gestured. Around his neck, he wore a small white object on a thong and a big knife with a bone handle hung from his belt.

He spoke with authority, gesturing in fury toward the overturned stage, and the others hung their heads and backed away. His two friends sat their horses like stone sentinels, seemingly awaiting his orders. Only Angry Wolf seemed defiant now. The others sobered and ducked their heads like small boys caught in mischief by three older brothers.

The tall one was handsome in a savage way, Summer thought, although his face was weathered and his nose broken. She had no idea how old he might be, but he was certainly much more than Summer’s eighteen years.

Thunder echoed in the distance, and a drop of cool rain fell on her bruised lips—then, another.

Angry Wolf spoke in English this time, leering wickedly at her, and she knew he wanted her to hear. “This white squaw is worth nothing, my brother Dog Soldier, only a small plaything for men to enjoy!”

“You, Iron Knife,” he gestured to the big man, “you and your cousins forget the Treaty and this worthless peace and share along with us! We will give you some of the loot we have taken from the stage and you, too, may lie on this woman’s silken belly. When at last we grow tired of her, we will cut her throat with a tiny slash, and watch her writhe as her life bubbles out into the dust! Then we will leave arrows and other things from our hated enemies, the Crow and the Pawnee so the soldiers will chase them!” He fingered the hilt of his knife. “It will be a good joke!”

His fellows nodded approval, but Iron Knife shook his head and barked orders in Cheyenne. The others fell back, but not Angry Wolf. His enraged face showed he had no intention of giving up this tasty morsel before he had tasted it. He exclaimed angrily and pushed the half-breed with his open hand. The other pushed back. Summer clutched the shreds of her dress against the rain as she slowly stood up and watched the shoving turn into a full fight.

They wrestled, grunting from the exertion as they went to the ground, and the others urged them on. Even the two sentinels came off their ponies to watch the fight. The struggle was as old as time and Summer tingled with excitement in spite of herself, knowing as females always do that this battle was for possession of her body.

Whoever won would do as he wished with her, and she would have no say in the matter. There was something primitive unfolding before her, something that frightened her civilized soul, yet made her blood race.

Furtively, she glanced around. The men were all intently watching the fight, ignoring her completely. The ponies strayed across the prairie, munching grass while their rawhide bridles dragged behind them. A red and white pinto caught her eye a few hundred feet to one side. If she could reach that pony, there was a forest on the other side of the rise that she might lose herself in.

She took a slow step sideways, then another. As she moved, she waited for the braves to notice, but they were too intent on the struggle. The time was now!

She whirled, jerked up her crinoline petticoats and fled in a dead run across the buffalo grass. She was going to make it! Her heart pounded in her dry throat as she ran, knowing from the sounds behind her that she had not yet been missed. She lost one of her tiny, expensive shoes as she ran, and burrs and stones tore her small feet, but she paid no heed and kept running. Her crinolines impeded her long legs, yet she ran on.

Behind her, the sudden hue and cry told her she had been missed. Confusion and shots rang out, though she did not stop or look back. The startled pony jerked up, snorting. She wrapped her fingers in his mane and tried to mount. The pony reared in confusion, tossing her to the ground in a heap of torn petticoats.

And then they surrounded her. The big Appaloosa thundered by, and a strong arm reached out and swept her from the ground. She found herself gasping for breath against the big, scarred chest of Iron Knife. He cradled her effortlessly in his arms while the snorting stallion pranced. The horse’s lunge threw her naked breasts against his buckskin shirt. She tried to recoil from the heat of his body, but he held her tightly.

“Don’t fight me, Little One.” He spoke perfect English, smiling with white, even teeth. “Don’t you know Indian ponies mount from the right side? That’s why he threw you!”

He looked deep into her eyes. “I have fought Angry Wolf and won you. Now, you are mine to do with as I please!”

Summer’s mouth fell open. “You speak English and you have white blood!”

He smiled wryly at her. “My mother was stolen from a wagon train, and I spent five years in the white man’s schools when we were recaptured by the Bluecoats!”

“You will help me?” she asked hopefully, “because I am white, like your mother—”

“I am Cheyenne like my father,” he declared firmly, grasping her waist, “and I will treat you as a spoil of war, a prize from a raid!”

She knew she was no match for him, but she fought bravely anyway as the horse danced around and the other warriors laughed and hooted. Rain fell in a fine mist as the brave held both her small wrists in one big hand and reached for a rawhide thong to tie her hands behind her.

Completely helpless now, she could only lean against him while the stallion’s lunging threw her soft breasts again and again against his hard chest. She was both humiliated and terrified as he took his buffalo robe and wrapped it about his wide shoulders, enclosing her in its warm folds. He shouted an order, and the group moved out.

His hands felt like fire on her bare skin under the robe, and she struggled weakly but was helpless to resist his exploring fingers with her hands tied behind her.

“Be still, woman!” he whispered. “A man may rightly feel that which belongs to him!”

She tried to spit at him and he cuffed her across the face, but very gently. Even she could see he was holding back the force of tense, powerful muscles.

He smiled down at her. “Soon I will make better use of that soft mouth,” he chided, holding her firmly as the horse broke into a canter.

Trembling, Summer felt the heat and the hardness of every inch of his brown body as he pulled her tighter against him, and the mist became a steady downpour. He covered her face with the robe, and she was warm against his great chest. Hours passed, and her weariness and her wound made her doze in spite of herself.

It was near dusk when the band rode into an Indian camp. No one came out of the tepees in the rain, and the riders scattered, her own captor dismounting in front of a large tepee painted with dragonflies. Swinging her lightly from the pony, he carried her inside and dumped her unceremoniously on the floor while he knelt to build a fire in the fire pit. Finally he faced her, studying her heaving, naked breasts. Rain had soaked both their clothes as he’d brought her from the horse to the tepee. Summer struggled against her bonds, but she was helpless and she knew it. She tried to cry out, but his hand covered her mouth, muffling the sound. She paused and the hand moved slowly across her cheek, down her slender throat, and brushed oh so gently across one rose nipple. Her pulse raced unexpectedly. Her whole sexual experience consisted of one or two chaste kisses behind the palms at the annual Debutante’s Ball. Her eyes held his, and it was he who looked away, pulled the big knife from his belt.

“Please don’t kill me,” she asked simply, knowing she couldn’t stop him. He paused, the firelight gleaming on the blade.

“I will never hurt you, Little One,” he promised with a shake of his head, “nor will anyone, as long as I draw breath.” He reached, and with one lightning move, cut the bonds that bound her wrists behind her.

Summer crouched, ready to run past him.

“Not so fast, my frightened little deer,” he said, smiling. “Now, you are going to repay me for saving you from having your throat cut. And I expect you to be very, very grateful!”

“You said you wouldn’t hurt me!” she cried.

He shrugged. “What’s one more man to a saloon girl? Do you think I do not recognize what you are? I said I wouldn’t hurt you, I didn’t say I wouldn’t love you!”

Terrified, Summer stared up at him, knowing he was about to take her virginity.

Hungrily, Iron Knife stared back at the half-naked blonde poised for flight in the middle of the tepee. Almost twenty-five winters had he seen, and in all those years never had he desired a woman so much as this one.

She shivered in her wet, gaudy dress and the movement brought him back to reality.

“I will get you dry clothes,” he grunted, suddenly uncertain. It had been a long, long time since he had lain with a white woman. That red-headed whore had worn a scarlet dress, too.

The girl bristled, and her chin came up stubbornly. “I demand to see whoever is in charge! My name is Summer Priscilla Van Schuyler of the Boston Van Schuylers, and I demand to be returned to Fort Smith at once!”

Iron Knife smiled incredulously as he wiped the rain from his weathered face. What spirit she had, this Little One! Here she was, a helpless captive, miles from her own kind and within minutes of being mated, and she was making demands!

“Summer,” he murmured, “a good name for one with hair the color of the white man’s ripe wheat, eyes the color of Hiriutsiishi skies, the hot month you call July.”

Memories came flooding back of the five years in a small Texas village. “I shall call you Summer Sky,” he announced dramatically, touching his own broad chest. “And I am Iron Knife, son of War Bonnet, once a great chief of our people.”

“Then I demand to see this War Bonnet!” She tossed her mane of golden hair. “Maybe he has enough sense to know you just can’t pull a Van Schuyler off a stage and get away with it! Why, Father will have Senator Wilson and half of President Buchanan’s cabinet out looking for me!”

“My father is dead.” He shook his head regretfully. “Killed by the hated Pawnee when I was a youth. And you, you will demand nothing!”

He grasped her shoulder roughly. “The council will no doubt meet tomorrow night to decide this issue. Until then, you are mine!”

She jerked from his grasp and he saw a flicker of fear in her blue eyes, replaced quickly by haughty anger. “Don’t touch me.

He shrugged. It would be a long, cool night and he had much experience with women. Before morning, he would have her gasping beneath him, digging her nails into his whip-scarred back. Her protests were lies. She could not be a virtuous woman, traveling alone, wearing that sensuous dress. He had spent five years with the Whites before his mother died, and he knew their customs. This Little One was either a whore or a dance-hall girl. The thought brought back a half-repressed memory of that other time and place, and the red weals on his back seemed to burn again as they had when he was but a boy of thirteen....

“I will get you some dry clothes,” he said again, abruptly banishing the memory as his hand reached up to touch his broken nose. The mob of white men would have killed him, he thought, had it not been for his brave mother holding them at bay with her shotgun....

“Do not try to run, little Summer,” he admonished from the tepee entry, “you are many miles from this place called Fort Smith, and deep inside the Indian Territory. It is rainy and almost dark outside, and no one here would help you, knowing you belong to me!”

He stepped outside and paused a moment, listening. The rain had stopped, and dusk spread over the camp. The camp crier rode around the circle of tepees, telling the news of the stage coach raid, the white captive. He called the men to Council tomorrow night to discuss this. Iron Knife yawned and sniffed the fresh, wet smells of the rain. The Cheyenne were far south and east of their usual track this year. They followed the great herds of buffalo that seemed fewer each season as the white man moved deeper and deeper into the Great Plains that the Cheyennes had roamed for generations. The ten great tribes of the Tsistsistas scattered farther and farther, dependent on much meat. But with the buffalo fewer, the warriors were raiding into eastern Indian territory to steal the fat cows and horses of the Five Civilized Tribes.

The camp was quiet now at dusk, the tepees arranged in a great, orderly circle, each opening facing to the east. In the inner circle of the Dog Soldiers’ lodges, he heard casual talk and laughter. Somewhere, a dog barked. Roasting meat smells drifted from his uncle’s lodge as he entered and nodded silently to his cousins, Two Arrows and Lance Bearer, who had stood ready to back him in the fight with Angry Wolf.

He addressed the plump wife of his father’s brother. “Pony Woman, I have need of a dress and some very small moccasins and food.” He gestured toward the cook pot that simmered over the fire pit. “When will my uncle be returning to camp from the Chiefs’ Council?”

“In the morning.” Pony Woman rushed to get the things he had requested. “Do you need medicine, too? Is the woman hurt?”

“Yes.” He nodded. “Angry Wolf cut a small place on her arm. It is good you think of this.”

She gathered up the things from her parfleche bag, and he took them and returned to his tepee.

The blond girl had collapsed in a heap on the floor, but she struggled to her feet as he entered and again tried to pull the frayed cloth over her creamy breasts.

“Here, put this on,” he ordered, holding out the buckskin dress as he set the small pot of broth by the fire.

She took the dress, hesitated. Then her little chin went up stubbornly. “Please step outside while I change.”

He considered a moment, torn between admiration for her spirit and amazement at her arrogance. For a dance-hall girl, she seemed terribly spoiled and used to ordering people around.

“I will not step out,” he decided, sitting down cross-legged. “The whole camp would laugh when they heard of Iron Knife’s being ordered about. He shook his head. “No, I want to see what it is that I risked my life for this morning, whether what I have won is worth almost killing a fellow Dog Soldier for.”

“Then I’ll wear this wet dress all night!” Her eyes flashed, although he could see she was weary, and her arm was smeared with dried blood.

“You are my woman,” he announced flatly, “and you will put on these dry clothes before you become sick. Do you want me to pull those wet things from your body?” He half rose from the floor, and she stepped backward, tears filling her eyes and dripping down the long lashes.

Iron Knife softened, remembering his own mother, Texanna, so much like this woman. But his hunger was stronger than his pity. Summer was his to enjoy, at least until the Council made another decision. With such a body as her soft curves hinted at, why should she be hesitant to let him gaze upon it? No doubt many white men had seen her nakedness, and she would not deny him because he was an Indian.

She looked at him a long, searching moment, then turned her back to him and began to change. The flickering shadows half hid, half revealed her loveliness as the torn dress and petticoats fell in a heap at her feet, and she pulled the buckskin dress over her head.

Iron Knife stared in wonderment. Even in the dim light, he was struck by the pale smoothness of her skin, the blond hair hanging almost to her slim hips. He watched the fine legs, the curve of her soft, full breasts. His sudden intake of breath caused her to jerk the dress down to her thighs, and she whirled to face him.

“Are you satisfied?” she asked defiantly, and stepped out of the crumpled red dress.

“I am more than satisfied,” he murmured, abruptly aware of his manhood under the skimpy loincloth. Slowly, he got to his feet, his dark eyes never leaving her pale blue ones.

“For such a prize, a man might be willing to kill a dozen brave warriors, even though he would be exiled by his people. Now I finally know what it was that made my father love a white girl, why no one else could ever replace her in his heart.”

He pulled his own wet buckskin shirt off, hung it by the fire, revealing to her for the first time the two big scars on his chest from the ordeal of “hanging from the pole” that his Sioux brothers called the sun dance and his people called the Medicine Lodge ceremony. He half turn