down,” he said.
Anna dropped her carpetbag. With quivering hands and eyes welling with tears, she untied her small hat and yanked on the pins. Would they scalp her? Hair cascaded over her shoulders and down her back to below her waist. For the first time in her life, shame swept through her for having so much hair. Vanity hoarded all these golden locks, her crown of glory. Greed for this treasure would now cause her demise.
“Running Cloud!” The Indian with the feathered stick straightened and put his fist to his chest. He pointed at Anna. “You! Walks Alone. Gift to White Eagle.” He pointed to the bandit-looking Indian, the one called White Eagle.
The meaning of his words slammed into Anna. She’d never get home.
Running Cloud dropped his feathered stick and dismounted in front of her. Anna found the ability to move and turned to run. He seized her by the hair, jerking her to a stop. He yanked her around and grabbed her arms in a biting grip. She tried to twist away, pushing against his powerful limbs.
White Eagle dismounted and strode toward them. He was much taller and broader than the savage who held her in his clutches. By his scowl and the fierce look on his painted face, Anna knew she was doomed. White Eagle reached out—Anna screamed. But he grabbed Running Cloud’s wrist.
Eyes wide with surprise, Running Cloud turned, releasing his hold on Anna. White Eagle jerked him back and shoved him to the ground. Running Cloud raised his hands, palms up as White Eagle towered over him.
Anna turned to run, but White Eagle caught her by the arm and swung her around. Screaming, she shoved, but he held her against him. His hair and feathers cascaded onto her shoulder, and his painted face came inches from hers, emphasizing his bandit-like mask, the white stripe beneath it, and the red slashes on his cheeks and chin. Leather and sage assailed her senses as his breath feathered against her cheek.
“Lord help me,” she whispered, wishing she could faint. Perhaps she did want to know what it would feel like. Now seemed the perfect time to lose consciousness.
Heavy breathing blocked out the sounds around them. A dangling feather tickled her face. His fingers slid up onto her chin—her breath caught in her throat. They glided across her cheek and tenderly brushed his feather away.
Their gazes met. Behind dark lashes, warm blue-green eyes swept over her from his gentle, almost sympathetic gaze.
There was a man buried beneath that mask of war paint.
~*~
White Eagle released a long, slow hiss as his gaze swept over the woman’s face and down his arm where her yellow hair wrapped around his dark skin and silver armband—a stark contrast.
Despite the fear evident in the pine-green depths of her eyes, he felt as if she could see inside of him, as if her gut knew she saw a man, not a savage.
From her nose to her chin, her face burned bright red from the sun, and her lips were cracked and dry. This woman needed water.
Her gaze darted to her carpetbag. “Please,” she whispered.
He glanced down at the bag. Did it have weapons? He jerked it from the ground. To her obvious dismay, he tore it open. He found a book, The Last of the Mohicans, and photographs. Then nothing of significance, just fake jewelry and other feminine articles. But one item practically burned like fire in his hand—a Bible. He hadn’t seen the white man’s book since he left Denver six years ago. The one his father had. He shoved it back in. No weapons. He stuffed everything else in and handed it to her.
Relief reflected in her eyes as she hugged the bag.
White Eagle ambled to his horse, his stride uneasy.
Distant cries of women and children carried up from the wagons as the other braves rummaged through their belongings. If only that man hadn’t raised his rifle, no one would have been killed. But had their roles been reversed, White Eagle might have done the same.
He grabbed his water skin and removed the stopper. He walked back to the woman and held it out to her.
She gaped at it.
He shook the water.
She looked at him then back at the skin. Lunging forward, she dropped her bag. After a moment’s hesitation, she snatched the water skin. Water spilled down her chin and over her front. She choked.
“Slow down,” he said in Cheyenne. “I mean, slow down,” he said again, only this time in French. He shook his head and went back to his horse. “I can’t talk,” he mumbled in English.
Running Cloud rode up to him on his horse. White Eagle boldly met his gaze. He’d almost forgotten about tossing his friend to the ground. He’d never before laid a hand on Running Cloud, who was more like a brother than a friend.
“We’re taking the woman,” Running Cloud said in Cheyenne, motioning towards Walks Alone.
“No.” White Eagle turned to his horse and straightened out the blanket. “I don’t want her.”
“You’re refusing my gift?” Running Cloud’s voice rose as he thumbed his chest. “You knock me down for her, and now you don’t want her?” He turned to Walks Alone, eyes blazing. “Then I’ll take her.” Running Cloud moved toward the woman.
“No!” White Eagle grabbed the reins, ready to grab more than that if he had to. “I’ll keep her.” White Eagle never agreed with Running Cloud’s ways of war, ravishing innocent women, and if he even laid a pinky on this one, he’d . . . what would he do? Kill his friend? The thought of him touching her made him so livid with rage, he just might. But at what cost? He’d lose his life to the other braves protecting their war chief, and then what would happen to the woman?
Was he actually contemplating murdering his friend? A friend who had been more like his brother? What had come over him? Sure it was the Cheyenne way to kill a man who touched his woman, but this woman didn’t even belong to him.
Running Cloud leaned over his saddle. “She’s mine,” he said slowly, laying emphasis on each word, “until you make her yours.”
White Eagle’s fists tightened on the reins at his suggestion. “I don’t do that, and you know it.” His words were like the low rumble of thunder before a storm.
Running Cloud arched a brow, a smirk on his lips. He then laughed. “You think that’s what I meant?” He continued to laugh. “Then you’re a fool.”
The significance of his words poured over White Eagle like a heavy rainfall. He meant for him to take her as his wife. A wife? He didn’t need a wife. He was ready to tear into Running Cloud for that, but he kept his hands to himself. He had to calm down. There’d been enough fighting between friends with Black Bear on the rampage. But how could Running Cloud force him to take this woman as his wife? He ran his hand down his face, trying to contain his fury.
Clenching his jaw, he shook his head in disbelief. At least the woman would remain unharmed. But did he have to make her his wife to keep her safe?
White Eagle marched to Walks Alone, seething with fury.
Spotted Owl galloped up to them, letting them know the other braves were ready to go. Running Cloud took
