Chapter Five

Cesca jackknifed up in her new bed of fresh pine boughs and animal pelts. Voices found her from outside the tipi, Brown Wing's and, dear God, his! She'd slept in the cotton trousers with nothing covering her breasts except the doeskin shirt. The pants and moccasins glared at her from beside the bed. She frowned and weighed her options.

Her thoughts last night before drifting off to sleep were of Meko, the memory of his kiss and the unexpected passion that flared between them. The wicked onslaught had stolen the breath from her lungs. What had happened to her firm resolve, her silent oath to hate him forever? She wanted to fight back, ignore the traitorous response of her body, but every lucid thought flew from her mind until nothing existed but his body crushing her, his lips ravaging her mouth, and his hands clutching the hair at the sides of her head.

Heat found her cheeks at the remembrance. The unexplainable physical reaction had rendered her incapacitated, dizzy with a hunger for more. His kiss hadn't felt anything like the time Patrick Mulligan had kissed her. She felt not a smidgen of desire the night Patrick's clumsy hands had groped her beneath the weeping willow. Heaven help her. She had to stay away from this man, yet he called to her like a hypnotic flame.

The delicious aroma of roasted rabbit beckoned her through the open flap of the lodge. She grabbed the shirt from the ground, slipped it over her head, and next shucked Marsh's old pants and donned the doeskins. While pulling the moccasins over her feet, she released a string of expletives. She couldn't starve herself over clothing if she planned to escape. Pulling her hair back, she tied it with a leather thong and left the tipi.

Necks craned when Cesca walked to the fire, Brown Wing's, Strikes First's and his. She dropped to her haunches with a lethal glare. The old woman's eyes twinkled, no doubt with delight now that Cesca had come to her senses. Brown Wing filled a bowl with large chunks of rabbit from the pot and handed it to her. Cesca's hunger overrode her anger, but to show her defiance she wouldn't bother with the wooden spoon. Scooping the meat from the bowl with her fingers, she shoved the chunks into her mouth in rapid succession, and took smug delight in their open-mouthed stares.

"Not eat so fast. Get sick." Brown Wing clucked her cheek, plucked the spoon from the bowl and shoved it into her hand. "Háméško, use háméško!"

With narrowed eyes, she gripped the spoon and shoveled the delectable fare into her mouth. "What say you, Chief-Who-Bullies-Women?" Between bites, she sent Meko a withering glance. "How should I eat and when?"

Strikes First rose from the ground with a smirk, and although Meko's expression remained impassive, his jaw twitched.

That pleased her.

Brown Wing disappeared into the tipi again. Alone with Meko, courage abandoned her, and her stomach churned. From the rapidly ingested food or the cool regard in the gray eyes, she didn't know. The garish war paint had disappeared and the morning sun cast an angle of light across his features. Cesca forced the gasp down her throat. Strength and beauty didn't begin to describe the man. Above his right eyebrow, a two-inch scar slanted upward toward his hair line. Another ran from left cheek to jaw line. She wondered how he'd acquired the wounds, and God help her, longed to run her fingers over those jagged scars.

As if he could read her thoughts, he smiled. "If you're done assessing me, I'll take you for a walk."

"To see Marsh?"

"No, to see a horse."

Her shoulders sagged. "Why would I want to see a horse?" She stared off into the distance, her voice a whisper. "I suppose next you'll expect me to jump on a pony's rump at a dead run and shoot an arrow with amazing accuracy?"

He rubbed his chin. "I wonder―"

She wagged a finger at him. "I'm wearing the clothes, aren't I? Take the win and be grateful."

"Not a win for me, protection for you." The cool tone of his voice reminded her of the times her father read to her as a child.

"Ha!" she said. "Protection from whom?"

"The sooner you adjust to your new life, the sooner the People will accept you."

Her words came fast. "I suppose you expect me to believe you care!"

"I do care."

"If you did, you'd let us go."

"I told you, there's nothing I can do to help your brother. He belongs to Choking Wolf, and you belong to me now."

How she wanted to jump across the fire and slap him, but the fiery glint in his eyes told her she wouldn't catch him unprepared this time.

"You might lead the soldiers back to camp if I release you."

"How could I accomplish such a feat?" she asked with a whine. "I don't know where I am."

Ignoring her question, he came to his feet. "Are you ready for that walk?"

Cesca rose too, folded her arms across her chest and waited for him to lead the way. Smiling copper faces greeted them as they strolled through camp. Comrades called out to him and waved. Despite the absence of war paint, she recognized several faces. She'd never forget the sturdy-legged ponies trampling her father's wheat field and the fresh scalps hanging from the warriors' belts. How could the red man be so brutal one minute and wave at neighbors the next?

Meko stopped in front of a tipi painted in colorful, symbolic designs. His, she assumed. She spied the horse they'd ridden into the village, a giant of a beast compared to the other ponies. Beside the stallion, a bright-eyed mare with white stockings pawed at the ground. A splash of pale stars dotted her flanks and rump.

He untied the rope from the post and handed the reins to her. "She's yours."

"Mine?" Joy rushed through her and next doubt. "What do I have to do if I accept?"

His brilliant smile left her breathless. "Promise you'll ride her only inside the village, never venture beyond the boundaries of the tipis, and . . .."

"And what else?"

"Take the marriage vows with me," he said, shocking her with his words.

She pinched her lips and faltered on her words. "Are—are you mad? Marry you?"

"Hear me out. The Cheyenne regard chastity above all else. If you don't marry me, you'll be scorned, spit upon."

Anger seeped from her lips in s hiss. "Then leave me chaste—leave me alone!"

"I cannot." He looked at the distant sun. "One day, little wildcat, you'll come to me of your own free will."

The words rushed from her mouth. "You're so smitten with yourself. What makes you think I won't be able to keep my hands off you? And, what's more, you're—you're insufferable!"

"One way or the other," he said in that calm tone that grated on her nerves, "you will marry me, even if I have to carry you over my shoulder to the holy man."

"You can force me to wear the clothes of a squaw, but I won't marry you or, warm your blankets."

He crossed the short distance between them and grabbed her clenched fist. "What makes you think I want to share my bed with a rancorous, little she-cat when many would come to my bed willingly?"

"Good! Marry them!" Her head swam. If only he'd quit looking at her. She tried to wrench free of his tight grip but he held on, his anger rising like steamed heat.

He released her wrist, his eyes dark and turbulent. "Be careful, Francesca, you might get caught in your own trap."

He'd called her by her Christian name, and coming from him it sounded so strange. She rubbed her chafed wrist. "How do you know my Christian name?"

"I have ears. I heard your brother call out to you in the clearing."

"Well-well," she stammered. "You don't have permission to use it."

With that, she stormed off, the gift of the horse all but forgotten.

* * *

Two days later, they were married. Rigid and aloof throughout the ceremony, Cesca pressed her lips into mute defiance and held back tears of desolation. A dress of supple, white buckskin hugged her stiff body, and soft moccasins adorned her feet. Brown Wing had placed a sacred necklace of turquoise beads and white quartz around her neck and had braided her long hair before she left the lodge, yet the ceremony seemed anything but holy.

A quick, private affair, only Brown Wing, Strikes First, and a flat-faced, rotund woman she thought to be the holy man's wife attended. Her father and Marsh should've been here. Dear God, what would her brother think when he found out she'd married a Dog Soldier? She'd have it annulled. Yes, she'd gone through the mechanics of standing beside him, grunting every time the holy man looked directly at her, but that wasn't the same as saying I do.

Was it?

As for Meko, she couldn't begin to decipher his demeanor. Solemnity came to mind, certainly not exuberant joy. Once during the ceremony, she lifted her head and stole a glance at him. Dressed in what she imagined his finest attire, a doeskin shirt canvassed his lean, muscular torso and matched his fawn leggings and breechclout. Two black and yellow feathers emerged from behind his right ear and Cesca didn't know what bird they originated from, nor did she care. Whenever the holy man paused in his mundane monologue, Meko emitted a terse answer, accompanied by a nod. Good, God, what was he agreeing to? Worse, she thought miserably, what had she agreed to with every grumble from her lips?

At the end of the ritual, would money or goods be exchanged, similar to purchasing a horse? It would have been futile for her to hide in the lodge, refuse to walk through the village with Meko, or throw a tantrum. One thing she'd learned about the dark warrior, he never issued a promise or a threat he wasn't prepared to back up with force. He'd make good on it—gag her if he had to, tie her hands behind her back and drag her to the ceremony.

There would be no joyous dancing, no large feast, not even a tender kiss after the man older than Methuselah finished reciting the foreign words. We'll see how cool and collected Meko is when he tries to consummate this farce of a marriage. I'll claw his eyes out or toss myself over a cliff!

Brown Wing tapped her on the shoulder. The ceremony was over, final. Lucifer, what is dear Maman in heaven thinking right now? She'd married a heathen! Cesca stormed from the lodge with Brown Wing hobbling behind her, the old woman doing her best to keep up with her frenzied gait.

The days passed with giddy relief for Cesca when Meko failed to come for her, but after a week, curiosity got the best of her. "Has Meko left the village?"

The old woman shook her head. "Last night take walk with Black Bonnet in moonlight."

Her head came up and a little green monster roared in her ears. "Good! Maybe he'll take her for a wife and leave me alone."

"Cheyenne have many wives," Brown Wing said with a shrug.

Sick. She was going to be sick. "The more the merrier and the less often—"

"Maybe warrior no want skinny girl in bed." Brown Wing cupped her hands under her breasts, her broad smile infuriating Cesca. "Black Bonnet big tits."

Cesca stormed from the tipi and called out over her shoulder. "Oh, you're a crazy old woman!"

Meko found her minutes later with her face buried in the mare's muzzle. "You are well?"

She jumped. Heaven help her, the man appeared out of nowhere, and every time he did, she melted like a candle left too long in a windowsill. "Very well, thank you." She hoped he couldn't detect the tremor in her voice.

"You're enjoying the wedding gift?"

She had no desire to fight with him this morning, not while her emotions raged out of control. "Why did you give me the horse? You could've forced me to marry you without the gift." She held her breath and waited for his answer.

"You've lost much; I thought you needed a friend."

"What do you know about loss?" she asked, and wondered why he never spoke of family.

His voice hitched with unrecognizable emotion. "Everyone knows the pain of loss."

Don't cry. Don't let him know how grateful you are for his kindness. "Thank you," she said.

"You never gave your promise."

Whatever had laced his tone moments earlier had vanished, and now the smooth, mellow voice had returned. She didn't want to look at him, lose herself in the silver mirrors. "What promise?"

"Your word you won't try to escape or leave the village with the horse."

She tossed her head back, and for a moment reveled in the cool breeze kissing her face. "Oh, that."

"Yes, that."

"Fine."

"Fine, what?"

An exasperated sigh left her lips. "I promise not to escape."

"Good, now how about a ride?"

She eyed him suspiciously. "To where?"

Laughter spilled from his throat. "Don't worry, little girl, I'm not going to ravish you. I thought you might want to get to know the horse."

"That's all?"

He nodded, locked his hands together, and hoisted her onto the mare's back. Then he jumped onto the back of Night Walker.

Pointing to several tipis as they circled the village, he recited names—Ermine Boy, Man of Thunder, Many Battles, Lean Coyote, and a host of others too numerous to remember. He showed her landmarks and estimated their distance from camp, a foolish undertaking on his part. Now that she had a horse, escape seemed a viable option. True, she'd given her word, but her fingers were crossed at the time. Besides, a promise to a savage didn't hold weight with a Christian.

Recalling the words he’d spoken the day he captured her, she shivered. Don't even think of escape. I'll hunt you down and give you to Choking Wolf.

His intense study of her now unsettled her. There was something disturbing about a man who seemed capable of reading one's thoughts. He didn't speak like the Cheyenne, didn't grope for words or stammer. He seemed learned, possessed an infinite understanding about things a savage should know nothing about.

His words drew her back to the present. "What will you call the mare?"

Cesca turned and looked at her hind quarters. "Starlight."

"It's a fitting name."

A head emerged from a nearby tipi and Cesca's pulse leaped. "Marsh! Over here!" She brought Starlight to a halt with one hand and waved with the other.

Marsh looked in her direction, but ducked into the lodge before she could call out again.

Hadn't he heard her? Didn't he recognize her? Bewildered, she turned to Meko. "Why did he not wave or come to me?"

Meko lifted a shoulder, his tone pensive. "His wounds have healed. It's a good sign."

The ride back to Brown Wing's lodge failed to lift the gloom surrounding her. Hours later, the incident with Marsh still plagued her. Not even the bright, warm sun caressing the land or the familiar confines of Brown Wing's lodge could lift her spirits. She paced the interior, her mind teeming with questions. Marsh had recognized her, and yet avoided contact. Something was amiss and she had to get to the bottom of it.

Yes, she'd promised Meko she wouldn't leave the village or venture outside camp, but she hadn't agreed to forsake her brother. Seeds of a daring idea took root in her brain. She'd wait until Meko left the village, choose a time the old woman ventured into the woods to pick berries and fruit, and she'd find Choking Wolf's lodge.

* * *

Cesca's opportunity to find Marsh came two days later. While on her way to the river to bathe, the thundering of hooves shook the ground. Dressed in the colors of war, the Dog Soldiers roared past her. Meko rode at the head of the column and Choking Wolf brought up the rear. Their grim expressions and ghoulish war paint bore evidence of their intent. With their ponies painted in brilliant splashes of yellow, black, and red, Cesca didn't know where man ended and horse began.

Memories of the day the heathens raided the homestead flashed in her mind. Names of neighbors rolled off her tongue—Elias Peabody, minus his wife, the Webbers and the Bishops. All dead now. Gone, in the whisper of a breath. She envisioned their terror as the crazed specters crept up their porches with tomahawks in hand. She grieved for the ragtag assembly of miners who'd toiled alongside her father day after day. Although a mangy lot, most were caring and kind.

Her father shouldn't have forced them to leave their home in New York. They should have remained among civilized society where people didn't live in constant fear of having their skulls split open by wild heathens.

Goose flesh pimpled the length of her arms. Marsh's brains could have been smashed to pieces, hers too. She wondered why they hadn't been killed, particularly her brother. For what reason had he been spared? Women hostages were degraded in horrific ways by the red man, or so the newspapers claimed. Those lucky enough to be ransomed or rescued found it difficult to blend into society again. Women pitied them, and men couldn't accept the notion a savage had taken their wife to their bed. The same fate would befall her unless she gained their freedom, and fast.

The river rose before her, the cool, clear water beckoning. She saw her father's face in the ripples, prayed his death came swift. Hopefully, he didn't have a moment to think about what would happen to her and Marsh while the Indians destroyed the mining camp. She looked skyward and imagined Papa with their mother now. Maman's gentle voice whispered in her ear. "Don't let them have Marsh, Francesca. Take care of our baby."

Strength and courage found her. She owed nothing to the dark warrior, the savage who snatched her from the safety and security of her home, killed her loved ones, and stood by while his heathen brothers abused Marsh. If he thought to intimidate her he best think again. Conquering her body was one thing, but she'd never allow him to claim her heart or spirit. As for Marsh, she wouldn't stand by and watch him harmed again. She'd rather die than allow these heathens to abuse him. One way or another, she'd find a way to free her brother from this life of servitude and cruelty. Be damned with the cursed Dog Soldiers!

Brown Wing greeted her upon her return. "Go to woods now, get berries, fruit. Little girl come."

"Oh, no, you go without me." Cesca placed a palm to her forehead. "I have a horrible . . . have a pain in my head."

She waited until Brown Wing disappeared into the woods and knew the woman would scrounge for an hour. While mounting the mare, her heart launched into a frenzied thrum. She looped the village twice and came to the grim realization her plan had already run amuck. The tipis all looked the same, every single one, and she couldn't tell one from the other.

A deviant wind keened through the trees. She glanced left to right and discovered the culprit of the cold rush of air—the burial ground twenty feet to her left. A chill snaked down her spine. Were the dead spirits calling out to her? She thought about abandoning her scheme to find Marsh. Perhaps she should turn around and rethink her reckless folly, but on the third lap she convinced her warring mind she must persevere. No matter what happened to her when the Dog Soldiers returned, Marsh would be long gone and there wasn't a thing they could do about it.

To him at least.

A trio of young maidens sneered as she passed, but maintained their distance. Cesca shot them a scalding glare, daring them to take her on again. After the encounter with Black Bonnet, she doubted they had enough courage to step forward. She might be small but fought like a ferocious polecat when riled. She'd fight again too, and be damned with the black scowl on their great leader's forehead.

She scanned a cluster of tipis to her right and gasped when she saw her father's scalp hanging from a lodge pole. Tears came to her eyes. Visions of him bending over a creek panning for gold flooded her. Smudged with river silt, he bore a cheery smile and held the shiny nugget in the air, waving it for all to see. The sky teetered and the ground spun. Oh, God, she hoped Marsh hadn't recognized their father's hair. Anger heaved her chest. She wanted to scream her outrage to the heavens, dismount and rip the heathen clothes from her body. Why did they carve him up?

She slid from the horse with a lump in her throat and paced in front of the lodge, too frightened to enter. After glancing around to ensure no one watched, she picked up a handful of pebbles near her feet and tossed them against the tipi. She waited for a minute, chewed on her lower lip and struggled with the notion to call out to Marsh.

Footfalls caused her to glance over her shoulder. A woman and a small child passed, their hands clutching empty bladder pouches. Satisfied they were intent on their journey to the river she picked up a fist-sized rock and pitched it against the wall of the abode. Moments later, the flap opened. Cesca held her breath and released it in a small rush when Marsh poked his head out. His pale, drawn face boasted a fresh, raised welt above his upper lip.

"Cesca! You mustn't come here!" His voice held so much fear, she almost crumbled. "Leave, now, before someone sees you."

She wanted to run to him, throw her arms about his neck, but the panic in his eyes restrained her. "Oh, Marsh, I thought I'd never find Choking Wolf's tipi."

His frantic eyes searched the camp.

"What's the matter with you? Come out here this instant and speak to me!"

"I—I can't, Cesca." He drew a deep breath. "If Choking Wolf finds out, there'll be hell to pay."

Reality smacked her in the face. "Marsh, is he beating you? Did he split your lip?"

He nodded and shame replaced the fear in his eyes.

The shuffle of moccasins behind her caused her to whirl around. Black Bonnet! The maiden's lips formed a spiteful sneer. She hugged her elbows and rocked back on her heels as if she'd discovered the entrance to a royal tomb. Cesca's doubled fist sent the woman fleeing.

"Please," Marsh said when she turned to face him again.

Cesca took one look at his face, knew her protest would fall on deaf ears. "I love you, Marsh," she whispered.

Clutching Starlight's reins, she turned away and headed back to Brown Wing's tipi, the tears blurring her path. Cesca paced the tipi for hours, alternating between a frisson of rage and a feeling of hopelessness. She couldn't stand by knowing her brother suffered. It wasn't an option. With no one to turn to, not a soul to help Marsh, the task fell to her to free him. Whatever she must do to help him escape from this desolate life, she would.

Even if it meant she would pay with her life.