Authors: Renee Simons
"I am no longer young, as when I first came here."
"The boy lives in the man's heart. The man's heart denies his destiny even as the boy once did."
"Destiny takes away our choices. It says we're not meant to shape our own lives. That our path is laid out before we take our first steps."
"Whose feet, if not your own, took you away from your people to explore far horizons?"
"I wanted to create my own future, to find my own way to use the gifts the Great Spirit had given me."
"Did you not receive those gifts for a purpose? Are they to be hoarded like some men hoard gold? Or are they meant to be shared, to be used where they can do the most good."
"I never wanted to lead."
"Yet you have, by your actions and your example. Many times have you seen a need and acted upon it. Can you not see there is a need here?"
"There are others more worthy, who haven't made the mistakes I have."
"Never to have committed an error is never to have lived."
"Then I must be a thousand years old."
A deep rumble, like laughter, emanated from the midst of the violet cloud. "You are Stormwalker, who was born in a blizzard. At the time of your naming, the holy man saw a vision that your way would be marked by turmoil. Many times will the spirits unite to test
you.
Many times will you surmount them until you come to your place at the head of your
people.
"
The cloud moved off and with it, the strange light and the voice of
Wakan
Tanka's messenger. Soon the sky above Stormwalker cleared to reveal a canopy of black watched over by a thin sliver of moon. He lay down on the bed of sage and, with his head resting against the center post, slept.
Just after sunrise, he woke to find an eagle perched on the eastern pole. The bird watched him with piercing yellow eyes.
Stormwalker sat quietly, unsure of what was expected, of how to respond to this new messenger from the Great Mystery.
Afraid his voice would prove too
frightening,
he directed his thoughts toward the bird.
"Why are you here?"
"Twice,
Wakan
Tanka has sent the Thunder Being with a message for the future. I have come to tell you that what has been promised will happen. You have risen above your enemies. You will lead. For this reason were you made different
than
the others, so you would remember the task set for you. That is why I have come. That is what I have to say."
"
Hécetu
," Stormwalker whispered. "It will be so."
The bird's cry filled the air. He lifted his wings to catch the wind. As he rose into the sky, a single tail feather floated to the ground, landing at
Stormwalker's
feet. He tied the feather to the pipe stem with a rawhide thong. He had his answer. It was time to leave.
Back at the stream, he felt a presence, benign and definitely protective. He'd had similar sensations up on the butte and remembered his grandmother's dream. A "kindred spirit," she'd said. He let his gaze search the underbrush for a flash of color or an alien shape. He listened for movement or breathing. Nothing registered, but far above him the eagle called. Smiling, he turned and walked to the stream to bathe.
Careful to maintain her cover, Zan left her hiding place and moved closer to the edge of the woods. Stormwalker knelt beside the stream to sluice water over his face, neck and upper body. Sadly, she watched and remembered how he'd felt beneath her hands when they'd made love. She catalogued the memories: his touch, his scent, the sound of his voice whispering in her ear, the way he felt inside her, the way she felt with him there. In a little while, only the memories would remain.
She had stayed behind when Mac and the others left. She had to know for sure that no chance remained to retrieve the best of what she and Stormwalker had shared during their weeks together. She loved him and would stay until she no longer had any reason to stay.
She'd trailed him to the sweat lodge and then to the foot of Thunder Butte. When
she'd
heard his deep, strong voice chanting from the top, she'd set up a camp of sorts at the base. She'd left only once, to retrieve the food Emma
Redfeather
had packed for her and the sleeping bags Ian and Kenny had brought to the cabin. For three days and nights she'd maintained her distance, keeping her own vigil while he kept his. Despite the cool temperatures, she'd avoided a fire until last night, when a cold snap had given her no choice.
Now, at sundown of the fourth day, he'd come to the stream.
She stepped out into the clearing and walked toward him. Her heart thumped loudly as he straightened and watched her approach. In the failing light she couldn't tell if he was pleased to see her.
"What are you doing here?"
"Waiting."
"How long have you been here?" His spoke in a hushed tone that barely broke the silence of the oncoming evening.
"I never left."
"That fire, last night? Was it yours?"
"I'm sorry if I intruded."
He shook his head. "No, it's all right. I saw the glow, but I wasn't sure if it was part of my vision or the real world."
"So you got what you came for?"
"Let's find your stuff and go back to the cabin."
He seemed not quite back from wherever he'd been, almost as if he was walking and talking in his sleep. She accompanied him in silence. At the cabin he built a fire in the hearth and spread out the sleeping bags.
When he sat down in front of the fire, she reached into the canvas sack and pulled out what was left of the
wasna
Emma had given her. She held it out to him and he took a bite.
"Where did you get this?" he asked with a smile.
"Your grandmother."
She handed him a canteen of water left behind when the others had gone. He drank and ate until all the food was gone. He'd been staring into the flames and now he turned to her.
"I know you have questions, but I need to sleep. Can you stay a little longer?"
She nodded. He crawled inside one of the sleeping bags and closed his eyes. She pulled the other close to his and lay on her side. She watched the rise and fall of his chest, traced the long black lashes that cast shadows on the skin beneath his eyes and with a butterfly touch, ran a finger along his strong jaw line. It will be hell to leave him behind, she thought.
Sometime during the night she woke to find him watching her. "Are you all right?" she asked. "Do you need anything?"
"You," he answered hoarsely. She came into his arms and settled against him with a sigh. "You feel so good," he murmured against her hair. "I missed you like crazy."
"What about everything that's happened? You must have questions. I have questions. We need to figure out what happens next. We need to talk."
"Later."
"What about what I did? The trouble I caused you?"
He turned her onto her back and looked down at her. "You restored my honor. You brought me love. You kept me from putting a bullet through my brain."
"But. . . ."
He lowered his mouth to hers and smothered her next words. "Later," he murmured against her lips.
Much later, Zan lay beneath him, holding him tightly inside her. "Michael," she said softly.
"What?" he asked, watching her
face.
"Nothing," she replied with a dreamy smile.
"Just 'Michael'."
"Say it again," he whispered against her mouth.
"Michael." The word was sweet on her lips.
He thrust more deeply into her. She received him and his name was a sigh. He set up a gentle rhythm and his name became a groan of passion. When they seemed to have climbed as high as they could to share a moment of shattering intensity, when their hearts beat as if about to stop and heated blood threatened to explode, when needing and wanting and loving became one, his name was a whispered breath that he took into himself, knowing he would never again be cold or empty or alone.
Finally, they lay in each other's arms, tired and replete.
"I love you," Stormwalker said.
"I love you," she whispered against his lips.
"I know," he said with a smile.
"You knew before I did."
"I knew, Red." He kissed the corner of her mouth. "I knew from the beginning."
THE END
About The Author
Renee Simons has been many different things in her life: A wife, a working mother,
an
amateur auto mechanic, vet to a mixed-breed shepherd and a rescue mutt of questionable parentage and an unpaid, unlicensed home decorator, as well as an often unsuccessful cook. (Ask her marketing director son and medical examiner daughter about her spaghetti pie - Ugh). She enjoys painting, photography, swimming, music and travel. She began her first romance novel (Still Unfinished) While In college and has been reading and writing ever since
.
Recalling her earliest ambitions to be a painter, she now spends her time painting pictures with words
.
"'
Tis
the best of both worlds," She says. "Life Is Good."
Note
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