White Shadows (8 page)

Even in the beginning of her dream she’d felt loved. And cherished. So why did the dream always end with blood and death? And why did she always wake feeling afraid? Why did she end up feeling so lonely and sick?

The young woman called forth memories of happier times to replace the nightmarish images, but no matter how many fond memories came to mind, she could not forget the sight of blood, shut out the screams or still the pounding fear when she heard her mother’s voice telling her to run.

Twilight seeped across a land imbued with shades of gray. Clouds, pale pewter and charcoal, painted the sky. Some were gilded with silver light, but all stormed across the sky like buffalo racing through the prairie.

Shadows from powerful trees faded and merged with pale rock formations that jutted from the earth like so many twisted, skeletal hands. Carpets of low-growing shrubs fought for footholds among the granite crags.

Standing on a high, rocky ridge, Hoka Luta scanned the rough land below. The acrid scent of the impending storm mingled with his blood and sharpened his senses. Outwardly he appeared calm. In control. But fury hovered just below the surface of that facade.

He wanted to roar. He wanted to curse the heavens and scream, but he didn’t dare. He worked his jaw, gathered the bitter taste of fear and rolled it around his tongue. Instead of spitting his defiance for all to see, he swallowed.

Life was about control, and control meant power, and power was…everything. With power you could be who or what you wanted, do what you wanted, have what you wanted. Hoka Luta sneered at the land below and flexed his arms. He craved power. He deserved power, and anyone who stood in his way would be cut down.

Like Clay Blue Hawk.

Red, like the blood of his enemy, crept around his vision. He’d killed Clay Blue Hawk. Sliced him, and watched tiny rivers of blood flow into the earth. He’d seen the life fade from his eyes.

Anger hammered relentlessly at his temples.

Control.

He used his emotions to gain whatever he needed or wanted. But right now, just as he had fourteen years ago, hatred threatened all he desired—and who he’d become.

Closing his eyes, he willed his emotions away and turned his mind to the facts. Clay Blue Hawk lived. How was that possible? It had to be a trick.

Lifting one hand, he relaxed his fingers and stared at the knife he gripped so hard it left an imprint on his palm. The knife had once belonged to his father, until the old man had foolishly lost it in a game of cards to Clay Blue Hawk’s father. As much as Hoka Luta wanted—and needed—to believe that this was a trick, the knife he held wouldn’t allow it. The proof of Clay Blue Hawk’s survival lay in his palm. His hand closed back over the smooth, cool handle. Clay Blue Hawk had lived and now he sought revenge.

Hoka Luta narrowed his eyes. How had his old enemy found him? Henry Black Bear of the Cheyenne was no more. Over the years he had taken on many names, lived with many tribes, until becoming Hoka Luta, long-lost son of a powerful Sioux medicine man.

He’d made a new life for himself. He was respected. Feared. And powerful.

As he glared down from his lofty height, a tremor rumbled through him. Clay Blue Hawk would soon know of his power. Holding the knife high, Hoka Luta ran his finger over the sharp edge, drawing a bead of blood.

Clay Blue Hawk would regret taking his woman, and he’d regret living when he should have died. Hoka Luta flung the knife down into the rocky soil and threw his head back.

“I offer my blood to the spirits and ask that they lead us to the enemy.” The blood dripped from his finger. Slowly he drew his bleeding finger down his chest, anointing himself with his own blood.

“I will spill the blood of my enemy and wear it so that all will know of my power,” he whispered.

Behind him, Hawk Eyes and his warriors paced, anxious to be off but not daring to interrupt him.

Power.

The knowledge that Winona’s father was anxious, that he yearned to resume tracking the enemy, gave Hoka Luta even more power.

Power was being in control. No one dared to interrupt him. Not even the chief. Hoka Luta was in control. Pleased, he turned, satisfied to see everyone waiting and watching him.

Golden Eagle came forward. “The horses are rested and ready to go.”

Hoka Luta heard the impatience in his voice. The man’s frustration at the delay was another sign of his power. Only because Hoka Luta was a medicine man, and only because he said he needed to ask the spirits to guide them, had they stopped this long.

He wanted to let Clay Blue Hawk get a bit farther ahead. The one thing Hoka Luta could not allow was for Winona’s family to find his old enemy. Clay Blue Hawk would reveal the past. And if Winona learned the truth?

No, he’d not think that far ahead. Instead he silently met Golden Eagle’s anxious eyes. The man standing in front of him would one day become powerful. By marrying the man’s sister, more power would be within Hoka Luta’s reach.

It wasn’t the position of chief he desired. No, that carried with it too much responsibility and risk. The real power came from being a medicine man. Everyone sought the wisdom of the medicine man. They listened and obeyed.

He allowed his gaze to sweep over the garnered warriors and restless pacing of their chief. Power. None would dare rush him, not Golden Eagle and not the chief. He turned back to the ridge and the long drop below.

Letting his hands fall to his sides, he shook his wrists. Bear claws and teeth rattled as he closed his eyes and tipped his chin to the stormy sky. “Our enemy toys with us. He leaves messages, but hides. He taunts us with blood on my bride’s dress, and locks of her hair. He draws us farther from our people; he is a coward.”

Those messages from Clay Blue Hawk worried Hoka Luta. The knife and drawings were something no one understood but him. What other items from the past did his enemy hold? Hoka Luta could not afford to let the others find evidence that might give away his secrets.

He paused. Silence hovered like a heavy shroud, but he felt the agreement of the warriors behind him. He knew people. He had studied them and knew how to manipulate them. Lifting his hands overhead with practiced grace, he swept them forward, bent down and brushed his fingertips over the ground. He then stood abruptly, his arms shooting straight up, fingers stabbing the heavens.

“I see many lakes, streams and caves in this land. There are dark forests, many places for the enemy to hide and watch. He leads us. We must not be drawn into his trap.”

He paused, then turned slowly. Staring at the chief, he dropped his hands once again to his sides. “We must separate.”

Hawk Eyes stepped forward. Hoka Luta stopped his protest with a single look.

Power.

“One can travel faster and unseen. A group as large as ours cannot move as the wind. I will go ahead and mark the trail. I will watch our enemy show himself and take him captive. He will not know I am there.”

“If you are spotted he may kill my daughters.”

He leveled a calm, knowing stare at the chief. “As one man, I can move unseen. I can steal back your daughters, and when I have them safe, you can attack. Do not forget, the others may be with him or riding to meet him.” He slyly reminded the chief that the other three trails had disappeared, that his warriors had failed.

When they’d found the piece of bloodied dress, they’d also discovered that the group had separated. Two of the horses appeared to carry the weight of two. Each had gone in a separate direction. Hawk Eyes had noted toe scuffs in the dirt near that last message and had proclaimed that to be a sign from his daughter.

Golden Eagle nodded thoughtfully. “They will come back together, and for that reason I say we stay together.” He looked to his father.

Hoka Luta let his head fall back. As expected, silence fell once again.

Power. It hummed through him.

He waited, holding himself completely still. Then he began to sway ever so slightly, chanting and thanking
Tate,
the spirit of the wind, for his counsel. Bending at the waist, he picked up a small, flat stone and threw it up into the treetops to his left. Three crows launched themselves skyward. Two flew downward, away from the ridge. One flew to the west.

“Behold,” he said. He fell silent as they watched the birds fly out of sight. He kept the satisfaction from his features. He’d heard the birds earlier and had taken a chance. Had the birds each flown in a different direction he’d have simply used it to fit his needs. Had they all flown as one in one direction, he would have had to give in to the son.

Power. Manipulation. Knowing the world and how it worked and using it to his own advantage…

Hawk Eyes nodded. “The spirits speak. One crow goes alone. We will follow. Leave us signs so we may follow more swiftly.”

Hoka Luta squared his shoulders. “I will go on foot so I can move unseen, and silent as the wind. Perhaps the horses could use a longer rest. That will allow me to get ahead.”

This time he received no protests.

Keeping his stride even, he walked through the parting warriors, retrieved what he needed from his horse and headed out.

But as soon as he was alone, fury threatened to overrule the tight control he’d maintained for the past few days. Every muscle strained with the need to run and find Clay Blue Hawk. Trees and shrubs surrounded him. All was quiet, but he was not fooled. His old enemy was out there somewhere.

Fighting the urge to scream and shout for his enemy to show himself, Hoka Luta examined the ground, moving slowly so as not to miss any sign.

By nightfall he’d found a lock of hair twisted into a bundle. Like the other two messages, this was meant to be found. The trail was just hard enough to follow to require slow going. Hoka Luta walked long into the night.

When he finally stopped he pulled his father’s old knife from the leather sheath he’d tucked it into. He didn’t think about the man who’d sired him. He was dead—killed by Clay Blue Hawk’s father, but dead to him before that. He’d been weak, controlled by the whiskey he craved.

Power vibrated through him, cloaked him, lived within and around him. As he stared at the gleaming blade, the remaining anger drained. He would triumph in the end.

Embers scattered and popped when Winona poked at the fire with a twig. Across from her, Clay broke the stick he’d used to cook his fish, then tossed the pieces onto the fire. The flames quickly consumed the offering.

She didn’t speak. Neither did Clay. Not a single word had passed between them since that kiss. Winona jabbed her stick’s burning tip into the dirt. She refused to think about the kiss. And she absolutely would not think of the intimate feel of him against her. She stared into the fire. Where was her father? How was her mother doing?

Hoka Luta must be worried as well, and angry. He’d be searching for her along with her father and brother, ready to avenge the wrong done to her. Leaning back against the boulder, she wondered how Spotted Deer was handling all this. She was alone and had to be scared. Thanks to Clay.

But remembering his nightmare, she knew he’d suffered in his past. Who was Jenny? Was she the reason behind all this suffering?

Did it matter?

All that mattered was getting herself and Spotted Deer safely back home. She sighed. Home for her wasn’t the same. She’d arrive back home just to leave it again to begin a new life with Hoka Luta.

Winona peered out into the night. Above them, a stone ledge provided cover. Clay had found an alcove, not deep enough to be considered a cave, but sheltered enough to protect them from the storm that was sure to break soon. Of course, Winona felt as though she’d fought a storm already. Her reaction to that kiss with Clay confused and angered her.

She’d enjoyed it! She sent Clay a dark look. Had he ensnared her with some sort of magic? Was she losing her mind? She only knew she should not have savored it and definitely should not have wanted him to continue after he’d stopped. What was wrong with her?

Her gaze settled on the fire’s twisting flames. Yellows merged with reds and formed new shades. Each color rose and fell to the beat of its own rhythm, like a man and woman dancing to something special that only they shared.

No. No. No. Think of something else
. She was not attracted to a man who was her enemy. A man who’d taken her from her family.

But what had been taken from him? Who had been taken from him?

Winona recalled his cries, the pain in his voice and the wildness and grief in his eyes when he’d woken.

Give her back.

Don’t touch her.

Bastard.

Yes, someone had hurt him. Badly. The wound on his face had healed. Not so the one in his heart and mind.

Disgusted with herself for caring, she tried to concentrate on Hoka Luta. But thoughts of him only served to remind her that Clay had ruined her wedding day. If not for him she’d have danced the mating dance and taken the first step toward forging a deep bond with her mate.

Clay had ruined it.

She broke her stick in half. Clay had taken something irreplaceable from her. Even if Hoka Luta rode in right now, rescued her and married her, their first night together would forever be marred by Clay. Like a thorn embedded deep in the flesh, he’d intruded into all their lives.

Until now, Hoka Luta had been the only man to kiss her, to touch her in an intimate manner. She’d had no doubt that he wanted to mate with her—she’d felt his desire. Winona closed her eyes and remembered Hoka Luta’s kiss, the feel of his mouth claiming and controlling hers.

He’d touched her breast, his hand hard and possessive, and when he’d pressed his manhood into her belly, he’d been hard. Like Clay. But unlike with Clay, she couldn’t remember how she’d felt, whether his touch had heated her blood or left her weak with a bewildering need.

All she could recall was being thrilled that Hoka Luta wanted her. And nervous. He was so big and strong. In his arms she’d felt as though he could have smothered her. She’d figured it had to be due to the fact that a woman’s first time with a man was said to hurt. Guilt pounded in her head. She hadn’t felt like that in Clay’s embrace, and that upset her. She should have been frightened. Opening her eyes, she stared at Clay. His lips had been firm, but gentle. His body had been hard, but warm and comforting.

His size and strength had made her feel safe and secure, even though he’d been angry. And Clay’s hard manhood against her, separated from her skin only by his breechclout, made her long to know the pleasure of mating. She hadn’t feared pain.