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The Warrior's Captive Bride
Jenna Kernan


His wife for two moons…?Plagued by a mysterious sickness, Crow warrior Night Storm captures the witch he believes cursed him. But his anticipated revenge dissolves when he realises that beautiful Skylark might be the only one who can provide a cure…Skylark agrees to pose as Night Storm’s wife so she can find a way to heal him. But when unexpected desire flares Sky’s mission changes, and she’ll do everything in her power to find a way to make their arrangement last a lifetime!







His wife for two moons...?

Plagued by a mysterious sickness, Crow warrior Night Storm captures the witch he believes cursed him. But his anticipated revenge dissolves when he realizes that beautiful Skylark might be the only one who can provide a cure...

Skylark agrees to pose as Night Storm’s wife so she can find a way to heal him. But when an unexpected desire flares, Sky’s mission changes and she’ll do everything in her power to find a way to make their arrangement last a lifetime!


“I need a healer. One who can help me and who will keep my secret.”

Her eyes fixed on the warrior.

Storm swallowed and looked at his face. Handsome, hopeful. There was a crease between his dark brows and his full mouth pursed as he stood for her scrutiny.

He looked like many warriors, but somehow he was different because of the way she felt when she looked at him. And there was something else—an important difference between this man and all other men. He knew she was the daughter of Heyokha and a medicine woman and still he wanted her. Not for herself but for what she might do.

Night Storm did not see her as dangerous. Or if he did he was willing to take the risk.


Author Note (#ulink_d584f691-c6e9-5a0b-9b58-1c3c853e9be1)

What a joy it has been to create two sequential historical romances that include Native American heroes and heroines from the Sioux and Crow people. Thank you to all who reviewed my last story, Running Wolf, and who wrote to tell me how much you enjoyed hearing the story of my warrior woman.

This tale is of a woman who wants to be a great healer, like her grandmother, and a man who wants only to regain what he has lost: his ability to fight for his people. For, as anyone who has ever suffered a life-altering injury or accident knows, it is sometimes impossible to return to the life one led before. This is the story of a warrior’s struggle to become what he once was and the healer who believes he can be so much more. As you’ve already suspected, the ride will be rough, the stakes high and the outcome uncertain.

In this story I have blended real medical conditions with the mysticism of the Plains Indian tribes in the 1800s. I hope readers will indulge my blending of science and spirituality and enjoy the adventure of Night Storm and Skylark.

To help you keep time with the Crow people I have added a moon calendar at the back of the story. Each tribe called the moons by different names. This is my interpretation of the appropriate names for the moons in each season.

Happy reading and, as always, enjoy the adventure!


The Warrior’s Captive Bride

Jenna Kernan






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


Award-winning author JENNA KERNAN writes fast-paced Western and paranormal romantic adventures. She has penned over two dozen novels, has received two RITA® nominations, and in 2010 won the Book Buyers’ Best Award for her debut paranormal romance. Jenna loves an adventure. Her hobbies include recreational gold-prospecting, scuba diving and gem-hunting. Follow Jenna on Twitter @jennakernan (https://twitter.com/jennakernan), on Facebook or at jennakernan.com (http://www.jennakernan.com).


For Jim, always.


Contents

Cover (#u29e73d18-f62e-5d3b-9389-fd19236a5055)

Back Cover Text (#u4c1e1096-4188-591b-93ac-fab2ba1d5a3c)

Introduction (#ue58f8016-0d16-5d3f-bfc9-b7c3eebfcb1c)

Author Note (#ulink_31a8a633-54fc-5b71-8820-5cadf9dcdd72)

Title Page (#ud8e8fd7f-d036-56bb-b2c6-fe4308ebbd95)

About the Author (#ue0e1dff4-0574-5b0f-93d6-d4edcdae040b)

Dedication (#ud4cf1c12-4df0-5c9b-9a3c-80d374b05e8a)

Prologue (#u4d100128-6642-5dcb-916a-5cf9640930b4)

Chapter One (#u9034890a-3d21-512a-9fa1-2de34b459df6)

Chapter Two (#uf6f1286b-fe53-5fab-a503-573b6b03b64a)

Chapter Three (#uebca4ff2-b05d-5090-a9d6-77778583ed2c)

Chapter Four (#u535cb538-0fd4-5225-93aa-0ed513333cf1)

Chapter Five (#u6c12a3c9-c6df-51a0-ae06-e41325ef3992)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Six (#litres_trial_promo)

The Moons (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)


Prologue (#ulink_93980654-2e61-57ec-bdff-caca0ffe045b)

Many Flowers Moon

Northern Yellowstone River Valley,

Crow Territory

1859

Night Storm stared down at the young woman standing before his horse and felt his throat go dry.

It was her.

His heart beat as fast as running feet and accelerated again when her eyes met his and she realized she’d been discovered. A glance would tell her that he was not enemy Sioux but one of the Crow people.

She grasped her collecting bag and straightened, her hand going to her skinning knife. What a picture she made, outwardly plain, her clothing drab as the feathers of a female pheasant. But it was not her clothing that appealed. Not even her elaborate moccasins and the ornately quilled sheath for her knife that fell between her full breasts. His little quail’s beauty was more subtle. She did not need feathers and beads. Her dress was not dyed a bright yellow or green or red like so many women he could name. Neither did she sew coins or elks’ teeth to the yoke of her dress. Her hair was long and braided, but she did not dress the braids with fur or trade cloth. In fact she seemed to have secured the ends with green grass. He chuckled at her complete lack of guile.

This one needed none of those adornments to shine. Her beauty came from her face and figure, her grace and poise, and also from her skills.

He knew of no other woman who would ever consider straying on her own so far from her tribe. But when she stood to face him, he did not see fear, just a kind of watchfulness.

“Why are you out here all alone?” he asked.

“I am not alone.”

“No?” He glanced about for some rival. Had she come to this place to meet someone? His teeth locked together.

“I am with you.”

His gaze snapped back to her to find her smiling. “And I am searching for someone else.”

“A lover?”

She flushed. “A heyoka.”

His dog, Frost, whined and then gave a single bark. It had been that bark that had given him away when he had discovered her here alone in the forest. He quieted his dog, who thumped to his seat. He should have left the mutt at camp, but since his accident Frost had been a near constant companion, and in truth he was good company.

“The heyoka. He is your father.”

She did not deny it but her eyes rounded. Was she surprised to discover that he knew this about her? She shouldn’t be. She was the most desirable woman of either the Wind Basin or Low River tribes. But none had offered for her because of her father’s power. It frightened most of the warriors. But he was not like the others. He had a secret he had kept since his vision quest. And his survival in the last battle proved he had powerful magic. Dangerous magic. His injury should have sent him to the spirit road. Why had he lived?

“How do you know my father?”

“I have seen him at the gatherings. And I have seen you.”

He knew she lived with her aunt, uncle and occasionally her father.

A heyoka was a difficult thing to be. And to choose this path was to choose a holy journey. Her father was a wise fool, a contrarian, revealing the people’s follies by demonstrating their foibles. He suspected that her father’s spiritual powers shone in his daughter. That power and wisdom, he needed it to understand his path.

“I could help you look.”

She stared up at this warrior of the Black Lodges people. His hair was black and braided at each temple. The rest fell down his shoulders and back like the mane of his horse. His forelock was cut and his bangs stood stiffly up in the fashion of all Crow warriors. He displayed the record of his accomplishments tied with leather cording in his loose hair, each eagle feather signifying honor earned in battle, in raids and in counting coup against his enemies. About his neck hung his medicine bundle, a string of white glass beads and a copper coin on a leather cord. She looked at the clean line of his collarbone and the smooth brown skin she could see through the opening in his hunting shirt, and felt the urge to touch him.

She had seen him at the gathering of tribes in the Winter Camp Moon. He had caught her eye immediately. But she was not alone in her interest. Many of the unmarried women had made complete fools of themselves as they vied for his attention. But she would not. Though now his steady stare made her skin itch and she resisted the urge to cast him a look of invitation.

She even knew his name. Night Storm. His name had power in it.

His gray dog came forward, bushy tail wagging, and sniffed her offered hand before trotting back to his master.

“We have not been introduced,” he said.

She lifted her chin and wondered if he found her as appealing as she found him.

“I am the daughter of Gathers Quills and Falling Otter. My name is Skylark.”

“I am Night Storm of the Black Lodges people.”

“I know.”

His brow quirked and his smile widened. Her breath caught at the transformation. This steady stare and the curling of his generous mouth made her twitch.

“You do?”

“I saw you at the gathering, as well. It is my honor to meet you, Night Storm.”

“Will you ride with me?”

She knew what he asked. It was not unheard-of. A woman met a man from another tribe. They rendezvoused in secret and one day he took her from her parent’s lodge. When the tribes gathered in the fall, she would return to her people with a new husband from another tribe. But she did not know this man.

Oh, she could see his accomplishments and his strength. But who was he on the inside?

“I do not know you well enough to ride with you.”

“Riding with me is a good way to get to know me better.” His smile coaxed and the glint in his eye enticed. She wanted to accept his offer, but that was not all she wanted. The tingling in her belly told her that. She also wanted a man of her own.

But she shook her head.

“Or, I could help you look for your father.”

She must find her father and get him back to camp, and she could use his help. He had a horse, after all.

“Come,” he coaxed.

He extended his hand and Skylark stared at the broad palm and long, elegant fingers. She was so tempted, but she remained where she was. Once on his horse there was no guarantee that he would help her search. He might just take her to his tribe. And while he was handsome and finely formed, she resisted her longing. She could not deny her desire, but caution still ruled. She ground her teeth together as she considered what to do.

She shook her head.

“I could just take you,” he said.

She weighed her options. None of the warriors of other tribes had offered for her. Her aunt, Winter Moon, said it was because they did not wish a wife who had more power than they did. Yet the man before her was handsome and willing. And he did not seem afraid.

The chance she took was small and mighty all at once. He was strong. She found his face appealing with a blade of a nose and thick arching brows set above deep brown eyes that watched her every move. She admired the clean line of his jaw and how the corners of his mouth lifted under her gaze in an expression of confidence and interest...in her. It was the sort of face she would never grow tired of seeing. Her heart ached just at the sight of him. Was this the longing her aunt had described, the kind she had never felt until she looked upon this man?

But who was he really? Did he have a good heart?

“I am a medicine woman. I do not cook or tan or sew. I would make you a bad wife.”

“You do not need to cook or tan or sew.”

Skylark’s eyes narrowed. What man would wish a woman who did not perform her duties? And then it struck her.

Her mother’s warning came to her as if whispered in her ear. Skylark straightened. He already had someone to do these things.

“You already have a wife?”

His smile flickered and the pause was a little too long. “I have not yet wed.”

Not yet. She narrowed her eyes feeling the half-truth crawling over her skin like a spider. “But you have offered for one?”

“You are too clever for a woman, Skylark. Why do you not come with me? You can meet Beautiful Meadow. You two could be as sisters. She will cook and you will make strong medicines.”

Skylark backed away. She would never be a second wife. Her mother had often told her that a second wife was little better than an enemy slave. She might fare better in the hands of the Sioux than in the lodge of a woman who did not want her there.

“I will never be a second wife.”

“Then be my first wife. I will marry you first.”

“You do not even know me.”

His eyes swept over her. “My eyes tell me all I need know.”

“Then know this, I will not share a husband with another. Go back to the Black Lodges and marry your Beautiful Meadow, for I will not go with you.”

His brow lifted as if seeing her rejection as a challenge. His eyes fixed upon her and she knew in that moment what it was to be hunted. She dropped her gathering bag and ran, darting in and out of the tree trunks and leaping over fallen logs. He gave her a head start. It was several moments before she heard the horse’s hooves pounding on the soft ground.

One moment she ran and the next her feet left the ground. His strong arm gripped her, pulling her up and over his lap. Now, tipped over his muscular thigh with her head down, she watched the terrain below her flash by until she grew dizzy. Skylark clung to his leg to keep from falling headlong from the saddle. He rested a hand on her backside and laughed.

Finally he slowed his horse. She struggled and succeeded only in rising to a seated position before him. His arms looped about her waist, pressing her hip to his middle.

Now that she was in his arms she felt the rush of excitement.

“Tell me that you do not wish me to touch you and I will set you down.”

He stroked her cheek and then his fingers glided over the bare skin at her neck. The sensation was delicious and she gasped. He blew in her ear and she had to catch her lower lip between her teeth to keep from groaning aloud.

His breath was sweet as he whispered, “I have an empty lodge. I have horses. I have led many successful raids and will be war chief one day.”

Night Storm knew he wanted this woman. He should have spoken to her at the gathering. He had not for two reasons. First, he’d let his friend fill his head with stories about her mother, the one who left her husband and his first wife to live with the heyoka of the Low River tribe. Skylark’s mother had remained with the heyoka even after she had received offers from many, including the medicine man, himself. Her mother had survived unaided by trading her quillwork for all they needed and kept her lodge for only her daughter and the man touched by the spirit of chaos until her death. The second reason he hesitated was that he did not know if he wanted a wife who spent half her time chasing after her heyoka father and the other half digging roots alone in the forest.

“Come with me willingly,” he said, whispering into her ear and thrilling as she trembled and fell against him. “I will provide for you. I will bring you the softest furs. You will never go hungry and I will keep you warm every night.”

Beautiful Meadow had made it clear that when she was his first wife she would like him to marry again as soon as possible. He had promised her a second wife. He had not promised to take either of the women Beautiful Meadow had suggested. She said she would miss her sisters, but she had not asked him to choose one of her sisters. His mother, Red Corn Woman, said it was because she was lazy. The women she wanted were hardworking, but one was doughy as a grub and the other had a face that resembled a stone hatchet.

This woman in his lap was not the sort of woman Beautiful Meadow had in mind. Beautiful, skilled and wild as a puma. And this medicine woman had a reputation for healing that had reached the Black Lodges.

But Skylark did not wish to share him. That made him even more tempted. But it was a problem because he had made a promise, given furs and horses for Beautiful Meadow. To withdraw his proposal would be a great dishonor. A woman could break a marriage. A man could not. Besides, he would need a woman to provide meals and keep his lodges repaired and to make the clothing. This woman in his arms was not that woman.

“You don’t want me,” she said.

“I want you very much. Too much.”

Truthfully he wanted this woman because of the challenge. None had taken her. None dared. But he dared. And he would make her his own. Gentle this wild mustang until she fed from his hand like the horse beneath them.

He enfolded her in his arms and brushed his mouth across her cheek. Her skin was softer than the velvet of a deer’s antlers. He took her lower lip between his teeth and sucked. She shuddered and pressed closer to him.

“I have watched you at the gatherings. You have power. Great power. You are respectful and loving to your aunt. But all say you do not stay put.”

“That will not change. I wander. It is my nature.”

“Wander as you will as long as you do not wander into another man’s arms.”

He wondered if he had found the one in his vision. The woman who stepped from the flash of lightning to join him in the forest? His desire for her was strong as a lightning strike.

“I have had a vision of a woman. I think you are she.”

She turned to him, lifting her chin to stare up at him. He lowered his lips to hers. She made a sound on an exhalation and then gave a hum of pleasure as he explored her mouth with his tongue. She tasted of mint. Finally he cradled her head against his chest and found her the perfect fit.

Her words were low, intimate, though she spoke not love words but words of warning. “Let me go before it is too late.”

He stroked her hair.

“Too late for what?” he asked.

Other men thought she was dangerous. But it was that danger that appealed. She was perfect for him. She simply needed convincing and he knew just how to do that. He glanced to the bed of thick, spongy moss and his body ached, pulsing with need.

Night Storm pressed Skylark tighter. He had been attracted by her face and figure. Intrigued by her skills as a healer. Now he wondered just how powerful she was.

He winced as the dull headache that had plagued him all morning changed to an expanding pain that now made his stomach churn. He sucked in a breath as the pain grew worse.

He looked to the heavens for some answer and saw instead the bright spring leaves of the birch trees above them, flashing like swimming fish against the blue sky. They swam and swam, coming closer.

His dog began barking again. But, unlike earlier, this was that high, frantic bark that he used when he was frightened. Night Storm told him to be quiet but Frost only barked louder.

“Night Storm? What is happening?” Her words seemed to come from far away, even though he held her in his arms.

He heard the humming that went on and on. He swayed as he smelled burning flesh. Night Storm slid from his horse. He could not see the woman in his arms because his vision dimmed and his hands began a tremor that rolled throughout his body like thunder.


Chapter One (#ulink_28bbcf63-27e4-52ca-ae48-af7fc2d4e12a)

Three Moons Later

Skylark’s father often hid in the trees, so she searched the branches overhead for any sign of movement. Earlier in the day she could hear him laughing at her from a thick canopy of pines and, after that, from a grove of brambles. But now the woods had gone silent except for the jays warning the other creatures that one of the people walked in their midst.

“Father. I know you can hear me. Come out now.” She waited in the silence, broken only by a rustling that turned out to be a ground squirrel. Skylark flapped her hands in frustration. “They are striking the tepees! We are moving today. Auntie says you must come with us.”

She wondered if she tried ignoring him, rather than searching, whether he might come out. Skylark crossed her arms. Such games might have been amusing when she was a girl. But she had seen twenty winters and spent much of each summer chasing after her father. What had begun as a game had become a burden.

Her father was a trickster. She longed for a father who did not throw mud at her when she had just bathed in the river or who sat in the snow when everyone else huddled in their lodges close to the fire. His contrary ways were sometimes wonderful, but mostly they were just trouble.

“I’m leaving without you.” Skylark waited, tapping her foot with impatience. “Fine,” she muttered, and began walking back the way she had come. With each step, she listened carefully for the thump of her father dropping down behind her or the creak of branches that might reveal him as he moved from tree to tree like a possum.

This was the time of the Hunting Moon and the leaves above made good cover. Too good. She might pass directly underneath him and never know. Back at the river, the camp was struck. Some of the families were already moving and they would not wait for her. So of course, when the tribe was in a hurry, her father dawdled.

Skylark sat on a downed log.

Some said she was already a heyoka, because of her powers to heal. They came to her for care and treatment. But no man ever played his flute for her or asked her to stand wrapped in a buffalo robe before her aunt’s lodge. Only one man had dared touch her and look what had happened to him.

Was it true? Did the young men avoid her because they feared her father’s power or because they feared having to take care of a man who was as unpredictable as the rain in the Fast Water Moon. If it was hot, her father shivered. If there was ice on the water, he went swimming. By doing everything the wrong way, he taught the people the correct way of doing things. When the people were sad, he could make them laugh. When they were happy and behaving foolishly, he wept, cautioning them against their folly.

Or was the reason men avoided her, as her uncle said, because a man chose a wife who could make his clothing and keep their cooking pot full. That was something she would never do. She hated the stink of tanning hides.

Her aunt said that if she stopped wandering in the woods she would not seem so odd. But the truth was she did not want to be like other women. Perhaps she was more like her father than she cared to admit.

She missed her mother. Gathers Quills did not think Sky’s wandering was odd. But her mother had left this world for the Spirit World in the Freezing Moon of Sky’s seventieth winter.

Winter Moon was the sister of her father and she said it was not seemly for a single woman to live alone with only the occasional company of her heyoka father. So Sky had moved in with her aunt and uncle, Wood Duck. Would Winter Moon have been so insistent that Sky live in her lodge if she had known that after the move there would still be no warriors to offer a bride’s dowry for Sky?

Familiar laughter reached her. She did not pursue. Instead, she rested her head in her hands.

Her father called himself Falling Otter, choosing that name because otters never fall. And because otters are playful.

Once her father had been perfect in her eyes. Important. More important even than the chief because only he could question the chief and even sometimes mock the medicine man, something no one else was brave enough to do. He made the people think of things they had not before and that made him a powerful teacher. Didn’t it?

Skylark indulged in tears and immediately heard laughter. She lifted her head to see Falling Otter dancing off with his loincloth on his head. This was exactly the sort of behavior that she found embarrassing, and then she felt guilty for her reaction.

“Wait. Papa. We have to go.”

“Daughter. Stay, stay. Stay all day,” he sang, and vanished into the thick shrubs.

She hurried after him and decided that when she saw him again she would insist that they stay, stay, stay all day. Maybe that would get him moving back to camp. He was so thin now. Her aunt tried to feed him, but he insisted he was too full. Then he would beg food from someone else. Where had he left his horse?

The ground changed from thick ferns and dried leaves to a stretch of exposed rock. She paused, glancing about the clearing, and a chill climbed up her neck. This was the very spot where she had met her warrior.

He wasn’t hers, of course. But he had tried to make her so. She wondered what would have happened if she had let herself be taken.

“Papa. I’m going to stay here. You should stay, too! No reason to go back and eat breakfast with Auntie. Your sister said to stay away. She doesn’t want you there.”

She noticed the sunlight streaming down in golden beams through the tall trees, illuminating the small clearing. She spotted something of interest and paused to gather goosegrass. The roots made a nice red dye, but she collected the entire plant because it could also make the bowels move and cool a fevered body. She stuffed several handfuls of the spindly plants into her pouch noticing the tiny white flowers that bloomed all the way to the War Moon.

She glanced about the clearing, recalling the man, his horse, his gray dog. Then it had happened. The sun had streamed down upon them, the light flashing off the new green leaves, shimmering like water from a lake. His dog had started to whine and then bark, his pointed ears up and alert. The warrior’s smile had dropped away, his eyes had rolled white and he had fallen as if shot. They had tumbled together from his horse, rolling on the soft mossy ground. But his body had gone limp and she feared he had died. His dog had been near frantic, but the animal had let her tend him. She’d had time to check him for wounds before the tremors began, shaking his entire body. She had seen it before. It was not the palsy of the old or a simple hand trembling, but full-out witchcraft frenzy. He was cursed by a witch or perhaps an enemy. At least, that was what she had learned from Spirit Bear, their shaman. That the ghosts of the fallen might haunt the living. Despite what some of her tribe said, she could not lift a curse or rescue the haunted. Only a shaman could do that.

But her grandmother, Smiling One, had said that plants could heal any ills if only we knew which one to use. Was it true? Could all curses and maladies be healed?

It was that possibility that sent her searching for the plant that could cure her mother. Her first and greatest failure. There had been others since, ones she could not save. She could heal many things, but not all things and not the malady that sent her warrior into fits.

She had kept him from choking on the blood from his lacerated tongue, set him on his side and waited at a distance until he woke. His dog had not left his master’s side and had watched her go, giving a whine as she slipped away.

Now she wondered if she should have stayed.

Her father broke her musings by dashing across the clearing waving his loincloth in one hand and a thick stick in the other. He ran in the direction of their village.

“Can’t be late, daughter. Everyone must take a nap at midday.”

Skylark turned to follow him. Of course, everyone would not nap at midday. They would be doing the complete opposite of resting, which was exactly why her father had said this. By midday the entire village would be struck and moving to their next hunting site. The Hunting Moon was a busy time with the buffalo hunts and preparation of meat and hides. All would be working hard except, of course, her father.

* * *

Night Storm led his horses through the dense undergrowth with his dog at his heels. He didn’t know if lightning would strike twice, but he was growing desperate. This was very near the place he had met her, during the Many Flowers Moon. Only three moons ago and his life had changed completely. The time of first meeting her had also been the last time he had ridden his horse. She had looked like an ordinary woman, but now he knew better. What they said was true. She had unnatural powers. Her exceptional beauty was just a lure. A trap. He recalled her thick ropes of hair and wide eyes that sloped upward at the edges. That was what he remembered most, her eyes and her smiling mouth. But her form had also been perfect, full and lush as the ripe berries she gathered. Perfect, too perfect, he now realized.

He had been so taken with her that he had tried to carry her off. And she had warned him. Told him to let her go before it was too late. He had thought the warning odd. But he had not recognized then that she had cursed him.

Now he understood why she had not shown the least bit of fear at his approach. Because, like the puma, she was beautiful, powerful and deadly.

How had she cast a spell without his notice?

He was uncertain. What he did know was that he must find her, capture her and then, somehow, he must make her remove the spell.

But what if she was not even a witch? What if she was a spirit? Anog Ite, Double-Faced woman, or Kanka, the greatest of all witches? Night Storm knew that it did not matter. If he found this woman, he would succeed in getting her to restore him before someone found out. Even his father had asked him why he did not ride. Any day now those of his tribe might discover he was cursed. And then he would be outcast.

At the very least he would lose his status as hunter and warrior and that was a fate worse than death. His malady even kept him from fulfilling his promise to wed Beautiful Meadow, the niece of Thunder Horse, who was their shaman. Her uncle was very strict. Men unfit to hunt or raid were stripped of their duties. If Beautiful Meadow discovered his affliction, would she help him or tell her uncle?

It was his doubts that kept him from speaking the words that would make her his wife. But she was growing impatient.

He must find Skylark and make her reverse her magic. Then he would kill her so she could never do this to another man.

An unfamiliar sound drew his attention. Something large was crashing through the forest in his direction. Frost whined but he ordered him to heel and the dog sat, his ears alert.

Night Storm slipped his bow from his shoulder and notched an arrow. From the sound it was an elk, though soon he realized that it made too much noise. He sighted down the long shaft. Perhaps he would bring home meat for his mother and father after all. If it was an elk, there would be more than enough to share with many families. His mother would be so happy to have the fine white teeth to decorate his sister’s dresses.

But the creature thrashing his way now howled like a wolf and then quacked like a duck. Night Storm lowered his bow and watched as a naked man leaped over a rock and headed straight for him. The man waved his arms and shouted.

Falling Otter, he realized. Skylark’s father. He glanced about. Was she here?

“Napping at noon. Everyone nap. Feasting, napping and then games!”

The man spotted Night Storm and slowed. He grinned and came forward at a trot, holding out a stick.

Night Storm returned the arrow to its quiver and slung the bow across his shoulder.

“For your new home, unless you think to live with your mother forever.”

He didn’t live with his mother. “Here.” The man extended the loincloth. “Put this over your eyes for a napping. It will block out the light. Have to go. She is after me again.”

She? Night Storm looked back the way the man had come. Skylark was here. He knew it.

The man did a little circle dance, a dance reserved for women and then continued on.

“Tell her she’ll be late for staying put. Hurry, hurry. I’m so full.”

He lifted a new stick and used it to hit each tree trunk he passed. The knocking sound continued long after he was out of sight.

Night Storm turned in the direction the man had appeared. He had a certainty growing within him that he would find her soon. He had first found her here on a day when the new green leaves were so bright with sunlight that they hurt his eyes. He dropped the stick and tucked the scrap of buckskin in his pouch. Then he moved as quietly as he could, but still the jays called out from the treetops warning all creatures of his approach.

He saw her then, moving with a delicate tread in his direction. He ducked behind a thick tree trunk and drew out one arrow, gripping his bow. He pressed his naked back against the rough surface of the tree’s solid trunk.

He peered around the tree to watch her approach. She was just as lovely. The fringe of her simple dress swayed with her graceful stride. If he killed her would it break the curse?

He didn’t know.

Could he force her to remove it? If he captured her, would she trade his freedom for hers?

He could only try. Night Storm lifted his eyes to the heavens and offered a prayer to the Great Spirit asking for his help. Then he stepped from behind the tree and drew back the bowstring far enough to send an arrow cleanly through her heart.

Her step faltered and she stopped, staring with widening, mysterious eyes. Her mouth dropped open next as she gasped.

“You,” she said.

“Me,” he answered, and sighted the arrow.


Chapter Two (#ulink_2c2b7d2f-22eb-55eb-a3ac-7d7c1913fe18)

Night Storm held his bow poised. Beside him, his dog whined and crept forward, gray eyes fixed on the woman as he wagged his narrow tail. He ordered his dog to stay and Frost dropped to the ground.

Skylark’s eyes went wide as he held her in his sights. Had she now realized that he had not mistaken her for game but was intentionally targeting her?

She lifted her hands and waved them before her.

“You know me. I am Crow!” Her voice rose in volume and pitch on her last word.

“I know you.” He held the bow steady.

She shook her head, her expression bewildered.

“Witch. Remove the curse,” he said.

“What?”

“Witch! You cursed me.”

Her head shook from side to side. “I am not a witch.”

“It is what a witch would say. Remove the curse or I will shoot.”

Her eyes narrowed, sparkling bright as she fixed them upon him, and for just a moment he feared she would bring on another spell. But his vision remained clear and he heard no ringing in his ears.

“Even if that were true, killing a witch would not end a curse.”

That made him hesitate. He had not expected the witch to do anything but what he asked. Why did she not fall to her knees and weep like an ordinary woman? Instead, she met his gaze with an unwavering one.

His grip tightened on the bow, but his conviction faltered.

“The spell you had here in the forest. You think I caused that?”

“And the ones that have followed.”

“Why would I do that?” she asked.

“Witches need no reason to curse a man.”

“Of course they do.”

“You knew that I would take you with me, so you stopped me.” Doubts filled him. Was this just another trick?

She scowled as if his words angered her. “You say I did this thing. Now, I will tell you what I did do. When you fell, I went to you and put you on your side so you would not choke on your blood. I put your bag under your head, to protect you from striking the ground.’

He stared, not knowing what to believe. Although the tension in the flexed bow urged him to release his arrow, he pointed it at the ground.

“Did you find your horse tied to a tree?”

He had.

Astonishment filled him. All she said was so. He had awakened on the ground beside his dog with his bag under his head like a pillow. The buffalo skin he used as a saddle blanket covered his body and his horse had waited patiently for him, saddle hanging over a branch by his side.

She lifted her chin as if he had answered her.

He released the tension of his bow, easing it back to rest but keeping the arrow notched.

“If I meant you harm, why did your dog not attack me then or now? I have not cursed you. I have saved you.”

“You are not a witch?”

“I am a medicine woman and the daughter of a heyoka. I heal with bark, roots and growing things. I help people as I helped you. I do not curse them.”

His skin turned to gooseflesh again. He slung his bow over his shoulder and returned the arrow to the quiver on his back. If he needed a weapon, his ax and his knife were close at hand and he could throw both with deadly accuracy. Neither, however, could defend against magic.

“Have you asked your medicine man to help you?” asked Skylark.

He had not. Because to do so was to admit to all that he was no longer a man.

“I do not need medicine. I need only find the one who has cursed me.”

“You could come with me to my home and consult with our medicine man. Spirit Bear is very powerful.”

He would not be seeing her shaman, either. Word would travel from her village to his at the winter gathering, and he would lose his place as a warrior of the Black Lodges. That was his deepest fear. He must keep this secret and find a cure.

His gaze fixed on this medicine woman.

Could she help him?

She paused and glanced in the direction of her village. Then she bit her bottom lip. The act sent a growling need through him that took him by surprise. When she cast her gaze back to him, his skin felt hot and prickly. He recognized that now she wove a different kind of spell. He knew it instantly, though he had not felt it with any other woman. But he had experienced it once before, the first time he had spoken to her, alone, in the forest digging roots. It was elk madness, the love sickness which was the cause of much foolishness by many great men. This was why a man, a serious man, with many coups and a reputation of profound honor, could follow after a pretty woman, playing his flute for her at night and pursuing her like an elk in rut. This power was just as strong as bewitchment and he did not want it. Not with this woman.

She stooped over to pet his dog, her elegant fingers gliding over Frost’s short coat. He could see the outline of her full breasts and the curve of her flank. She was perfect in his eyes, which brought him back to his original worry. What if she was Double-Faced Woman?

“How do I know you are not a spirit?” he asked her.

She glanced up from his dog and laughed. “What?”

But her smile dropped away and her hand left the dog’s head as she looked at him. Did his expression reveal the real seriousness of his question? Skylark drew out her skinning knife from the elaborately quilled sheath she wore about her neck. She lifted the knife and her left hand, and nicked the round flesh at the base of her thumb. Immediately she bled.

She extended her hand to show him.

His shoulders sagged with relief. Spirits did not bleed. He rested a hand on the bone grip of his iron knife.

She glanced at her bleeding hand and returned her knife to the sheath. Then she searched in her bag and retrieved only a sprig of leaves, which she crushed, rolled into a ball and pressed to her wound. Making a fist, she held the poultice in place.

He reached out and captured one of her wrists. With a little tug he brought her tight against him, her soft curves contacting his chest. The sensation was like diving into cold water. His body felt charged and alive. She did not struggle. In an instant he had her hands gathered in one of his own and pinned behind her back.

“Can you remove the curse?”

She lifted her chin. “What kind of curse? Were you cursed by an enemy in battle? Or are you haunted by a ghost? Or perhaps you have had unclean relations with someone? All these could bring you to this place.”

He did not know. “I have not had unclean relations. But I have killed enemies. Many.”

He wanted to leave her here. But more than that he wanted to press their hips together, fall upon the green grass and taste the sweetness of her body. His heart galloped as the musky scent of her rose all about him in a different kind of spell.

This attraction that he had felt for her on first sight was even stronger now. He stared at her beautiful flushed face and the full, parted lips where her breath came in erratic little pants. Was that her reaction to him or the fear? And then she shifted, moving their hips closer and pressing herself to him. He should have known. This one did not show fear. But her desire was clear. He did not trust her. Those things they said about her, that she was odd and dangerous and could heal or kill, he now thought they might be true.

Night Storm thrust her away. The poultice had fallen off, but already the bleeding had stopped.

“How do you know about ghosts and taboos?”

“I am learning about such things. I have learned all I can from the wisest women in our tribe. I wish there were someone who knew more than I do, so I could...find cures for the incurables.”

Was he an incurable? He longed to ask but feared she would hear the desperation in his voice.

“Did you really do those things? Tie my horse? Cover me?”

“Who else?”

It was an excellent question. He had been alone. His first ride since his head injury. He had seen her. Remembered her. Wanted her.

“If you are a healer...” How did one ask a favor of a woman he had just threatened to kill?

“Yes?”

“Do you know what causes me to fall?”

She considered him. He felt small and vulnerable and he hated it. This was why none must know of his weakness.

“There are many things that will still tremors and quiet the winds that blow through the mind. But I know some medicines and charms that can send away trembling and shaking and even falling. Does your mind disappear?”

That was what it felt like exactly. “Yes.”

The knowledge she had might save him, keep him whole, give him back his life or end it.

What would she do if he asked? Laugh? Give him medicine that was actually poison? Or, worse, reveal his secret?

They stared in silence for a moment and then he performed the bravest act of his life, braver than riding into battle against his enemies or placing his lance in the hump of a charging buffalo. He asked for her help.

* * *

Skylark’s mouth dropped open in surprise. Her warrior had asked for her help. Hers.

She took a step closer and then paused, glancing in the direction she had come. Would her father be all right without her?

He had his sister. Her auntie fed him and clothed him and let him sleep by her fire during the cold moons. She just did not have the time to follow him about, talking him down from trees and coaxing him to eat.

Night Storm took her hand and she looked into his dark eyes. A yearning pulsed within her and she did not resist as he drew her closer. He was a full head taller than her and his shoulders were broad.

“I need a healer. One who can help me and one who will keep my secret.”

Her eyes fixed on her warrior.

He swallowed and she looked at his face. Handsome, hopeful. There was a crease between his dark brows and his full mouth pursed as he stood for her scrutiny.

He looked like many warriors, but somehow he was different because of how she felt when she looked at him. And there was something else, an important difference between this man and all other men. He knew she was the daughter of heyoka and a medicine woman and still he wanted her, not for herself but for what she might do.

Night Storm did not see her as dangerous. Or if he did, he was willing to take the risk.

He looked at her with hope. She did not need any man. Her healing talents could more than provide for her. She did not need this man. But somehow she did.

He wanted her because she knew his secret and would not tell.

He thought she could help him.

But what if she could not? After all, she had failed to save her mother.

“I have responsibilities in my tribe,” she said.

His mouth went grim and his grip on her hand tightened. “Have you taken a husband?”

She blinked in surprise. To have him think she was married, that she would be desired by a man enough for him to overlook her flaws, made her throat close and ache. She shook her head.

“I still live with my aunt and uncle.”

“They can do without you.”

It was true and that hurt her. The only one who needed her was Falling Otter. “We are moving.”

“I can return you to them, wherever they go.”

The look he gave her was full of hope and longing. She tingled with awareness at the way he stared at her. Was that the need of a man for a woman or of a desperate man for a cure? She didn’t know, but, oh, how she wanted to be the object of that desire again. Everything about him called to her except that he had a falling sickness. She hedged.

He laid aside his bow and then removed the beautiful strand of white beads from about his neck. He held them before her in both hands, presenting them for her inspection and then draping them over her head. They settled warm upon her skin. Gently he pulled her braids from beneath the necklace. The way he slipped his hand down her braided hair made her stomach quiver and her skin tingle.

“One so beautiful needs no such adornments, but I would give you this. It has value.”

She pressed a hand over the beads and felt her heart pounding in her chest. “I know of roots and plants that are known to stop hand trembling, shaking and some that quiet the mind. I know several that ease dizziness,” Skylark said. “But I will not promise I can stop this falling sickness.”

“But you will try?”

“I cannot change those who are possessed. I cannot lift a curse or chase away evil ghosts.”

“Am I cursed?” he asked, and rubbed his thumb on the back of her hand.

The motion was just the simple brush of skin on skin, but the sensation that rippled through her made her gasp.

“I do not know. But this thing that has happened to you, it is sudden. So perhaps it is an ailment of the body.”

He took her other hand, forming a sacred circle between them, and somehow this felt holy.

She stood before him, thinking she was not up to the task. She had confidence in her plants, roots, barks and minerals. But she had never tried to cure a man who fell. She had seen his sort of sickness. It was a fearsome thing.

He waited, his eyes glittering with hope as he set his mouth tight to receive bad news.

“I will try.”

* * *

Winter Moon heard her brother’s arrival before she saw him because he was clapping his hands to the beat of an imaginary horse. His arrival was well-timed, as many of the people had already begun their journey. She had tied the household belongings on one travois and two packhorses. She smiled her welcome.

In search of Skylark, Winter Moon glanced the way her brother had come but did not find her. Her smile faded.

“I must see to my horse,” said Falling Otter.

“Where is Skylark?”

“She is coming right along.”

Winter Moon frowned. Her brother’s words meant Skylark was not coming.

“Is she hurt?”

“Yes. Very badly.” He held both hands over his heart.

She breathed a sigh of relief.

“Can she come?”

“She cannot.”

Winter Moon flapped her arms. “Can you not just tell me?”

“Yes.”

She sighed and began again. “Is she alone?”

“Yes.”

“Is she with someone from this tribe?”

“Yes.”

A flash of fear danced through her. “Oh, Great Spirit. She’s been taken by the Sioux.” She called to Wood Duck. “Husband, come quick. I think something has happened to Skylark.”

Her husband was much more patient with the questions than she ever was. She relayed what she knew.

Wood Duck took over and interrogated Falling Otter and then turned to his wife. “She is with a man, not of our clan but of our tribe. It may be that she has finally found a suitor.”

“Did he take her?” asked Winter Moon, now gripping her brother’s arm.

“Yes,” said Falling Otter.

Winter Moon sagged in relief.

“So she has gone,” said Wood Duck. “It is good.”

“How is this good?” asked Winter Moon.

“She has chosen a man, and we will see her at the gathering. Perhaps she will even be a married woman.”


Chapter Three (#ulink_69cff585-b4b7-5160-bf58-0be6a19780cb)

Skylark attempted to lower Night Storm’s expectations. “I do not know exactly which medicine will work. So we will try them one by one.”

“How long will that take?”

She grimaced. “It might take several moons.”

“You will stay with me that long?”

“No. Two nights. Then I must return.”

“Two. It is impossible,” he said.

“You could come with me to my village. Then we would have more time.”

He shook his head. “I am a chosen hunter for my tribe. If I do not return, two widows with children will have no meat.”

This was the way in her tribe, as well. Young single men were designated to provide for the families of those who had died in battle, from disease or on hunts. She knew it was a great honor and marked him as a man of promise with a bright future.

And it gave him another good reason to hide his weakness.

“The longest I have ever been away from camp is two nights,” she said.

“That will not be enough.”

They faced each other. She felt pulled in two directions at once.

“Let us see what we can do in the two days. Then we will decide what to do next.”

He stared for a long moment and then nodded his consent to this.

“Why does your aunt let you leave the village alone and stay away for days?”

“So I can gather plants for medicines.”

“That is dangerous. You should not be alone. What if I had been a Lakota warrior instead of one of your own people?”

“Then I would be taken. I know the risks. Still I would not give up my freedom because of fear. It is like sunlight to a flower. I need this time to keep...”

He waited and when she did not speak he repeated her last word. “Keep?”

“Keep from going mad.” Just like her father. She could see herself as a heyoka. Going out when others went in. Tanning roots instead of hides. Making medicines instead of food. Gathering Osha Root instead of the life-sustaining Bitterroot and Timpsula tubers.

“Other women live in camp and leave only in groups for safety. You could venture out with them.”

“And you could learn to paint tepees or make weapons instead of hunting buffalo.”

“That would kill me.”

“Then you understand my need to wander. Even if it comes at a cost. It is who I am.”

He met her gaze and then nodded. “I understand.”

Night Storm’s dog sat beside Skylark, leaning heavily against her leg.

“Ah. You two have not been formally introduced. This is Frost.”

She stared down at the now-familiar dog. “We have met but I am glad to know his name.”

The dog’s head reached her hip. He was lean and lanky. The tips of his ears stood up like a wolf’s and his tail was full and bushy as any fox. The rest of his coat was short and uniformly gray except for his white muzzle and the spots upon his chest that spread outward and did look very much like his hairs were frosted. His eyes were clear, alert and the color of a lead bullet.

Night Storm squatted and scratched the dog, who sat down, tail now thumping the ground.

“He has been with me since...” His hand traveled down the dog’s spine and Skylark found her own spine arching at the sensual sight of his big, broad hand stroking over Frost’s body.

It was her physical reaction that caused her to fail to notice immediately that he had stopped speaking in midsentence. She saw that he was now staring up at the treetops with unfocused eyes. Frost noticed his master’s distraction, as well, and poked Night Storm’s bare leg between his loincloth and the tops of his leggings with his cold wet nose. This brought Night Storm back to attention.

Night Storm petted his dog and Frost’s tongue lolled as his eyes half closed.

“What was I saying?”

Skylark frowned. “You were telling me when you got your dog.”

“Oh, yes. He came to me after my last battle. He kept coming into my mother’s lodge. Finally my mother just let him stay. She thought he would be good company for me. And so he is.” Night Storm straightened.

She offered the back of her hand to Frost. He licked it. Then she scratched his cheeks and petted his head. When she glanced up at Night Storm, it was to find him staring at her with an expression that reminded her of pain.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

“No. I don’t think so.”

Their gazes held fast and she felt the blood rising in her body. Was he having the same sensual reaction to watching her stroke his dog as she had felt watching him? The possibility filled her with a giddy longing mixed with terror.

They stood, hands at their sides, eyes dipping and returning to meet. She remained fixed to the earth, stubbornly refusing to yield to the calling of her body to touch his. At last he looked away.

“What should we do next?” asked Night Storm.

“I suppose I should find out all I can about you. Ask you many questions. I will need to know your signs before you fall and all about your falls. Have you had many?”

“Three.”

“When was the first?”

He glared at her and she knew. Of course, it was when they met. That was why he thought she had cursed him. His eyes narrowed.

“I am not a witch. I cannot bring frenzy witchcraft or love magic. I cannot shape-shift, nor do I see visions.”

His eyes widened and then his gaze darted away. Did he see visions, she wondered.

“But I know many cures. Some for falling.” She folded her hands and squeezed one with the other.

“Start with those,” he said.

The silence stretched and she cleared her throat. “Now about my questions.”

“I will answer, but let me first see to my horses and make a camp.”

A camp. Her stomach lurched. Of course, he would make a camp. She was staying here in the forest with him for two days. And two nights. Alone.

Fear and anticipation mingled.

She warned herself against his appealing mouth and the enticing line of his jaw. He retrieved his bow and she watched the muscles of his forearm cord. His body was strong and muscular. It appeared perfect, but, just like her, he had flaws. This was not the kind of man she should want. Still, some part of her did. Was it because he had been bold enough to approach her in the woods that day?

She recalled their first meeting and his offer to make her his second wife.

“You were promised to a woman. Have you taken her as a wife?”

He stilled and spoke to her over his broad shoulder. “No.”

She nodded and he turned away from the direction where she could find her tribe.

No wife, she thought, watching him. He looked so strong. So perfect.

“Because of...” She wanted to ask if it was because of her but could not.

“I will not marry her until I am well.”

Skylark absorbed this blow. He needed her help to return him to his path. But he did not want her in the way she wanted him.

Heyoka, she thought. Wanting a man who did not want her.

Sky stiffened her shoulders and her resolve. Certainly she had enough sense not to become involved with a man who loved another.

He glanced back at her. “Are you coming?”

“Yes.” But I will not share a buffalo robe with you. No matter how handsome you are.

He led the way to his horses and Frost trotted along with them, occasionally darting off after a ground squirrel or some other alluring scent.

She was surprised to see two pack animals, a chestnut and a red roan. Neither wore a saddle.

Where was his mount? The men always rode. Women rode only on traveling days and only if there was room on the horses after they were packed with the household gear. Men needed to be free to protect their families and so their horses carried no gear and their hands held only the reins and their weapons.

He tied his quiver to the nearest pack saddle and hooked his bow over a pommel. When he turned back, he found her studying him.

“I no longer ride,” he said.

She realized why instantly. His falling made it too dangerous. Their eyes met and she saw the pride in the lifting of his chin as he waited for her to say something. This was why he did not wish his people to know, because of this feeling she had for him right now.

She forced a smile.

“Soon you will ride again.”

His guarded expression switched to confusion as his brow furrowed.

“That is what I pray for every day, to be a warrior once more. I want to serve my people. But to be a burden...” He shook his head in dismay.

“I understand that. Everyone needs a purpose.”

“And I have lost mine.”

“We will find it again, together.” She spoke with a confidence she did not feel, but still she held her smile and finally she saw his mouth quirk. The transformation was immediate and startling. He looked less severe and even more handsome. She could not keep from reaching out to stroke his cheek. Excitement buzzed through her, tickling her skin like bees on an open blossom. She leaned toward him. His hand captured hers, trapping it to his jaw for just an instant. Then he released her and stepped back.

She stood, bereft by his withdrawal. “Tonight we will talk,” she said. “Tomorrow I will begin gathering plants.”

“Yes. That is good.”

“I have to know all about you. If I am to treat you, I mean.” It was true, but she was grateful for the excuse to hear his voice.

When he spoke, the low rumble tickled her deep in the pit of her stomach. A warning prickled her neck. He had asked for her help. Nothing more. Yet he seemed to also feel the lure that tugged between them.

“Well, that may take some time.”

He picked a place with a wall of rock beside a small, pretty lake. The open ground had tall green grass for the horses, and nearby a cold spring tumbled down the rocks, giving them drinking water. It was a good camp. The rocks behind them protected against the wind and the ground all around was scattered with much firewood. She set to work gathering timber and kindling as he unburdened his horses and hobbled them to keep them from wandering. When she returned, the horses were happily munching on grass, unconcerned that their front feet were tied with a leather binding.

Frost was sniffing about in the cattails, and trying and failing to catch frogs.

The sun was directly over them, so they sat in the shade beside the lake and shared a meal.

They drank cold water from the cascading stream and ate the pemmican they both carried. Hers was filled with wax currants mixed with tallow and his was filled with nuts and dried Saskatoon berries. Traveling food, portable, dense and delicious.

Frost appeared, his tail wagging, hopeful for some food. Night Storm fed him some of his pemmican and then waved him off. Frost left in good humor, returning to his futile attempts at hunting. The process involved a great deal of leaping into the water, swimming back to shore and shaking off only to leap in once more.

“He will chase away all the fish,” said Night Storm.

As they ate, she began her questions with ones about his family, learning that his father, Many Coups, was one of the chief warriors of his tribe and the head of his medicine society. Every tribe had secret warrior societies and their business was never shared with women. Just as women had rites and ceremonies kept secret from the men. Red Corn Woman had born Many Coups three children. His brother, the oldest, had already taken a wife from the Wind Basin people who bore him a son. Night Storm also had two younger sisters, six years his junior at seventeen winters and another who was fourteen winters and already a woman.

Skylark realized that at twenty-three winters, Night Storm was three years her senior.

“Most of my friends and family call me Storm. You may do so, as well.”

She nodded her acceptance of this. “My family calls me Sky.”

“Sky? A pretty name. I understand that you have no brothers or sisters,” said Night Storm.

“Yes. That is so.”

“And you live with your father and aunt and uncle.”

“Yes.” Her mother was gone because Sky could not heal her. Sky was silent. Should she say that her mother had left her husband before the time of Sky’s birth? Did he already know that Sky and her mother had lived alone for much of her childhood? Perhaps she should tell him that her mother’s family had advised against her marriage but her mother had left her people to wed a man whose first wife was of the Low River Tribe and when she left this husband a few years later she was too proud to go home to her family. Thoughts of her mother saddened her and even after three winters since the passing of her mother, the pain was still heavy on her heart.

“Some say you are like your father.”

“I have heard that said. Do you think so?”

“I have not decided yet.”

“Why have you not married Beautiful Meadow?” she asked.

“You need to know this to cure me?”

“No. It is a woman’s curiosity.”

He made a face. “She is angry that I have not yet married her. Her father, Broken Saddle, was of the Shallow Water people, like my father, until he married. Now Broken Saddle is chief of the Wind River tribe and his brother, Thunder Horse, married one of our women and joined the Black Lodges. He is our shaman.”

She raised her brows at the implications of this. No wonder he had not wed. A shaman’s niece would quickly note his illness and seek her uncle’s help. His condition would be raised at tribal council and then known by all.

“I see.”

“And understand why I have not yet taken her to my lodge?”

She nodded.

He liked that he did not have to explain everything to her.

“Beyond that, I cannot hunt for her or protect her.” His eyes lingered on Skylark. “No woman wants a man who cannot ride.”

Except perhaps a woman who did not sew? They were a strange pair, she thought. She almost said that aloud and then quickly reminded herself that he would not marry while he was ill and if she managed to cure him, he would marry Beautiful Meadow. She needed to cease her folly and get back to her people as soon as she could.

Storm growled and lifted a stick, preparing to throw it into the water. But his dog placed his mouth over it and Storm let go. Frost sank to the ground and began gnawing on the branch.

“Is that all?” he asked.

Her gaze shot to him. She had promised to try to help him and instead she had become consumed with her own wants, needs and burdens.

“No. Not all. If your falling sickness is from a ghost or curse, then your children would not be affected. If you are ill, we will find a cure.”

“I hope so. Because becoming a burden, it would be worse than death.”

The responsibility she had taken now weighed upon her. Why had she thought by leaving her tribe for a few days she would be free? Free from the burden of chasing after her father, free of the curious stares of the men and the pitying glances of the friends who had found good husbands. But this new burden was heavy, indeed.

“What other questions do you have?” he asked.

“Have you had visions?”

He scrubbed his face with his hands as if washing. Then he blew out a breath to the sky.

“How did you know this?”

She shrugged. “A feeling I had. And falling is like sleeping, dreaming. Many visions come with dreams.”

“Yes, they do. I will tell you something else that I have shared with no one. During the time of my vision quest, I had strange dreams.”

“That is not unusual, I think.”

Much of the process of becoming a man was kept a very carefully guarded secret, just as the entry process of becoming a woman was held from the men. But she had heard this and that. She knew, for example, that when their mentors deemed them ready, a boy left the tribe with his mentor, went into the forest and stayed there. Many days later the boy would return, gaunt and changed in ways that frightened her. The candidate left as a boy and returned as a man. The tribes’ celebration for these new members was jubilant, as was the welcoming for women who were of marriageable age.

She was well past her womanhood and still the men of her tribe had done no more than steal a few kisses and bestow a few trinkets.

Skylark focused on Storm. “I know little of the vision quest.”

He nodded his understanding of this. “And I can tell you little, except to say that my name must come from what I saw and I saw many things. Terrible things. I was told to choose my name from the visions or from the first creature I saw upon waking. I did not do as I was told. Do you think this could have brought this sickness?”

“Possibly. Why did you not do as you were instructed?”

He made a face.

“It was night when I became aware. But it was not storming. And the first creature I saw was the same one that came to me in my visions. They came again and again. They still come. Follow me in dreams and while awaking. I thought it called me to be fearless in battle and to take many enemy lives. Now I do not know what they want from me.”

“But you should use this creature for your name. Is that right?”

His expression turned grim.

She cocked her head, the unease growing at his silence. She swallowed back her trepidation. What could possibly be so terrible?

“What animal?” she asked, the dread creeping into her with the evening chill.

“A white owl.”

She could not contain the shout of fear as she threw her hands across her chest. Her skin went cold as she stared in shock at this man.

It was the worst of all possible omens.

* * *

Storm placed a hand over his forehead and kept it there as he spoke, the horror of his disclosure clear in his voice. “I saw many strange things, but the animal I saw again and again was the owl.”

She could not find her voice and so spoke in a whisper. “Death. Your death or the death of those you love.”

“Or the death of enemies in battle. I saw the owl in visions and dreams and upon waking. A white snowy owl in the summer time. A horned owl perching over my head and the sound of screech owls during the night.”

“Perhaps...” Her mouth was so dry from the fear that she had to clear her throat before she could speak. “Owls are messengers. They bring word of impending death, that is true. But perhaps...” She was reaching for some glimmer of hope. “Perhaps... Perhaps they only foretold of this time. If this is spiritual, then you are called to interpret this message. A message from the world of the dead.”

“Instead, I have hidden it from all but you.”

She could understand why.

“I knew that they called me to something. I assumed they called me to battle my enemies. I rode into all battles expecting to send many ghosts to the spirit road.”

Or to die, she thought. She shivered at the thought. Had it not occurred to him that the owls called him to his own death?

“My name should be chosen from my visions, but I knew that my tribe would be afraid, if I called myself White Owl or Shrieking Owl or Evening Owl. So I chose Night Storm, for the storm that finally quieted the owls.”

“This is a terrible omen.”

“Yes. I am linked to death. I just do not know how.”

“Do you see the dead?”

“No.”

“Do you think the owls were the spirits of the dead?”

“I do not know.” He turned his head and looked at her, his brow furrowed. He seemed to be puzzling something out.

“What?” she asked.

“Why are you still here?”

Now she was the one who was confused. “You asked my help. Don’t you remember?” Was his mind worse than she supposed?

“Of course, I remember. But most women would have run screaming in the other direction the minute I told them of my vision. Why didn’t you?”

Why hadn’t she? “Well, I suppose because you need help and because I think I might be able to help you.”

“You are not like anyone I have ever met. You are either the bravest of all Crow women or the craziest.”

“Don’t call me that,” she snapped, and immediately recognized what she had done. Her eyes widened. Women did not speak to warriors in such a way. It was within his right to chasten her.

He tucked his chin and stared through thick lashes at her. But he did not chastise or raise his voice, showing so clearly the kind of control a warrior must have over his emotions. He just watched her as her face grew hotter and hotter. She wished he’d say something. Finally he spoke.

“We’ll speak of this later.” He stood.

She followed him and stepped before him when he tried to move away. “Is it because of what I said?”

His mouth quirked. “No. It’s just that my head is hurting again.”

“Where?”

He gripped his forehead.

“Does that happen often?”

“Less often than at first.”

At first? What did that mean?

“When did it begin?”

“In the Fast Water Moon.”

That was the time when the old man of the north finally released his grip upon the land and the snows receded and the green shoots poked up through the ice. A time of great change in the land. Melting ice and rushing water. What had happened to him at that time?

She was about to ask, but he placed his broad hands on her shoulders and gave a little squeeze. “Enough talk for now. I would catch us fish or it is pemmican again for supper.”

Frost returned, tail wagging, carrying an enormous bullfrog in his mouth. He laid it down before them and the frog leaped into the tall grass. Frost pounced like a fox on a mouse but missed, judging from the sound of the splash coming from the lake.

Storm collected his fishing line, bone hooks and the stone sinker. But he paused before leaving. “What will you do?”

Skylark stood and swept the folds from her dress. “I have plants to collect.” She slung her carrying bag over her shoulder and then hesitated.

“What?” he asked.

“Will you be all right alone?”

His face reddened. “I am not an invalid, nor a child. Of course, I will be all right. Will you?”

She nodded and he stalked away.

This, she realized, was why he had not gone to his shaman. He did not wish to be watched and coddled. How could she blame him? She felt much the same. What was the point of living if she did not have the freedom to come and go? He was a man. And a man must have his pride and his dignity.

Skylark watched him walk to the lake and cast his fishing line into the water. Then he tied off the line and removed his fringed hunting shirt and leggings. Finally, he lifted his spear, wading into the blue lake up to his waist. He held the spear poised and ready.

She blinked at the picture he made, with the late-afternoon sunlight glinting on his muscular shoulders and chest. She had seen many men fishing, but none transfixed her the way this one did. She studied the curves and hollows, the play of tension in the cording muscles of his arms and shoulders, and found her breathing grow fast.

He must have sensed her study for he glanced to her, scowling.

She dropped her gaze and hurried away. Once out of his sight, Sky hesitated. They both knew that he might have a falling spell right there and drown before she could reach him. So she stayed close, listening for the splash that might indicate a fall.

Frost accompanied her, which surprised her. Perhaps Storm had sent the dog along to keep the animal from disturbing the fish or for her protection. She walked along the bank, digging cattails for their roots and cutting the reeds for the inner sweet stalky stems. The tops made excellent bedding material. She cut with her skinning knife and in only a few minutes she had carried enough back to their camp for their bedding. Then she returned to the shore and used an antler from her bag to dig several fat tubers before moving on.

She hunted for specific plants but also collected anything of use that fell into her path. Yarrow was first, what her grandmother called Nosebleed Plant and her aunt called Thousand-leaf. She knew this would help heal the small nick she’d cut to prove she was not supernatural. She chewed the leaf and then pressed it to her wound. The sting reassured her that the leaf worked to help keep away pus and to speed scabbing.

Skylark continued wandering as she pressed the sodden crushed leaf to her palm.

Jimsonweed was one she particularly wanted for she knew that, if eaten, it could cause visions and fanciful dreams. But it also could still tremors. She did not know if it could stop moth madness. This sickness was named after the moth that, crazed by the firelight, flew directly into the flame. Victims of moth madness also fell to the ground and twitched like a dying moth. Perhaps Jimsonweed might prevent a spell. But she found none. She did find Motherwort in the open area near the lake. This plant she knew stopped twitching, when in the correct amounts.

By the time she had circled the lake, her bag bulged with green plants, roots, cactus, pine needles, flowers and berries. Why, she even had enough to feed them if he did not take a fish or two.

She could no longer see Storm. But she had glimpsed him from time to time as she made her way around the small lake. She must be nearly back to him. She was humming a tune as she went. Frost had been good company, even helping her dig when she asked him. He was a very good digger and it made her think she might want to get such a dog.

The splash that sounded from a place just ahead made her steps falter. She came to an abrupt stop and Frost cocked his head to listen. She strained for some other noise but heard nothing except the sound of the insects’ steady buzz and the hammering of her own heart. And then it reached her, the low hoot of an owl. Skylark clamped her bag to her chest and ran toward Storm with Frost at her heels.

Please let him be all right, she thought as her feet tore over the open ground.

Skylark ran as fast as she could toward her warrior.

She dropped her bag on the shore and threw the knife, sheath and carrying cord over her head. Then she thrashed through the high cattails until she was waist deep in the lake, still wearing her ornate moccasins. The sight that greeted her stole away her breath. There was Storm, faceup, on his back, gliding through the water like a fish, his powerful legs kicking in a smooth rhythm. The picture he made seemed to fix her to the spot. He rolled and dove, disappearing for a moment, which gave her the moment she needed to recover her wits.

The sight of the man in motion was emblazoned in her mind as she backed toward cover. The wide plains of his working chest and ripped muscle of his stomach enthralled. And she had seen the root of him, nestled in the thatch of glistening black hair. His wet skin reminded her of a beaver, slick and glossy. The image made her body twitch and her stomach clench.

He resurfaced closer to her, popping up from the blue waters just two body lengths from where she stumbled back through the tall cattails.

“Aha. An enemy scout,” he said, his grin playful.

And again she stopped, staring like a ground squirrel who, when confronted by a fox, finds herself too far from the safety of the trees. The smile transformed him from a seriously handsome man to one that made her blood rush and her body quake. What had she gotten herself into with her foolish promise? She would not be able to sleep a wink knowing what lay beside her in the dark.

He frowned now. “Why are you wearing your dress?”

Storm studied her now, treading water as smoothly as a duck. Did he see her flushed face and round, frightened eyes? Did he see her heavy breathing and clenched fists.”

“Did you come to swim?” His words sounded like an accusation.


Chapter Four (#ulink_ca06f20f-4a24-5ced-91e7-f7af9aad4a3d)

Skylark met the smoldering fury of his stare and realized that her assumption had injured his pride. She shook her head in answer to his question, did she come to swim? The truth, she wondered, or a lie. Truth, she decided. “I heard the splash and...”

“Naturally you thought I was drowning. Why should I be capable of taking care of myself?” He spun in the water and swam smoothly back to the rocky bank beside their camp. She watched him stride quickly from the water, trying and failing not to stare at his wide shoulders, narrow waist and muscular backside. Then she turned tail and threaded herself more carefully through the reeds, recovering her bag and knife. She sat on the bank to pour the water out of her moccasins and decided to carry them. He wanted her help. But she must find a way to do so without stealing away his dignity. Besides, she would be here only two nights. After that there would be no one to watch him but Frost.

As if thinking of the dog had conjured him, the dog charged out of the reeds and then shook away the water droplets clinging to his skin. Skylark squeaked and vainly tried to ward off the unwelcome shower with her hands. Frost sat, tongue lolling, eyes half-closed, as she stood and shouldered her bag. She slipped the cord holding her skinning knife over her head and then completed the circle, returning toward their camp. She paused at the fast-moving stream to wash away the mud that speckled her arms and legs.

She removed her dress, thinking she must find some clay to clean away the mud stains when next she came upon some. As she splashed off the grime and sweat, she thought of him, perfect and in motion. The need came upon her unawares. Her breasts ached and her body trembled. She wanted him in all the ways a woman needs a man but she knew why she couldn’t.

She thought of all the men she had met at the fall gathering when they camped with the Wind Basin tribe and how none had chosen to court her. What if this man was her only chance to experience the coupling that her aunt and uncle obviously enjoyed in the night?

She crossed her arms over her heavy breasts, her nipples hardening instantly. Then she splashed a fist down into the water. No, she would not repeat the mistakes of her mother. Storm was promised to another and Sky would never be a second wife. She must be strong and live alone.

She finished her bathing quickly and donned her dress over damp skin. Then she returned to camp to see Storm striking flint with a steel ring and sending a shower of sparks onto carefully gathered tinder of inner bark and the fluff pulled from the dry cattail flower heads. This method of fire starting was usually faster than the cord and stick, but it required steel, which she did not have. Her skinning knife was red flint that came from far to the east.

Storm glanced at her and then returned his attention to his work. Beside him lay three trout, two small and one enormous.

Soon one of the sparks caught and a wisp of smoke emerged from the nest of cattails. Expertly, he lifted the dry white fluff and blew into his hands. The dander caught, glowed, and then a flame erupted from within. He carefully set the flame inside the tepee of tinder and the flames began to catch and rise.

He had already gutted the fish, so she cut green skewers and returned to construct a simple rack for the whole fish. Then she peeled the cattail tubers and cut the inner tender shoots into manageable sizes. She left the cactus and thistle roots for another meal but crushed several juniper berries and stuffed them inside the hollow cavities of the fish.

When the fire had burned for a time, she set her moccasins to dry but not too close to the flames. They were precious to her, because, like her knife sheath, they had been made by her mother, the best quill worker in her village. Or she had been.

When the larger logs began to collapse into glowing embers, she raked the coals into a neat pile and set the shoots to roast while he tended the fish. Frost watched his every motion with hungry eyes and a drooling mouth. Despite the warmth of the fire, the air surrounding Night Storm was still cold and he did not look at her.

“I am sorry,” she said. “I meant no insult.”

Finally he met her gaze. “It is why I do not speak of it and why I do not want those in my tribe to know. Then they will see me as you do.”

“How is that?”

“Imperfect. Weak. Helpless.”

Her shoulders sank at the truth of that. But she also thought they might see him as dangerous and frightening because of the owls.

“I am sorry. I know you are strong. I see you are capable. But everyone has a weakness of some kind.”

“I never did.”

She turned the subject to something that troubled her.

“How have you kept the others from seeing you fall?”

“I spend more and more time away, alone.”

She thought of him, unaided in a falling spell and frowned. “That is dangerous.”

“No worse than losing everything I am,” he said.

“Is your life worth any less?”

“Less and less every day.”

She reached in her bag and drew out a leaf from the nosebleed plant she had collected. Then she crushed the leaf between her fingers and applied it to the scabbing wound on her hand.

“You have been alone during each spell?”

“But I usually have warning. I did not recognize it at first, but now I do and I move away from others.”

Her anger faded as her curiosity was piqued. “What warning?”

“I smell the odor of burning flesh. Then my vision wavers as if I am looking through lake water or like staring through the bands of heat that rise from ground baking in the summer sun.”

“You see movement?”

“A wavering or trembling of the world around me.”

“Can you see the spirit world beyond?”

His brow furrowed. “I have not tried that. I think I see only this world. Sometimes it is just in one eye. I notice this because I closed one eye and then the other.”

“Which eye?”

He pointed to his right.

“Is that all?”

“Once my hand began to tremble and I left the hunt. I found a place to hide, curled on my side and held my pounding head.”

That was incredibly dangerous. If he had choked, none would know where to find him.

“When I woke, it was evening. My mouth was bleeding and my head ached.”

He returned his attention to the fish, and she rolled the cattail shoots and tubers.

He offered her a stick with the two smaller fish and she passed him a portion of the roasted tubers and tender steamed shoots. He shared some of his trout with Frost, who gobbled without the bother of chewing. Once Storm motioned the dog away with a hand, his dog went with good nature and settled to sleep beside the fire and his master.

The fish was flaky and sweet and the tubers starchy and savory. The tart flavor of the junipers came through with each bite. As he ate he told her of the time that he and his brother had put a fish in his youngest sister’s dress when she was bathing and she had thought the spirit of the deer had returned to its skin.

“She screamed so loud it brought the men to the woman’s bathing place.”

Skylark laughed at his imitation of his sister and then the escaping fish. She told of how she had once been so preoccupied finding a curative for burns that she had been caught in the forest at night and slept in the crotch of a tree because she was certain she heard wolves nearby.

“How did you keep from falling?” he asked.

“I used my belt to tie myself to the tree trunk. And do you know, there were wolf tracks all around the tree in the morning.”

“You came down in the morning?”

“No. I didn’t. I waited until I heard my uncle calling.”

“That was wise. Wolves can run very fast.”

“It was the first night I slept out in the forest, but not the last. My aunt and uncle are used to my wanderings.”

“Most women stay together and keep close to the village.”

“Most men hunt in groups, raid in groups, war in groups.”

He smiled at her answer. Somehow the meal had changed them, made their conversation relaxed and more personal. She’d glimpsed a part of him that was comfortable. She felt content and even happy. It was wonderful to be away from the responsibility of shepherding after her father and helping her aunt tend their home. She did not want to think she was like her mother. But perhaps she was more like her than she cared to admit.

No, she was not like that. She wanted a man, a home and children. But she would heed her mother’s words and choose a man who wanted only her.

She gazed skyward, seeing the pink bands of clouds beyond the aspen and pine. Still, she knew a part of her enjoyed her work and her time alone. Sometimes it was a struggle to be like other women. But it was important, too.

When she returned her gaze to the fire it was to note that their conversation had ceased and he was staring at her with a strange, speculative expression.

“What?”

“You look happy.”

She smiled and nodded. “There is nothing like a fire against the growing darkness. A full belly and a full bag of roots and plants.” She patted the bag at her side. “What about you? What makes you happy?”

His smile faded. “Riding. Riding, fast.”

And now he walked.

The conversation that had flowed as naturally as a river came to a sudden stop. She glanced at him, his face glowing with the warm colors of the fire.

“You have more questions?” he asked.

“Many.”

He drew up his knees and wrapped his strong arms about them. “All right then. Ask your questions.”

“When you smell the searing flesh or your vision shakes or your hand trembles, do you always fall down?”

“Yes.”

“Do you hear anything?”

“When the falling begins, I hear a hum.”

“Like bees?”

“No, more like the ring, when you strike metal to metal. But it does not fade. It grows louder and louder, until I cannot hear anything else, and then I fall.”

She thought on all he had said, trying to make some meaning out of it.

“You said that you never had unclean relations with a family member. Is that right?”

He sighed glumly. “Never.”

“That eliminates illness brought by breaking a taboo. But we need to eliminate spirits and ghosts. If we can do so, that will leave only curses and illness. I can help only if you are ill. You understand?”

“Yes. How do we eliminate spirits and ghosts?”

“Spirits act out of offense. Have you failed to offer prayers of thanks or ignored any other required prayers and offerings?”

“I have not.”

“Do you belong to a medicine society?”

“Black War Bonnet.”

She paused at this. The men of that society were the bravest of warriors because they put the mark of death upon their shields. She was familiar with the unique design of this medicine society. A circle of black symbols on robe or shield meant this man held back death.

She lifted her brows and he endured her scrutiny. The owls. The Black War Bonnet society. Who was this man?

“And you perform all rites?” she asked.

“I do.”

“That eliminates spirits. They do not attack the living without cause.”

“Ghosts?” he asked.

“Ghosts are either enemies you have killed or those you know who are not at peace. Sometimes if a life’s circle is not complete, a soul can feel cheated and try to finish their journey with the body of the living. Have all those of your family been properly set to rest in either the ground or the sky?”

“Always.”

“Possession of your body can cause ghost sickness. You would feel fevered, nauseous and sometimes have the sensation of suffocating. Usually those with ghost sickness see visions that are not there.”

“I have seen things that are not there. But not the fever or suffocating sensation.”

She nodded. They could not rule out ghosts then.

“Any recent deaths of someone near to you?”

“I lost a friend in the same battle when I was injured.”

She straightened at this revelation as possibilities danced in her mind. “Injured. When?”

Night Storm hesitated, rubbing the back of his head as he stared at the ground.

From the lake, bullfrogs began their deep belching call. The burning wood popped and crackled as the fire consumed it, but Night Storm seemed to notice none of it.

Skylark was just about to remind him that she could do little without knowing what troubles he had and everything she could learn about his injury. Her grandmother was very insistent that she discover all she could about a person seeking care. That included minute details regarding his habits and all his past wounds.

At last he met her gaze and she again felt the punch of physical attraction hit her low in the belly. He held her attention and the pull to move near to him became more insistent. She set aside the remains of her meal, knowing that she had no further appetite for food. A different hunger gnawed.

His shoulders lifted and then settled as he blew out a long breath. Then he gave a little nod, as if he had decided something.

“We battled against the Lakota who were pursuing the white men who dress in the colors of the wolf. We had seen the white men who dress in blue cross our territory with people of a tribe we do not know. These warriors dress like the whites, but their skin was like the people and their hair was long and black and braided in the proper way.

All the white soldiers travel in groups and carry large guns, like the ones in the forts, and so we let them pass. We might have let the gray men pass, as well, but they brought our enemy into our territory. So we attacked. I have had many coups in battle. This I would say first. But in this fight, I was unseated and one of my horse’s hind hooves struck me here.” He pointed to the back of his head.

She drew air through her teeth at the image of him being kicked by his horse. “May I feel this place?”

Instantly she realized the problem with this request. She had touched the wounds of countless men and women in her tribe from the very old to the very young. But never had she anticipated the contact with such a yawning need. Eagerness, yes, that was what she felt.

He nodded his consent and she fairly leaped to her feet to close the distance that separated them. She knelt beside him and began as she had been taught, with a gentle touch to his arm. It was not right to immediately grope a place that might cause pain. She worked from the strong column of his neck to the base of his skull, trying to ignore the tingling awareness her fingers relayed with the contact of her flesh to his flesh. Her physical enjoyment of the contact ended when she found the place where he had been kicked. There was no lump. Rather, she found a shallow depression.

“Were you kicked or stepped on?” she asked.

“I was struck here with a war club.” He pointed to the tiny red scar that sliced through one of his eyebrows. How had she not noticed that before?

“This was a glancing blow. But it caused me to lose my balance. Then our horses collided and I fell backward.”

She examined the scar, her awareness of him now mixed with the need to solve this puzzle.

“Do you remember the blow or the fall?” She released him and sat at his side, turning toward him as he spoke.

“Neither. My friend, Two Hawks, saw the blow and watched me become unseated. He said I killed the man with my lance, but he hit me before leaving his horse. Two Hawks said that I did not fall like a man who knows he is falling. He said the horse’s rear foot hit me here and that after they had chased away the intruders they came back for me, surprised to find me alive. I did not wake until late in the evening and I do not recall the battle or the blow or the fall or even the days that followed.”

“I am not surprised. The bone of your skull was crushed. The swelling from this break should have taken you from this world and into the next.”

“Perhaps it did,” he muttered.

“Yet here you are,” she countered. “How can that be?”

“I think I walked the ghost road and then came back.”

They stared at each other. Owls...a death, his death, and then his return to this world. She drew up her knees and hugged them tight. Her heart beat in her throat as she resisted the urge to draw away from him. Had he walked across the sky to the spirit world? Had he stopped on his own or had the one who guards the road set his feet back to the world of the living?

Was that why he heard the owl?

She shivered against the clammy chill that took her.

“My shaman said he sang me awake,” said Night Storm.

“Did he give you anything to bring down the swelling?”

“He called on the power of the spirit world to heal me or take me.”

“But no medicine?” She could not believe his shaman had not given Storm something for pain and to bring down the swelling.

“You said that someone close to you died?” she said.

“Yes. My friend and cousin. We were raised together. We went on our vision quest together, and we were inducted into the same medicine society.” He shook his head and looked truly miserable.

She did not ask the name of his cousin because it was both impolite and dangerous to speak of the dead. To do so was to disturb their rest and risk inviting them to return to haunt the living. But some souls did not rest because they refused to walk the ghost road to the spirit world, lingering instead among them. These ghosts could cause havoc if measures were not taken to send them away.

“We can look into this possibility. Did he die a good death?” She was asking if he had fought bravely or, if captured, if he represented his people and himself with pride and dignity under torture.

“His death was good, quick. The gray white men shot him with their rifles.”

“And his body was recovered?”

“Yes, and he was sent on a scaffold with his things.”

“That is good. You said that you have seen things that were not there. Will you tell me of them?”

“Not tonight.”

She pursed her lips at this delaying tactic and thought to remind him that he said he would be forthcoming. But he rubbed his forehead again, as he had done earlier when he said he had pain. She did not want to cause another fall by her questions.

“These wounds look recent.” She laid an open palm on the scarred flesh at his chest. There were two ragged, raised places on each side of his upper torso that could mean only one thing. This man had tested his devotion and bravery in the most sacred of all ways.

“I have the honor of success in the sun dance,” he said, his voice humble.

This was no small feat. She had watched the sun dance in her tribe. Young warriors volunteered to have wooden spikes inserted through the skin of their chest or upper back. The spikes pierced in and then out at a different place, like a bone awl through a buckskin. From these dowels, long rawhide tethers were tied. The other ends of these ropes were fixed to a tall pole, set deep in the ground solely for this purpose. Then the men would dance as sweat streamed down their bodies. They would dance and chant and blow whistles made from the bones of an eagle’s wing. All the while they would stare at the sun and try to tear free of their bonds. This might take a day or more. Some men passed out during the dance only to revive to try again. Not all tore free. To voluntarily submit to such an ordeal was a true test of courage. And this man had succeeded.

“I was the first to free myself.”

“The first?” It was a great coup. Skylark did not think she could be more impressed. “That is amazing.”

“It was not. I tore free only because I fell.”

Unease prickled.

“Your second fall.”

Beyond the circle of their fire and past the open ground now fading with twilight came the hoot of a great horned owl. She stilled as the chill of night seemed to seep into every pore.


Chapter Five (#ulink_b933ea60-1da9-538c-a766-a47454318c64)

Night Storm did not seem to be bothered by the nearness of the owl, while she was completely unnerved by the sound. What had her aunt always said? If you hear an owl, ghosts walk near.

“The sun dance was my second fall,” said Night Storm.

“Did you not hear that?” she asked.

“What? The owl?” He blew away a long, suffering breath. “I hear them...everywhere.” He fixed his gaze on her and she wondered again who was this man?

“Would you hear of the sun dance?”

She nodded numbly.

“It was my hope that the sun dance would cure me. I blew my whistle, and I prayed for the Great Spirit to rid me of my weakness. That my prayers would rise up like the sacred tobacco smoke to the Great Spirit. I leaned away from the attachments in my chest.”

She flinched at his words but he continued on.

“But the pain did not bring me closer to the spirit world. I smelled burning flesh and the ringing began. At first I thought it was the eagle whistles. But the sound was inside my head, and I fell before I could prove myself worthy of answered prayers.”

“You fell in front of everyone?”




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