Lakota Flower

Book 3: Lakota Winds

by Janelle Taylor

Genres: Action & Adventure Romance; Historical Romance

Synopsis

Transporting her readers to the Badlands of the Dakotas in 1858, New York Times bestselling author Janelle Taylor concludes her Native American epic with the tale of a warrior willing to accept his bloody destiny--but struggling with his desire for a forbidden woman. . . Lakota Flower Threatened by the ever-encroaching Bluecoats, the Oglala Lakotas must strike hard and fast to ensure their tribe's survival. With the cunning and bravery befitting a chief's son, War Eagle leads his hunting party on a raid, killing many soldiers and taking a white woman captive. Caroline Sims has hair as bright as the sun and the courage of a wildcat, sparking a forbidden attraction in the fierce warrior. In a land where danger lurks in every shadow and peace often comes at a deadly price, War Eagle and Caroline find themselves locked in a passionate battle for their lives--and their love. . .

Release date: October 24, 2011

Publisher: Zebra Books

Print pages: 392

Sample

With his dark eyes narrowed, War Eagle lowered the field glasses his older brother’s wife had given him many seasons past during other difficult and dangerous times. He studied the troubling scene that was taking place not far beyond his concealed position near his best friends: Swift Otter, River’s Edge, Bent Bow, and Broken Lance, who was also the son of his father’s sister. While the rest of their hunting party was busy elsewhere, they had been scouting the buffalo herd’s size and movements when he sighted the grave intrusion. They had hidden their horses behind a hill, climbed it, and lain on their stomachs, checking out the situation. He glanced to his right, then to his left, all faces turned toward him with expectant expressions, for he was their chief’s son, their shaman’s grandson, and today’s leader.

He took in a deep breath and slowly released it. He almost wished this awesome decision would not be thrust upon him, but there was only one path he could ride. He whispered, “We must gather the other hunters and attack, my friends. We cannot allow them and their weapons to reach the other soldiers. If they do, their numbers and powers will soon be too large for us to defeat.”

“What of the bluecoats’ treaty with the Oglalas and others?”

For a brief time, War Eagle thought about the deceitful Long Meadows Treaty that had been forced upon the Indians—ally and enemy tribes alike—near Fort Laramie in what the white man called 1851. “If the bluecoat leaders truly wanted peace with us, Broken Lance, they would not be sending more soldiers and big thundersticks into our lands. Do not forget what my second brother learned when he last rode to the forts called Laramie and Kearny. Cloud Chaser was told they had sent for their great war chief named Harney to come and punish all Lakotas for the death of Grattan and his bluecoats and for the daring raids carried out by Spotted Tail and Little Thunder. Did we not strike our winter camp early and come to the grasslands to be ready to hunt the buffalo as soon as the great herds gathered? We hurry to hunt and prepare our meat and hides so we can return to the sacred Black Hills to ready ourselves to meet Harney’s challenge, for a bloody conflict is stalking us. Many soldiers come from far away and send powerful thundersticks to destroy us and steal our lands. Already their forts almost surround our territory. They seek to slay us as Grattan tried to do at the camps of our Brule brothers Little Thunder and Spotted Tail before the last hot season was gone.”

“Should we ride to camp to ask our council if we can attack them?”

War Eagle knew the main camp was nearly a day’s ride away on the White River near the Badlands, which would make another day’s ride back to the soldiers’ position. He looked at the son of their war chief, Blue Owl, and explained his reasoning. “If we did so, Bent Bow, they would be out of our reach before we returned or others could have joined them, and we would be forced to battle them on another sun when their number might be larger than ours.” Only a few more hunts, and the drying and storing of the meat remained to be done before their return to the sacred hills to ready themselves to face an unknown destiny, but trouble had come before the completion of their seasonal tasks. “I make this choice for the safety and survival of our people and allies. If it is wrong, I will offer myself up to be punished for it, even at the risk of banishment or death. The bluecoats will be slain fast and with mercy; we do not seek to torture them for the false words and bad actions of their leaders.”

He took another breath. “A white woman rides with them,” he said. “She must not be harmed, for that is not our way; I will take her captive. Do you agree with me, my friends?”

The warriors nodded. The youngest son of Chief Rising Bear of the Red Shield Oglalas told them, “We must set a cunning trap, my friends, and destroy this dark threat before it can join with other evil forces and destroy us. Come, let us gather the others and prepare to attack, for our hunting party must become a war party to save our lands and people.”

War Eagle observed the steady approach of the unsuspecting enemy; he had guessed their path of travel. The men and wagons would pass along the flat area between the grassy hills behind which his large band was scattered out and concealed. When their targets reached an entrapping point, the attack began. Without delay or error, the warriors swarmed from hiding and swooped down, sending forth a flight of arrows. To catch the soldiers by stunning surprise, no whoops were shouted to alert them to their imminent peril. Arrows thudded into bodies; men fell from their saddles. Only a few of the blue-clad foes were able to seize their weapons and fire them, their hasty and desperate shots missing their attackers. Two who whirled their mounts and tried to flee found it impossible and were quickly slain. When three soldiers attempted to charge the braves blocking the terrain ahead, they were met head-on by warriors who could shoot multiple arrows before they could get off a single blast.

War Eagle had ridden straight for the group’s leader, closing the distance between them fast. The officer no doubt realized he was in command of the assault, and he accepted the unspoken challenge. Lacking time to pull a long thunderstick from its leather pouch and prepare to discharge it, the captain withdrew a saber, waved the shiny blade above his head, and shouted profanities. War Eagle ignored the man’s courage as he nocked and released two arrows with amazing speed and accuracy. He saw the officer’s chest accept the sharp tips, the man’s shoulders jerk in pain, and his body give way to death, slumping forward and then plunging to the ground. Without hesitation, War Eagle galloped toward his next unfortunate enemy; he could not give a foe—however worthy—a fighting chance at survival…

Caroline Sims watched the one-sided battle in rising fear as soldiers clashed with bronze-bodied men clad in loincloths and moccasins, their black hair whipped about in the wind. It was as if they were demons who had been spewed forth without warning from the bowels of the earth, or perhaps from hell itself. Her ears were filled with mingled sounds of shouts and curses, gunfire, the whinnying of startled horses and the thundering of unshod hooves and iron shoes. She saw dust and broken grass flung wildly into the air, and feather-tipped shafts swishing lethally across its unseen currents. When she turned westward on the hard seat, the sun—two hours past noon—almost blinded her and made her squint as she tried to take in the terrifying scene. Tension added to the sweltering heat; her mouth and throat felt dry, but that wasn’t the reason she did not faint or scream in terror. It seemed that she was trapped in a nightmare and could not move.

The driver of her wagon had been killed and had fallen to the ground shortly before the team halted its movement. As her anxious gaze darted in all directions, she realized there was no place to flee and hide, as Indians surrounded her. There was no weapon within her reach. Even if a rifle had been nearby, no doubt she would be slain before she could ready it to fire, and attempting to do so might imperil her still more. The harness ribbons had fallen to the ground between the wagon and the last two mules, so she could not seize them and send the team into a swift run from danger. In fact, she was fortunate the animals had not bolted and possibly crashed the wagon and injured or killed her.

Caroline recalled a trapper at the fort saying that Indians respected “grit and good sense,” so it was best if she faced her fate revealing those traits, and maybe doing so would earn her her survival, though she doubted it. She gripped her deceased parents’ Bible, which she had been holding and pretending to read during the long journey, a trick to remind the lonely and lusty soldiers that she was a lady and to imply that God would punish them if they accosted her in a crude or physical manner. As her tension increased and the early August sunshine beamed on her with unmerciful blazing rays, she climbed down from the wooden seat and leaned against the covered wagon to find shade and a cooler temperature. She ordered herself not to panic and to keep her head clear for what lay ahead. God, help me, for I do not know what to do or how to behave under these grim circumstances.

War Eagle guided his horse to where the young woman was standing near one of the three wagons. He was amazed she was not yelling or crying. She made no attempt to flee or to use a weapon against him or to run at him with balled fists to strike him. She clutched to her heart what he knew, from his half-white brother, to be a Bible. Her head was lowered and her eyes were closed as he heard her softly murmuring a prayer. No doubt she had heard his approach, but his presence did not halt her action. He could not see her face and expression, as the wide band of her head cover and her lower chin prevented it. He dismounted and stood before her, admiring the hair, yellow like the sun, which flowed over her shoulders. Her stance was straight; the top of her head came to his chin. Surely she was no heavier than a small doe. He noticed the way her chest rose and fell with her rapid breaths, exposing her fear, though blended with courage. Since he began each day and event with prayer, he did not intrude on her communion with her Creator. He always asked the Great Spirit for guidance and protection in all things and his existence revolved around his beliefs. He assumed it was the same for her, so he waited for her to finish.

Caroline was aware that someone was standing before her. She was confused by his silence and dreaded a confrontation. She was afraid that if she looked up at him, she would be staring into the face of the devil or pure evil. She had left Fort Pierre almost six days ago, so she was certain no rescue party was approaching. She had been told they were to cross the White River and grasslands, skirt west of the Sand Hills, reach the North Platte River Road, and travel southeast to Fort Kearny where her brother had been reassigned during her journey from the South to the Nebraska Territory.

Now, she would never see David again; and her death, added to those of their parents, would pain him deeply and he would blame himself for sending for her. What if, the horrible thought entered her mind, David’s troop also had been ambushed and slain, perhaps by this same ferocious band? What if her beloved brother was …

No, she must not think such heartrending thoughts! Without lifting her head, she opened her eyes and saw feet clad in moccasins, long and firm legs, a loincloth, dark skin at the hips, strong-looking hands resting at his upper thighs, and a narrow waist where a beaded belt held a pouch and a knife in a sheath near a flat stomach.

Although he was not holding a weapon, her heart pounded and she assumed death was imminent. She swallowed with difficulty and forced out the words, “I am ready to die now; I have made my peace with God.”

When the man did not speak or move, she slowly lifted her gaze. It traveled up a bare chest with two scars, passed muscular arms and broad shoulders, and halted on his face to find him staring at her with eyes so dark brown they appeared almost black like his long hair, or as ebony as the two slashes painted across his cheekbones. She was astonished by two things: his alert gaze—though unreadable—was not cold and hard, and he was handsome, very handsome. Unable to help herself, she matched his stare.

When Caroline realized her breathing had increased its pace, her cheeks felt hot and itchy. She looked away and saw Indians recovering their arrows and gathering soldiers’ bodies and horses. She also noticed that none of the warriors were scalping, robbing, or mutilating their victims. The man near her made no attempt to attack or kill her, but she moistened her lips and—to learn her fate—asked, “Why do you hesitate? I am unarmed and there is no escape. Slay me if that is the evil you have come to do.”

War Eagle noted that her eyes were as blue as the sky, large and clear, and displaying a mixture of emotions. Her lips were the color of pale sunset; her skin, not as white as the clouds. Wind played with the free portions of her hair, blowing it across her beautiful face, then away from it again. Her hair was as long as his sister’s, but had a rolling shape like the grasslands surrounding them, even curly in some places like the buffalo’s cape. Oddly, he yearned to reach out his hand and feel it, but knew that would frighten her even more than she already was, and it was a foolish yearning. He saw the glow on her cheeks, signs of rapid breathing, and her trembling, yet she did not beg for her life or curse him.

“Whites bring evil to our land. We must defeat them before they destroy us. Wanbli no slay enemy women and children. You no die; you come to my camp.”

As she listened, Caroline’s gaze widened. “You speak my language?”

To prepare for the dark times ahead, he had learned and practiced English with his first brother’s wife since their joining during the land’s rebirth time four circles of the seasons ago. Dewdrops had learned it from a trapper who lived with her Brule band, and she had used it to trick and to spy on the whites while riding at Wind Dancer’s side against their foes. He had learned more from his second brother, who had been taught by his captive white mother and by the white couple who had stolen and raised him from eleven winters old until the last hot season when Cloud Chaser returned to them and earned his way back into their lives and band. “I speak white man’s tongue little,” he told her. “It wise to know enemy’s ways and words.”

“But I’m not your enemy, and I didn’t come here to bring evil.”

“You white-skin; white-skins, enemies; make war on us.”

Caroline grasped his matter-of-fact tone and expression. Since her parents’ tragic deaths in Georgia last year, she had learned—sometimes with reluctance and at the hand of a cruel fate—how to take care of herself in difficult circumstances. She knew she must use all of her skills, strength, intelligence, and courage to survive. After considering his words, she replied in a gentle tone, “But I don’t even know you, and you don’t know me. Why do you want to kill an innocent stranger who has not done you any harm? Is … Wanbli your name?”

He nodded. “It mean War Eagle. Son of Rising Bear, chief of Red Shields. We Oglala. Lakota. Dakota. What white-skins call Teton Sioux.”

She had heard the words Oglala, Lakota, Teton, and Sioux from the people at Fort Pierre and from the soldiers before and during their journey from there to Fort Kearny: allegedly fierce warriors who were hated and scorned by her traveling companions, warriors who believed they were “the so-called rulers of this vast domain.” It wasn’t a good sign that he considered all “white-skins” as enemies. Yet, he was talking to her, a mere woman, a foe… Perhaps she could reason her way out of this grave situation, despite the slaughter that surrounded them.

“I’m Caroline Sims,” she began. “I came here to meet my brother at Fort Pierre, but he was sent to Fort Kearny before I arrived. These soldiers were escorting me there. Why did you murder them, and why are you going to capture and harm me?”

War Eagle found himself impressed by her wits and behavior; it was as if she were using three of the Four Virtues that he and his people honored and practiced: Courage, Wisdom, and Fortitude; perhaps she revealed the fourth—Generosity—on other occasions. “You should not come to our land; we at war here,” he told her. “Soon, we ride for my camp.”

“No, I die here or you let me ride back to the fort.” She spoke with false bravado before she could stop the demand from leaving her lips. She watched his body stiffen and his gaze narrow and darken at her words. That was stupid and reckless; now you’ve provoked him to anger!

War Eagle placed his hands on his hips, glared at her, and warned in a stern tone, “You come easy way or hard way; choice yours, woman.”

Caroline studied him for a few minutes, then realized it was foolish to defy him. If she did so, he could become riled and violent, and he could turn her over to his men to be … “I will come with you, War Eagle, but if you try to harm me, I will fight you to the death.”

War Eagle grasped her true meaning—forcing her to his mat—which was not something he would do. “Your choice wise, woman.”

Forcing herself to use a polite and soft tone, she corrected him. “My name is Caroline, not ‘woman,’ War Eagle.”

He touched her shoulder with one hand and said, “You woman.” He touched his chest and said, “I man. Why bad to call you woman?”

With his men working quietly, and with her back pressed against the wagon, his body filling her view, and her mind on matching wits with his, she briefly forgot about the gruesome sight encompassing them. “It’s the bad way you said it, War Eagle.” She lowered her voice and said gruffly, “Woman, like an insult. My name is Caroline.”

He knew the word insult, for he and his people had been ridiculed many times by whites and enemy tribes, and he hated being mocked and belittled even by a foe. For a reason he did not understand, and while being drawn unwillingly to her blue gaze and gentleness, he complied with her softly spoken request. “Ca-ro-line. It hard word to speak.”

“Speak it faster, as one word, not three. Caroline,” she said again with a half smile. Perhaps she could trick him with southern charm!

“Caroline,” he echoed, and watched a full smile capture her mouth and a sparkle like sunshine dancing on water fill her eyes.

“That’s good. Thank you, War Eagle.”

As she smiled again, he surmised she was impressed by him. He scolded himself for being even slightly tempted by her beauty and favorable manner, and for standing there talking with her as if they were friends. He must not allow her to touch his heart and mind in a forbidden way. He summoned a stoic expression and firm tone as he commanded, “No more talk. It wise to be silent; woman not speak orders to man. If you speak or do bad and shame me before others, I punish you; that our way.”

Caroline grasped the sudden change in his mood and the warning tone of his voice. Perhaps, she reasoned in haste, he was embarrassed and alarmed—even vexed—by his brief softening toward her, the “enemy.” Perhaps Indian women were viewed and treated as lowly and servile beings, as in the Arab countries. For certain, something repellent had assailed him. Minutes ago, he was being genial and kind; he had almost grinned and shown a sense of humor during the amusing name incident. Now, he was acting distant, brusque, and intimidating. She cautioned herself to silence, feigned respect and obedience. For now, that behavior seemed wisest, unless he attempted to ravish her; then, she would fight him to the death with her bare hands! She had not lived to the age of nineteen and guarded her chastity so strongly to come there and be ravished and humiliated and permanently entrapped by what the soldiers had called “savages.” Until a moment ago, she had not believed that word described him; now, she wasn’t certain. She hoped that all he wanted was a slave to serve him and his family, just as unfortunate blacks did for their white masters. For now, she must bide her time until she could escape or be rescued…

War Eagle stepped to the rear of the wagon and looked inside. Just as he had expected, the cloud-colored blanket covered a cannon whose fire—he recalled from past experience—roared like thunder during its use; it was a symbol of the white man’s encroachment, greed, and impending plans. The awesome weapon must be destroyed so it could not be used against his people or their allies. He knew the hard object could not be chopped to pieces with stone or even the white man’s iron hatchets, but he could place it where the soldiers could not find it. After today, a least there would be fewer weapons and men to battle them.

He returned to where Caroline awaited him, her head lowered again. “War Eagle tie hands? Yes? No? You be good? Bad?”

When she lifted her head, her gaze revealed sadness and reluctant compliance. He knew he was to blame for the losses of her joy and spirit, but he quelled his strange reaction.

Caroline saw his momentary wince as if he felt guilty about hurting her feelings and intentionally frightening her, yet, she knew he could neither apologize nor explain the motive for his sudden sternness. Perhaps he only had corrected his prior slip toward her and was putting things back in the proper order for their captor/captive relationship before they joined the others for departure. Though she had seen his other side and could not forget it, she knew it was perilous to defy or to befriend him before his band. “I will be good, unless you try to harm me.”

War Eagle was aware of her intense scrutiny. He reasoned that she was thinking over her situation and accepting it. “Get possessions from wagon. We ride for camp.”

Caroline nodded her gratitude and obedience. She climbed aboard the wagon to gather what she could carry easily on a horse, which didn’t include her two travel trunks. She flung them open, grabbed a fabric bag, and stuffed simple clothing and a few of her favorite things inside it: the Sims family Bible, several photographs, and a rag doll her mother had made for her as a child. She didn’t gather frilly dresses and hats or satin slippers or thick petticoats, as they would be unsuitable in her new surroundings and role. She hated to leave her belongings behind, but she could take only so many items with her, and those must be practical ones. She rushed because she didn’t know how much time he would give her to make her choices.

At one point, she glanced back at the cannon that was bolted to the wagon bed. She remembered that he had looked inside, so he knew it was there—a weapon of great power and destruction, and perhaps the reason for his attack. War, she mused, was a costly, cruel, and sacrificial event that men believed they must engage in from time to time, no matter how much suffering and loss their families had to endure. Could she blame him and his people for trying to protect themselves and their lands? She pushed those grave matters aside and returned to her selection task.

When she uncovered the black dress she had worn at her parents’ burial, she clutched the wrinkled garment to her heart, closed her eyes, fought back tears of renewed grief, and took a deep breath. If only they were still alive, and if only that unscrupulous and greedy banker had not snatched away her own and David’s inherited property—home, furnishings, land, stock, even her mother’s best jewelry—to cover a large and alleged overdue loan she could not pay, or if only the grim news had reached her brother in time for him to take an emergency leave to thwart that man’s evil, or if she had accepted William Crawford’s proposal, she would still be in Georgia, safe and free.

Despite her dire straits after her many losses, she could not bring herself to marry William. He was considered by most females to be a good catch, but she did not love or desire him, and she had not believed he would be a good husband or father for her children, regardless of his social status or exceptional looks or charming traits. So she had packed her remaining possessions and left the South to begin a new life in the West with her brother. Now, that chance at a fresh start was also lost to her, unless she could find a way out of this predicament.

Predicament, her mind scoffed, that’s a mild word for the trouble and danger encompassing you!

Caroline realized she could not change the past, and must deal with a difficult present. In a way, she had that same wicked banker to blame for her current crisis; if he had not, due to “a generous heart and nature,” allowed her to keep enough money for her journey, she would not be here today. No doubt the grasping beast had done so to be rid of her as fast as possible before others could learn of his actions and view him in the same dark light in which she did!

Caroline put aside the dark dress and those unsettling thoughts and went back to her task. After it was finished, she replaced the dislodged items and fastened the trunks; why, she did not know. Perhaps it was with the hope that they could be recovered later. She tossed the bulging satchel to the grass and climbed from the wagon, her heart pounding as her unknown fate loomed closer.

War Eagle stood a short distance away, facing her and talking with several of his men whose backs were to her. She assumed he was their leader and was giving them their final orders. She could not prevent herself from staring at him. Strands of ebony hair were tossed about by the prairie wind, as if an enchanted Mother Nature’s fingers were playing with them; the top and side sections of his hair were secured at the back of his head with a leather strip. His features were bold and appealing, accurately proportioned for the size and shape of his face. Even the black slashes on his prominent cheekbones looked sensual on him. He had compelling dark eyes, full lips, and even white teeth. She would guess him to be a little over six feet tall and at the ideal weight for that height, and his age, near hers. His muscular body looked strong and well honed; his flesh, sleek and almost unmarred. She couldn’t guess how much of his skin coloring was due to his Indian heritage or how much was obtained from years spent outside, and now the slowly lowering sun seemed to enhance its dusky shade. When he had stood near her, he had smelled of fresh sweat and animal scents; an odor neither overpowering nor unpleasant. He was the perfect image of a man to be in charge of others and important decisions. He was indeed handsome and virile and no doubt stole the hearts of many females, even if he had a wife and children.

A wife … If one existed, was she being captured to become her slave? If so, how would that woman view and treat her? What would a wife think and feel about her husband bringing another female, a stranger, an enemy, into their abode? From the tepee she had been shown outside Fort Pierre where “friendlies” and “beggars” camped, those hide dwellings had only one room, offering no privacy. At those dismaying thoughts, apprehension filled her. Please, dear Heavenly Father, don’t make this situation any more difficult than it already is.

War Eagle saw Caroline slyly watching him and patiently waiting for him, though he concealed that knowledge from her and his friends. He finished speaking with the others, then rejoined her at the wagon, along with his best friend from camp, Swift Otter, who was also a Sacred Bow Carrier. That small group of men were among the highest-ranked warriors in charge of his people’s protection and the most prominent in battles. He glanced at the fat pouch on the ground, then looked at her. “You ride with War Eagle. Swift Otter carry possessions. Come, we go.”

Caroline watched the warrior pass his weapons to his friend, no doubt to put them out of her reach for his safety; they could be tossed back to him if danger approached. Then, he leapt upon his horse with great agility and extended his left arm to her. She grasped it and found herself hauled up behind him. As she had ridden horses and even a mule since childhood and sometimes double-back with her brother, in one lithe action she had tossed a leg over the horse’s rump and taken her assigned place. She straightened the bottom of her dress, grateful it had a full skirt to aid her movements and to allow her to retain modesty. She slipped her arms around his waist, knowing that was expected and necessary to avoid being thrown off during their ride. She realized how close that made the contact of their bodies and how his bare flesh felt warm and smooth to her palms.

Since much of his height was in his long legs, she could peer over his broad shoulder. She saw his friend mount his own horse with her bag and nod that he was ready to travel. As their journey began, she noticed that three Indians were driving the wagons away; others were leading army horses with soldiers’ bodies strapped across them; the rest of the large group waved to their companions and rode in a different direction.

To keep her wayward thoughts off the man before her and her unknown fate that loomed ahead, Caroline viewed the vast landscape of grassland and rolling hills; in many spots, large buffalo grazed in massive herds that stretched out farther than she could see. It was an awesome sight and distracted her for a while.

Soon, they reached a lovely river and followed its treeand bush-lined banks until it veered southwestward. She, her captor, and Swift Otter continued along the water’s course, but the wagons and bodies were taken onward in a westward direction. The largest number of warriors had not rejoined them, but she didn’t know why. She wondered how far away his camp was, as the hot August sun began to set.

War Eagle glanced to his right and watched part of his band heading onward to Makosica. He knew why they were traveling to the area known by Indians and Whites as the Badlands; some of his party were going to shove the cannons, other weapons, and wagons over its steep bluffs in places where the army could not retrieve them. The soldiers would be buried ?? winding canyons there, their final resting places covered ??cks for concealment. Even if the slain bluecoats were ?? knew arrows with telltale Red Shield markings ?? removed, and would be used again during future ?? or battles. The mules and horses would be released to roam the grasslands, as far away as his men could lead them in the passing of one sun, as it would be perilous to keep those animals in or near their camp. The remainder of his party was running a large herd of buffalo over all wagon and horseshoe tracks so that no revealing trails could be sighted and followed; then, they would return to the big hunt, which had been halted earlier to carry out those tasks.

As for him and Swift Otter, they were returning to the main encampment to relate those deeds to their chief and people, and to leave Caroline there while he and his friend rejoined the hunting party for a few more days. He could not surmise what his father and the council of Big Bellies would say and think about his attack, or what they might do to him for it. Yet, he was certain his oldest brother, Wind Dancer, who was to become their next chief, would have taken the same protective action. As to Caroline, once more he could not guess what the reactions to her would be. Surely they would agree he had no choice but to capture her after the lethal attack on her traveling companions, and he was sure his father and the council would not order her death.

War Eagle felt her soft arms around his waist and the way her body pressed close to his bare back. He could not help wondering what she was thinking and feeling. She must be afraid and worried, maybe plotting an escape or praying for a rescue, though neither would happen, as he would not allow it. He was impressed by her continued display of courage and obedience and was relieved that she did not provoke him to use force on her for defiance.

War Eagle did not have to look back at Caroline to see her face. His mind’s eye could envision it with ease and detail, her coloring so different from his and his people’s. She was beautiful and tempting, just as Cloud Chaser’s white mother must have been to their father long ago during one night of weakness on Rising Bear’s part when the chief was consumed by grief and loneliness over the loss of his beloved mate to the Pawnee. But Winona had been returned to them by the Great Spirit, and Omaste—Margaret Phillips—had been taken by death. If his mother had not escaped her cruel captors many seasons after she was taken by them and was believed to be dead, he and his younger sister would not exist; and perhaps Omaste would still be with their father, tending his two brothers. Would Rising Bear, chief of the Red Shield Oglalas, have made Omaste his wife if Winona had never returned? Somehow War Eagle knew that would never have happened. It had been difficult enough for his father to accept having a half-white son. That had taken place last summer, and only because Cloud Chaser had proven his worth and loyalty to them, proven his Lakota blood was stronger.

Those thoughts compelled War Eagle to ask himself why he hated the whites so fiercely when his father had mated with one, although only once. His second brother was half white, one of his best friends, Red Wolf of the Cheyenne, was half white, and Red Wolf’s mother was all white, as was the girl behind him. It was obvious to him that he did not detest all whites, just most of them, and in particular, the soldiers, their leaders, and greedy hunters and settlers. Perhaps it was easy to accept Cloud Chaser because he almost looked pure-blooded, and Red Wolf did not hint strongly at possessing enemy blood. If more of their race were like those three women, peace would be possible with them. But they were not. They craved all that the Indians possessed, craved their destruction so they might feel safe in stolen lands. War was inevitable.

What about Caroline? What will happen to her in our camp when—not if—war with her people comes?

Rising Bear’s third son did not want his mind to dwell on that oddly troubling thought, so he dismissed it. He glanced at Swift Otter and said in their language, “It grows dark soon, my friend, and we still have a long way to. . .