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“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?
