Neither meant it to happen, but soon bodies stirred to the touch of adoring hands, and passion flared. Temptation passed through them like a gentle sigh and they came together there in the firelight, mating silently, the unspoken love shining from their locked eyes.
If the coupling at sunrise had been wild and frenzied, this joining here in their lodge was the opposite. Slowly, leisurely, they made love, Martay exercising her newly discovered ability to hold back her release; Night Sun, skillful in the art of prolonging pleasure, doing so with controlled expertise.
It was the most beautiful and fulfilling act of lovemaking ever to occur between them. For more than two hours they languidly, wordlessly tempted and taunted and teased and touched and took each other to paradise.
And when it was finished, as if some lovely, spiritual ceremony had touched and soothed their souls, leaving them blissfully exhausted and at peace, they fell asleep in each other’s arms.
The next morning Martay tried very hard to be brave when the time came for Night Sun to leave. Forcing herself to wear a smile that would have illuminated the gloomiest night, she stood with a hand possessively riding Night Sun’s back while, holding the whickering black’s reins, he talked quietly with the Mystic Warrior.
At last Windwalker put a broad hand to Night Sun’s shoulder, gripped him for an instant, released him, and walked away.
Night Sun turned to Martay.
Her brilliant smile slipped and she fought back the hot tears that were stinging her eyes. Knowing that they had said earlier, in the privacy of their tipi, all there was to say, and knowing if he said anything now, those tears would surge down her cheeks, Night Sun climbed atop the big black, intending to kick the mount into a hurried gallop and depart.
But mounted there above, he looked down into the sad, beautiful eyes of the only woman he had ever loved and felt his heart kick painfully against his ribs.
“Wicincala,”
he said softly, soothingly, the deep timbre of his voice a gentle caress. He leaned down from his pony to kiss her lightly on the mouth. Then he righted himself and rode off at a trot.
41
M
artay stood watching until the last fine dust kicked up by Night Sun’s horse had dissipated in the still morning air. Only then did she turn and walk slowly back toward Gentle Deer’s lodge.
Just outside she paused, drew a deep, slow breath and squared her shoulders. Forcing herself to smile, she ducked inside, determined to be brave and cheerful, to hide her choking fear from the sick old woman.
Gentle Deer’s sightless eyes were closed; she was sleeping peacefully. Relieved, Martay gently sighed, closed the tipi flap, and silently took a seat beside it. Her throat hurt from needing to cry. All morning she had forced herself to be strong, to be as courageous and stoic as a Lakota woman would be. She hadn’t wanted Night Sun to ride away from a weeping, clinging woman.
But now he was gone and Gentle Deer was sound asleep, and Martay felt her firm resolve slipping away. The tears she had held back for so long sprang to her eyes and overflowed. Folding her arms atop her bent knees, she leaned her head on them and quietly cried, her heart breaking.
“Do not weep.” Gentle Deer’s calm voice caused Martay’s head to snap up.
Dashing at the tears with the backs of her hands, Martay sniffed and said foolishly, “No … I’m not … I … how are you feeling this morning, Gentle Deer?”
“Better than you,” replied the wise woman. “Come here, child.”
Martay quickly moved across the tipi, falling to her knees beside Gentle Deer. Gratefully clasping the offered hand, she squeezed the gnarled fingers and admitted, “He’s gone, Gentle Deer, and I’m worried.”
“I know.”
“I love him so much and I fear he will never come back to me.” Martay shook her head, the tears continuing to fall. “I couldn’t stand it, I couldn’t.” Her fingers tightened on Gentle Deer’s. “Night Sun will be gone forever and I’ll have nothing of him, nothing.”
“I cannot know if my grandson will return safely to you,” said Gentle Deer. “But even if he does not, you will always have a part of him.” She smiled knowingly.
“No, I won’t, I … He’ll be … I don’t understand. If Night Sun doesn’t … I …” She fell silent and her mouth rounded into an O of surprise and comprehension as Gentle Deer’s meaning began to dawn. She stared openmouthed at Gentle Deer.
Gentle Deer nodded. “You carry my grandson’s child, do you not?”
“I don’t know, I …” Martay’s teary eyes were wide, her high brow knitted. She had not considered such a possibility, and yet since the night of Peaceful Dove’s wedding—the first time Night Sun had made love to her—she had not … there had been no … “Oh, Gentle Deer, could it be?” She dropped the old woman’s hand and quickly placed both of hers atop her flat stomach, spreading her fingers, touching inquiringly, hopefully.
“Yes,” said Gentle Deer quietly. “The bloods of two great families merging.” She smiled again. “The blood of my beloved husband flowing in your child’s veins.”
Nodding, Martay said excitedly, “And the blood of my mother and father as well.”
The old woman again reached for Martay’s hand. Holding it tightly, she said, “Your unborn child is very precious to us all. The others live on in him.” Her wrinkled face held a peaceful, happy look.
Martay, feeling suddenly lighthearted, smiled and said, “Him? You’re so certain it will be a boy?”
“I am,” said the old woman. “The last Lakota chieftain.”
“The last?” Martay’s smile fled.
“Yes. The days of my people are over. If he lives, you must persuade Night Sun to go to your world; to raise his son in the white world.”
“That is your wish?”
Sightless eyes crinkled. “No, child. That is how it must be.”
* * *
Night Sun rode like the wind.
Anxious to reach his destination, he pushed the valiant black to the limits of its amazing stamina, and pushed himself as well. Horse and rider thundered across the vast rolling plains, the stallion willing to lay down his life for the man on his back. The man on his back willing to lay down his life for the beloved golden-haired woman he had left behind in the Powder River village.
His starkly chiseled face set in fierce concentration, Night Sun was oblivious to the winds that stung his sunburned cheeks and caused his black, unblinking eyes to water. With single-minded determination he rode swiftly toward the rendezvous that could mean his death.
That realization caused a sharp pain to shoot through his chest even as it brought a rueful smile to his lips. How many times he had faced death over the years and never known fear. His life had never seemed that important; if it continued or ended, did it make a difference? Whether he killed or was killed by his enemy was simply a decision made by fate, accepted by him.
Now it was no longer so.
He wanted to live! Wanted to live as never before. Now there was enhanced meaning to his life; it was richer, fuller, happier. How he longed to live; to love and protect that golden goddess he worshiped, to lie with her in his arms each night, to be at her side when she bore his sons and daughters, to grow old with her in peace and comfort.
The smile left Night Sun’s face.
Chances of a future together were almost nonexistent and he knew it. There was little doubt that the man he was riding to face, Martay’s father, would kill him. There would be no time for explanations or calls for understanding. The blue-coated trooper who had left scars on both body and mind so long ago was not the benevolent kind.
Night Sun’s shoulders slumped.
So be it. He would not raise a hand in defense against the general. He loved the general’s daughter too much. He could not kill her father and live to see the censure and sadness in her beautiful green eyes. He, Night Sun, might not live to see Martay again, but General William J. Kidd would.
Those thoughts were walking through his mind when, six days after leaving Windwalker’s Powder River camp, Night Sun saw the gas lights of Denver twinkling below in the distance.
Almost as exhausted as the prized beast he was astride, Night Sun blinked his burning eyes and rolled his aching shoulders in a circular motion. Patting the black’s lathered neck, he said soothingly, “Old friend, just carry me down to the center of town and I’ll allow you to rest until morning. A rubdown and a bucket of oats for you; a bath and a bed for me.” He lifted a bronzed hand and pushed back his shorn hair. “Then tomorrow we face General Kidd.”
The winded horse neighed and shook his tired head and needed no further coaxing than Night Sun’s deep, gentle voice saying, “Let’s go, boy.”
It was nearing midnight when Night Sun dismounted before the large, lighted Broadway street home of his old Harvard classmate, Drew Kelley. Fortunately, Drew himself answered the door, saving one of the sheltered house servants the shock of seeing an unkempt, buckskin-clad Indian standing on the shadowed veranda.
And a trail-weary Night Sun from having to explain.
“Jim!” said Drew Kelley, grinning broadly, embracing his friend. “Come in, come in! It’s good to see you. Hell, you just disappeared. I went to the Centennial one afternoon and you …”
“Drew, can I stay the night?”
“As long as you wish,” Drew said enthusiastically, drawing Night Sun into the foyer. “I’ll have your horse tended right away. What brings you back to Colorado?”
“I’ve come to see an Army general,” was Night Sun’s straightforward reply.
Puzzled, Drew Kelley said, “Oh? Any particular one?” He propelled the taller man into the library.
“General William J. Kidd.”
Drew Kelley stopped and stared at Night Sun. “Jim, I guess you haven’t heard the news.”
“What news?”
Drew gave no immediate reply. He crossed the spacious room to the mahogany desk. From its gleaming top he picked up the latest edition of the
Rocky Mountain News.
“Read this, my friend.”
Night Sun took the newspaper, quickly read the headlines, and said aloud, “No. God, No.”
The midday fog was beginning to clear over the Presidio. Sergeant Major Bert Hallahan, his light eyes reflecting the shock of what he had just read, donned his garrison cap and left the post telegrapher’s office. Deaf to the familiar screechings of the low-flying gulls, Hallahan made his way directly to the post commandant’s office of the newly arrived General Thomas Darlington.
Polished black bootheels clicking together as he came to attention, Sergeant Hallahan saluted the tall, slim general.
“Telegraphic dispatches from Washington City, sir,” said Hallahan, holding out the report.
“At ease, Sergeant,” said General Darlington, “how goes the battle with that renegade Indian, Gall?”
Sergeant Hallahan swallowed. “None too well, I’m afraid.” He nodded at the folded yellow missive Darlington held in his hand. “General William Kidd was mortally wounded leading a charge against Gall at sundown yesterday afternoon.”
Disbelieving, General Darlington looked at the young soldier as though he had spoken in a foreign language.
“Jesus God!” he exclaimed, feeling his knees suddenly gone weak. “That can’t be! General Kidd was … the Army wouldn’t risk an experienced military strategist like him.”
General Darlington dropped into his chair and began to read, shaking his head all the while. “Merciful God, I can’t believe it.” His stricken face reflecting his outrage, he read and reread the message and lifted angry eyes to the young officer across the desk. “The hostile, Gall? Was he …”
“Gall was routed and forced to surrender, sir.”
“I hope the red bastard hangs. My old commanding officer, General Kidd, was one of the finest officers this country has ever had.”
“Yes, sir.”
General Darlington suddenly sighed. “I can but hope the general’s at peace now.”
“Sir?”
“General Kidd’s daughter was kidnapped from a party at my Colorado home last summer. The general was never the same after that.” Darlington slammed a fist down on his desk in frustration. “I feel responsible for both their deaths.”
“Nonsense, General.”
“Is it, Sergeant? If Mrs. Darlington had never hosted that damned party …”
“Which reminds me, General. Mrs. Darlington has asked for my help with the gala you two are having this Saturday evening. I told her I would check to see if you can spare me one day this week.”
“What was it she wanted you to do, Sergeant?”
The handsome young noncommissioned officer lifted wide shoulders in a shrug. “Not certain, General. Mrs. Darlington just said I should plan on being at the Telegraph Hill mansion for the better part of the afternoon.”
General Darlington, his thoughts still on the loss of Bill Kidd, said distractedly, “It’s quiet around the post now. Go this afternoon if you like.”
“Yes, sir.”
A weary, worried Night Sun rode back into the Powder River village one quiet, cloudy afternoon. Dreading having to tell Martay that her father was dead at the hands of a Lakota Chief; dreading even more what the shocking news might do to their relationship, Night Sun headed straight toward his lodge.
Immediately spotting that golden head among all the dark ones, Night Sun dismounted, tossed the reins to a beaming boy, and started to her.
As though she could feel his presence, Martay looked up, saw him, and formed his name on her lips, though no sound came. Her heart beating wildly, she started running. He stopped and waited for her to reach him.
Calling his name, she fell into his arms and, burying her face in his throat, said, “Oh, my darling, you’re back. You’re back.”
“Wicincala,”
he said, drawing her into his close embrace.
“Night Sun, my love, I have sad news,” said Martay, then pulled back to look up at him. “Darling, Gentle Deer. She’s …” He nodded, silencing her, knowing what she had to say.
Night Sun hugged her tightly, then silently guided her to their lodge as the first drops of a cold autumn rain began to fall. Inside he set her back, his hands lightly gripping her arms, and said,
“Wicincala,
I, too, have sad news. Sweetheart, your father is dead. He was killed in battle by the Lakota war chief Gall in a skirmish in northern Dakota.” He waited, hardly daring to breathe, while the force of his words penetrated.