Chapter Four

Cesca didn't know how long she chased nightmarish images of a bronze-skinned savage in her sleep. When she awoke, dusk had come to the village and pale white stars danced overhead through the opening of the tipi.

With pipe in hand, the old woman sat by the fire, fanned smoke over her body and chanted. Flames sparked and hissed around the charred logs, rendering the lodge stifling hot. Had Brown Wing lost her senses in her old age?

Cesca rose and sat across from her. "Can I have some water?"

Brown Wing pointed to a bladder pouch near her feet.

She took a long sip and took in her surroundings again. A new bed of pine boughs covered in animal skins had materialized next to the old woman's berth. "Where does I Am The Wind sleep?"

"Meko," she grunted. "Call Meko! Has own tipi."

Cesca didn't have to force the smile. "That's a relief."

"This my lodge. He take care of old woman, give me everything I own."

"How generous of him."

Brown Wing said, "I not know that word."

"Generous. Kind. Caring." A sarcastic chuckle left her lips. "Odd words to describe him, I know."

"Meko kind, not to white woman who no listen."

Cesca shuddered. Maybe he'd forgotten about her little indiscretion, had more important things to do, like torture children and rape women. Dear God, let him forget I even exist.

No sooner had the thought left her mind than the flap opened and he ducked under the flap, all sinful, wicked masculinity. Cesca glanced to Brown Wing. The woman put the pipe down, poked the fire with a stick, and stirred the contents in the pot with a long-handled ladle. Cesca wanted to vanish into the air when he dropped to the ground near the fire. The old woman filled a bowl and handed it to him along with a piece of flat bread.

When he finished eating, he nodded to Brown Wing. The woman rose and left the tipi without a word. Cesca didn't realize until now she'd been clenching her fists until her fingers ached.

He looked at her across the fire, his gaze wandering to the doeskin clothing and moccasins on the ground. "You must wear the clothing."

She shook her head.

"You'll dress like the Cheyenne now."

"You can't make me! I'm not Cheyenne and never will be."

* * *

Meko's breath caught in his throat. Defiance masked her face, in spite of what she'd been through. Her eyes shone with the brilliance of emeralds in the dim light of the tipi. God, the woman had a courageous spirit, not to mention beauty. He forced his eyes from her flushed cheeks and full, pink lips.

He came to put the fear of God in her, couldn't take the chance she'd disobey him again, or worse, attempt to escape. How could he protect her from those that hated the white-eye and everything about them? She'd rebel against the rules and boundaries, but he sensed she would never be broken or ruled by a man.

He looked across the fire, into her sea-green eyes again. Her lower lip trembled, yet she wouldn't yield. "Put them on or I'll do it for you. Choose."

Her gaze darted about the tipi, and an interminable amount of time passed before she answered. "No."

"No?"

"I will not put them on."

He rose, walked around the fire and grabbed her arm. "Poor choice." Before she could react, he clutched the shirt in his hands and ripped it down the middle.

Striking faster than a cobra, her nails clawed his cheek. "I hope you die! I pray a hatchet finds your skull."

He clutched the waist of her trousers. "You vicious little bitch."

Damn him for not anticipating her next move. A white-hot pain shot through his groin. She took advantage of his incapacitated state and bolted for the entrance. With his balls in his throat, he lunged through the air and brought them crashing to the ground. They tumbled about the lodge, her kicking and screaming, him trying to pin her arms and legs to the earth. Tiresome minutes later, she stilled beneath him, her chest heaving. Staring into her eyes, he realized if he looked too long, he'd lose his soul. Breathless pants parted her lips. His mouth covered hers and his tongue slipped inside seeking the silken depths. Drowning in the sweet taste, he released her hands and she twined her fingers in his hair—the last response he expected from the baffling woman.

A moan came from the back of her throat when he melded his body into her soft curves. He couldn't control his quickened breathing or his expanding cock. God, the woman had bewitched him and she seemed oblivious to her effect on him.

He broke from the kiss, knowing he'd soon be inside her if he didn't. From beneath half-shuttered eyelids she watched him, and he couldn't stop staring at her sensual mouth. Pushing to his feet, he pulled her with him. She fell into his chest, would have slumped to the ground if he hadn't held her up.

Her eyes wide, she bolted from him and blew a huff of air. "Don't do that again! I wouldn't have kissed you if I wasn't so terrified. "

For some strange reason, he wanted to take her in his arms, tell her he'd protect her from everything evil, real or imagined. But if he took one step toward her, she'd turn into the feral cat again, claw his eyes out.

Visions came to him, striking with the force of a thunderclap. The enchantress of his dreams stood before him, bare breasts, pants slung low on her narrow hips. He buried the urge to toss her to the ground and fuck her senseless.

"I'm leaving now." To his surprise, emotion clogged his throat, but he'd be damned if he'd let her know. "You better be wearing the clothing by morning or I'll grab the nearest branch and beat your delectable backside."

"You would, you beast! You—you―"

He put a hand in the air. "I already know what you think of me." He nodded toward the garments at her feet. "By morning."

When he turned to leave, she called out to him. "Wait!"

Gathering his battered emotions, he turned to face her. "What is it now?"

"My brother, he's alive and well?"

"They called for the medicine man with the healing herbs."

"What will happen to him?"

His heart went out to the impetuous creature that had little regard for her own fate. How could he not admire her courage and the love she held for her brother? What would it take for him to win such devotion from her? "He ran the gauntlet, proved his courage, and now he'll be adopted by Choking Wolf."

He couldn't tell her the boy called Marsh would lead a tortuous life with Choking Wolf. The man had killed at least two captives during a drunken rage. A mixture of Arapaho and Lakota, the Dog Soldiers had welcomed the fearless warrior into their camp several years ago. Perhaps it had been a mistake to shelter one with so much hate in his heart.

A tear slid down Cesca's cheek. "He will be forced to wear Cheyenne clothing, become one of the People?"

"Yes, the same as you."

She turned her back to him.

Meko took a moment to devour the soft line of her shoulders, the graceful curve of her hips, and the long, midnight hair tumbling down her back. When the heat rose in his loins again, he walked through the flap of the tipi, cursing the day he brought her here.

Brown Wing pulled her gaze from the stars. "Mighty battle fought in my tipi. Who win?"

"Me."

A cynical smile split her lips.

"She got a few licks in. The shirt is gone, but she still wears the trousers. Withhold food and water tomorrow if she refuses to dress like the Cheyenne." He turned to leave but stopped and looked at the old woman again. "Leave a message at my lodge before the sun sets. Cross two twigs on the ground if she wears the clothes, stand them upright in the dirt if she still refuses."

She nodded. "Where you go now?"

"To warn Black Kettle the People are in danger." Gut instinct told him something else was on the woman's mind. "What is it, Brown Wing? Speak freely."

"She not like other whites. Hard to break her spirit."

He shook his head, the image of them tumbling around the lodge surfacing. "I don't want to break her spirit."

"She win fight with Black Bonnet?"

"Yes." He smiled. "She won the fight."

Brown Wing's eyes sparked. "I take good care of woman while you gone."

"I hope she doesn't send you to an early grave."

"I take everything she give. For you, Meko."

He offered a slow, appreciative nod. "Don't let her leave your lodge while I'm gone. Strikes First will stand guard until I return."

And then he walked into the wind he came from.

* * *

The fifty miles to Black Kettle's village taxed his already tired body. The Dog Soldiers no longer camped among the People. They spent their days honing their skills for battle and discussing war strategy, their nights praying to the ancient spirits.

Putting distance behind him, the leader of the Dog Soldiers stormed the prairie and embraced the lazy wind blowing across the land. He thought about his captive and the electricity between them whenever their eyes met. He'd struggled to hold his emotions in check when she clung to him. For a brief moment, the defiance had faded in her eyes and her body had surrendered.

It would be easy to take her, appease his wild lust, and transport them to a place where only the joining of bodies mattered, but he had so much more to consider. He stood on a bridge linking the future to the past. How could he ignore that, take her innocence for the sake of passion? One day he must leave, return to the future again.

What about her future? The People coveted chastity above all else. A maiden must be pure, untouched until she went to her marriage bed. Those who strayed from that path were scorned, ridiculed, cast out. A Cheyenne man didn't want a woman who spent her nights on her back unless it was beneath him as his wife. If he appeased this ravenous need, took her for the sake of sating this hunger, he'd be signing her death warrant. The Cheyenne would never accept her. Her life would be worthless and miserable. Christ, the enormity of it all.

Countless women had shared his bed in this life and in his past, but not one had sent lightning coursing through his blood or stirred him in the way she did. Her delicate features and thick mass of hair appeared behind his tired eyes. The woman, and everything about her, moved him.

He'evo'nehe, she-wolf, that's what she is. An irresistible boy-girl, so captivating that every time he looked at her, hot flames sped through his veins, drove him to the brink of madness. He should run faster than a fox fleeing a pack of wild dogs.

He fantasized about her coming to him of her own will, knew she would one day, even if she didn't realize it yet. This indelible bond between them could never be severed, not in this world or the next. Cesca was his fate no matter what realm he walked—future, past, present and everything in between.

He closed his eyes against the tormenting images and allowed Night Walker to take the lead. He gave his oath to the Sacred Council of Arrows to help the People, and he'd never return to this exact moment in time again.

When he completed his mission, he could leave or face his own demise. If he chose the latter, he'd never return to the past or his present life. He didn't know when the moment to choose would find him. He might be standing on the threshold of life and death when he alone could make the choice. Stay and die or allow the power of the raven to course through his veins and return him to the present. A sick sense of helplessness washed over him. He'd never look upon Cesca's face again or feel the firestorm racing though his blood, like it did now whenever he looked at her.

At some time, Night Walker lapsed into a lope, but consumed with thoughts of Cesca, Meko hadn't noticed. Filled with foreboding, he wanted to erase the visions torturing his soul, dismiss the decisions weighing him down. He longed to think of nothing but here and now, embrace the hot sun, revel in the wind on his face, and draw in great gulps of air.

He nudged the mount with his knees and sent him into a gallop. Only then could he pretend he didn't walk between two worlds or imagine choices were as simple as selecting a piece of wood to whittle. Only then could he close his eyes and envision absolute freedom. Not a soul could plunge him into the past or transport him back to the present in the breath of a heartbeat.

Black Kettle's camp breached the horizon. Meko's visit wasn't about imminent danger, but he had to warn the chief malevolence lurked on the bleak road ahead. If the man didn't move his village, soldiers would come and his People would be annihilated.

Black Kettle believed his People were at peace with the white-eye, had no idea the blue coats would come without warning in the Hard Face Moon, He'kneneeše'he. Sand Creek came into view, its pristine waters sparkling like a sea of diamonds amid the vast plains.

The sentry greeted him and Meko repeated the word for solidarity and friendship. "Haaahe."

Black Kettle's tipi stood where it always had, in the center of the village, facing east. Medicine Woman, the chief's wife, greeted him with a smile when he dismounted. Seated on the ground with several women from the tribe, she pulled an animal bone from a nearby pile, crushed it with a stone and removed the marrow. Her nod toward the tipi indicated Meko would find her husband inside.

Meko greeted Black Kettle and a handful of warriors gathered around the fire.

The chief dismissed the braves and turned to Meko with an intuitive look. "You have journeyed far, my friend." Black Kettle pointed to the ground. "Sit." The chief took his time smoking the pipe before passing it to him.

An eerie déjà vu washed over Meko when he grasped the pipe. He'd seen similar objects at the museum, encased in a wooden box covered with glass. He dismissed the peculiar sensation and studied Black Kettle. In his mid-years now, the chief was still a fine specimen of a man. The leader of the Cheyenne held an affinity for a splendid headdress made of eagle feathers and buffalo horns. Meko saw the finery hanging from a post at the far end of the man's lodge when he entered.

A buckskin shirt embellished with tufts of human hair covered his torso and doeskin leggings hugged his long legs. Long, black plaits adorned with ermine fur and trade beads fell well beyond his collarbones. The first time he met Black Kettle, he knew the man's physical bearing and charismatic aura set him apart from the common man.

A great leader among the People, the chief held a unique vision for coexistence between the red man and the white. Despite false promises from the white-eye and attacks on his life, the man had done everything within his power to broker peace between the races.

Meko addressed him by his Cheyenne name. "How are your days on the reservation, Motavato?"

He replied with a shrug. "Little food for the People on this barren land. Disease and hunger send many on their final journey."

Meko dragged on the pipe, met Black Kettle's eyes, and waited for him to speak again.

"The Cheyenne have journeyed through a cloud since the white man came. We ask for peace now."

"This peace you seek does not come yet. You must leave this place, my friend. In the days to come, the earth will run red with Cheyenne blood. Many of the People will die."

Black Kettle regarded him with measured calm. "Where will we go?"

Meko shook his head. The white man had tricked the Cheyenne into signing a treaty in sixty-one. Black Kettle had made his mark out of desperation, knowing if he refused the soldiers would arrive with cannon and destroy the People.

"You have seen a vision, Meko?"

He answered with a slow nod. How could he tell the chief it wasn't merely a vision but a factual historical accounting, one of the worst atrocities committed against the Plains Indians? The Sacred Council had sent him to convince Black Kettle to move his tribe. If the chief ignored his warning, death and destruction would come to his band.

"I will go to the Great White Father, Lincoln, tell him my braves are willing to do what I say." Black Kettle gave a half-snort. "I will tell him we take good tidings home to our People so they may sleep in peace."

"I cannot stop you from making this journey, but promises will be made and they'll be broken again. I came to warn you, to ask you to move your village. That's all I can do."

When talk turned dismal, Black Kettle always changed the subject. "How are the days among the Dog Soldiers?"

"Bloody as always. The Dog Soldier lives between life and death. The young warriors are thirsty for revenge; spend their days preying on the livestock of nearby settlers."

"It is hard to hold this peace between the white man and the red."

With another nod, Meko passed the pipe to the chief. "I'll pray to the spirits your journey brings peace."

Black Kettle rose, and as a courtesy, asked him to stay for a meal.

"I must leave, my friend, but I brought blankets, a rifle, and even a necklace made of bear claws for trade."

Straight, white teeth gleamed behind the chief's smile. "What do you long for that belongs to me?"

"The mare with four white legs tied to your lodge outside."

"A gift from Lean Bear after he raided a Kiowa camp." Admiration shimmered in his eyes. "The horse is swift of foot."

Meko failed to squelch his smile. Black Kettle had always been a shrewd trader.

The chief slapped him on the shoulder. "How many blankets?"

"Six." Meko held up his fingers. "They'll keep you warm during Hohtseeše'he."

"Tell me, great leader, will I be alive for the next Hoop Moon?"

"Yes," Meko said. "Would I bring blankets if you had no use for them when the cold wind blows?"

Meko followed Black Kettle outside where the man took the blankets, the rifle, and studied the necklace before looping it over his head. "It is a fair trade." He untied the mare and held the reins in his hand. "Remember, Meko, the mare is not a stallion. She responds better to the kind touch of a hand, a soft voice."

"So I have heard, wise one."

"I have heard things too, my friend."

Meko waited for the chief to enlighten him on the local gossip in his village.

"The old women say you took captives, a brave boy and a woman that makes the stars weep."

"The boy is her brother." He shuffled his feet in the dirt. Cesca's face loomed and he couldn't deny her magnificence to Black Kettle, much less to himself. "Yes, her beauty moves the stars, but her fury shakes the mountains."

Black Kettle smiled. "Good traits, beauty and anger. These will make for an interesting life. I have found in my old age the best way to still anger is to embrace it. The young braves wish to crush it, but it is not the path of a knowing man. Revenge seeks more death." He handed Meko the reins. "A gentle hand for the mare."

Meko rode from camp a short time later. The nimble horse held her own against Night Walker as they clipped across the prairie in the dark. Meko didn't worry about getting lost. Guided by silver ribbons of moonbeams, the stallion knew the way. With that in mind, he relaxed and allowed the rhythmic motion of the mount beneath him to lull him into other musings.

He thought about his job as a curator's assistant and the years of schooling he'd notched. Setting his course in his youth, he'd immersed himself in every history book he could find, archeology and art, particularly Native American art.

The day he received his high school diploma, he embarked on a journey to earn his Bachelor of Arts degree. The credentials might earn him a position at one of the smaller museums in the country. He'd sent out a hundred resumes until one took the bait. The stars were with him—or perhaps the spirits—the day he landed a job at The National Museum of the American Indian. Prestige hadn't come with the job. In fact, he was nothing more than a gopher for the curators. He measured and catalogued artifacts, answered e-mails, and conducted research to identify items found at archeological digs.

One day, he stumbled upon a folder in the Chief Curator's file cabinet marked Unidentified Native American Artifacts. He opened the letters and e-mails from collectors, museums, and private citizens who'd discovered the items. An image and a brief description of the object had been attached to the piece. He recognized everyone, but why wouldn't he? He'd used them in battle, ate with them, and even played with an item or two during his past journeys.

When he brought the folder to Paul Davidson, his immediate supervisor, the man met him with reserved skepticism. Ethan took the pictures out, and at the top of each page identified the object, what it had been used for, and by what tribe. Paul's mouth had fallen open, and his skepticism turned to joy. Mired in courses for his doctoral degree, the identification of the items couldn't have come at a better time for the man.

In the following weeks, Ethan forgot about the folder, but apparently it had become big news in the curator community. Davidson summoned him to a conference room one day. Seated at the table, an assembly of scientists, curators, archeologists, and an art major or two greeted him.

A bewhiskered gent with long white hair and spectacles riding low on the bridge of his nose addressed him. "Mr. Gray, I'm Doctor Cooley. I understand you're the man who identified these Native American objects?"

Ethan nodded.

"And you're Native American?"

He crushed the urge to laugh. Perhaps his long, black hair or the dark tone of his skin had given him away. Or both.

A woman addressed him. "Might I ask the origin of your roots?"

"Cheyenne," he'd answered.

"Surely not all the objects are Cheyenne?"

Ethan studied the woman and determined she'd faint if she ever encountered an authentic warrior from the plains. Perhaps she'd pee her fine linen panties if she examined a fresh, bloody scalp lock, not one tucked away for a hundred years behind a glass-covered curio box.

"That's right," he'd answered. "Some are Sioux, Arapaho, and Crow, one or two Paiute."

She looked down her nose at him. "How is it you know, Mr…?"

"Gray, Ethan Gray."

"Yes, Mr. Gray. How is it you know what these artifacts were used for?"

He wanted to tell the truth but knew the people in the room would erupt into a fit of apoplexy. "I've made it my lifelong ambition to study everything Native American. I live it, breathe it." He'd spoken the truth. Traveling between two worlds was his livelihood.

Not one seemed to doubt his authority after he'd explained in detail why some were shaped thus, and how they were made to best utilize their maximum potential.

Weeks later, he was elevated to Assistant Curator, a status affording him a larger salary and intimate involvement with the precious possessions of his People.

He longed to return to a university to work on his Master's or Doctorate but the dream went to the back-burner and remained there to this day. The Council needed him and his allegiance to the People came first.

Meko pulled into the Dog Soldier camp at daylight. The pungent smell of smoke greeted him. He missed the familiar scent in his other life, as well as the heady odor of pure horseflesh and the way the compact ponies moved beneath him. Horses in the real world were domesticated and sissified. None could hold up against a pony pounding the hard-packed earth while dodging gopher holes, or charging into battle with speeding bullets ringing in your ears. Soon he'd find out if his one-year hiatus had dandified and softened him.

After he dismounted in front of Brown Wing's tipi, Strikes First greeted him with a casual wave and a bowl of venison and gravy. "You travel hard and fast."

Meko relied on the man in times of battle and at times like this. Tall and wiry, the fearsome warrior embodied virility. The last time he fought beside Strikes First, Meko had to pull his friend's stake from the ground, force him to retreat. Only another Dog Solider could make another withdraw. Outnumbered and out-gunned, Meko had whipped him from his suicide post, told him he'd live to fight another day. Strikes First had done the same for him on occasion.

Between bites of food, Meko nodded toward the lodge. "Brown Wing's tipi still stands."

"Yes, your woman is meeker than a coyote pup since you left." Admiration glinted in the dark brown orbs. "I think she saves her strength to claw your eyes out."

"She wears the clothes and the moccasins?"

"Brown Wing said the white woman took them to her bed, covered her chest with the shirt, but does not wear it."

Meko glanced toward the tipi again and scowled.

"Her stomach rumbles louder than thunder. I think she will yield soon." Strikes First looked at the roan tied to Night Walker's saddle horn. "You return with a peace offering?"

"A wedding gift."

His friend laughed.

"You find that amusing?"

"It is a hard road you travel with the green-eyed wildcat. Peace will not be a word you will use when speaking her name."

"You're probably right but she is well worth the troubled journey."

"You have told Black Kettle he must leave?"

Meko nodded. "He'll make a journey to the Great White Father, bargain for this peace the Cheyenne seek, but . . .."

Strikes First raised his head to the pale light of morning and Meko could almost read his mind. His friend knew what lingered on the horizon, had spent his entire life preparing for it.

By the time Meko left Strikes First, magpies stirred the nearby trees, awakening camp to greet another day.

Two sticks, standing upright in the dirt, greeted Meko when he arrived at his lodge. With a curse, he kicked them over and entered his tipi.