White Shadows (10 page)

Winona tucked her head into the hollow of Clay’s neck. Each breath was a soft gasp, as if she’d just run wild across the prairie. Small spasms continued to rock her insides, and her heart thudded against her ribs. She’d had no idea mating was so wild and primitive. She’d feared when her time came that she wouldn’t know what to do. She smiled softly. Her body had known exactly what to do.

In her ear she heard Clay’s ragged breathing, felt the warm air leave his lips and slide down her neck. His hands still cupped her buttocks and held her tight against him. It felt so good. She wanted to say so but was afraid to move or speak. How did a woman act after mating with a man she barely knew—one who wasn’t her husband? One who was the enemy?

Slowly, as her body calmed, she became aware of the stark silence—and the wary stillness radiating from Clay. Instinctively Winona knew things had changed between them. Neither spoke, but slowly she felt herself slipping from his grip until she stood on the ground.

Above his head, the bright lights of the stars and moon had reclaimed the night sky. Clay’s eyes were clouded. “Damn you,” he whispered. He stepped back from her. He looked vulnerable. Stricken.

Winona smoothed her dress back down and gripped the soft deerskin between her fingers to steel herself for whatever came next. Emotionally, she was spent. Physically, she felt alive as never before. The air, crisp and fresh from the storm, cleared her mind and cooled her body.

“Clay,” she began.

“Clay is dead,” he bit out harshly, then turned and strode away from her.

Winona shook her head as she followed him. “A dead man does not feel—the good or the bad. He is lifeless. You felt pleasure. You gave pleasure. Whatever you say, you cannot deny the truth.”

Clay ignored her.

“A dead man does not run. Only a man who feels, or fears, runs.” She spoke softly.

“A dead man uses people without regard.” He turned his head. “As I used you.”

Winona narrowed her eyes. They stopped at the edge of the small stream they’d been following. “You did not use me.”

“You know nothing of the ways of men.” He waded into the cold water.

“That is not true,” she said. Her gaze lingered on the wide expanse of Clay’s broad back. Moonlight bounced off the water, cascading over his shoulders and down his broad back.

“Not now. Not after…after that.” She wasn’t sure what to call it. Mating seemed cold and impersonal, and what she’d felt was definitely personal. Very personal and pleasurable. “You needed me.”

Clay slid into the water. Unsure of what to do, or whether to join him in the water to clean herself, Winona waited. When he resurfaced, he lifted a brow when he saw her watching.

“I needed your body. Any woman would have done,” he said, his voice dripping contempt. “You are a tool of revenge. The man you think to marry took something precious from me. I did the same, and if you are foolish enough to marry him if he somehow survives, then he will know I had you first.” Clay strode from the stream.

Winona sucked in her breath. “You lie,” she whispered. She’d felt his passion, his need, his anguish. He could not have taken her so coldly, like an animal driven by primitive need—or a man consumed by hate.

Clay waded out of the water. “It does not matter. The end result is the same.”

Winona stumbled back, reeling as though he’d punched her. Her lungs demanded air but she couldn’t breathe. Tears blurred her vision. She’d given Clay something she’d given no other man. What she’d felt, shared with him, had been beautiful. How could he destroy it—her—like this?

“I was wrong,” she choked. “You are dead inside.” She whirled and ran. It didn’t matter where, just so long as it was away from him—and a betrayal that left her feeling as though he’d crushed her very soul.

Night Shadow’s gaze followed Winona’s flight. Maybe now she’d leave him alone. How many times did he have to warn her off topics best left alone? He’d given her plenty of warning, so if she got hurt it was her own damn fault. He was dead inside. He lived for one purpose only.

Swiping his clothing from the shrub where he’d tossed it, he stormed away from the river.

He stopped inside the shelter. The fire had all but died. Bunching his buckskin shirt in his hands, he glared at the garment. He was cold. Tired. And ashamed of his actions.

“Hell,” he ground out. It didn’t surprise him that he’d cursed in his father’s language, so he repeated the curse, adding several other colorful words he remembered.

Ever since he’d spoken his childhood name, a name he’d not breathed aloud in so many years, his past had begun to take over his thoughts. He was even thinking in English now—a habit that had taken many years to break.

His father, an American trapper, had insisted that all his children speak English around him. Only when he and his siblings were alone with their mother or visiting her people had they been allowed to speak tsehese-nestsestotse, the language of the Cheyenne.

Faint images of his childhood emerged from the shadows of his mind. Night Shadow always kept the past buried. It did no good to remember what he’d lost.

He even blocked that nightmarish day from his thoughts, focusing on his only reasons for living—revenge and finding Jenny.

But Night Shadow was losing the battle with Clay Coburn, a boy proudly named after his father. For the first time that he could remember, the boy he’d been threatened to step out of the past and bring with him memories of a happy time.

Laughter from the past echoed through his head. He closed his eyes and clenched his fists and jaw. It hurt to remember, but he was too tired and drained to fight the love and laughter that he’d grown up with. He’d been loved and happy until Henry Black Bear’s father killed Clayton Coburn.

Pain exploded in Night Shadow’s temple and traveled down along the path of his scar. “No!” he roared, smacking his fist on the shelter’s granite wall. He’d lost so much. Damn it, he wanted it back.

“The past is dead and you died with it,” he whispered hoarsely. “You are Night Shadow. Clay Blue Hawk is dead.”

There was just enough left of the fire to cast a soft glow over the shelter’s rugged walls. He moved over to a pile of twigs and tossed a handful onto the fire. A long shadow jumped from the fire onto the walls. Though he remained still, the dark figure danced and writhed.

Shadows existed not in the light nor in the dark, but somewhere between. There were no colors in that existence. No life. No sound. No emotions, just a flat, spiritless existence. He was a shadow, a man hollowed by grief. Clay’s body lived, but his heart and soul had been destroyed. It was Night Shadow who walked and talked, and it would be Night Shadow who’d avenge the deaths of his family and find Jenny.

But who was he at that moment? Was he Night Shadow, fearless warrior, or Clay Blue Hawk, a tormented man who now feared himself more than he feared anything or anyone?

Night Shadow would never have lost control of the situation with his captive. Night Shadow had no trouble relegating Clay to the deepest, darkest recess inside his shriveled and dead heart.

Furious with the confusion and inner turmoil roiling through him, Night Shadow dressed and gathered his skin of water, pouch of food and fur blankets. Though he’d planned to spend the night and give his horse a much-needed rest, he’d changed his mind. He reached for his weapons. He needed to keep moving.

Running away again?

He dropped everything and whirled around, thinking Winona had come back to taunt him. But he was alone with only his doubts to trouble him.

“Damn her,” he spat. He was not running. He was pursuing an enemy and searching for a sister. He was Night Shadow: a survivor, not a coward. Stepping over his belongings, he stalked down to the riverbed and followed a narrow trail along the edge.

Like that of the deer, which made and followed the same route to the river each day, his path was set. All he had to do was stay on that narrow trail and not let anything—or anyone—cause him to stray.

And should he choose to remain on the edge where it was dark, lifeless and lonely, that was his choice. A small sound penetrated his thoughts. He stopped, his sharp gaze locating the source. Down in the water just ahead he saw a dark shadow near the edge of the glittering bank.

His gut clenched against the sound of his captive’s soft sobs. The sound held him frozen. He couldn’t move. Not even to run. From deep inside his mind her cries released other cries. Screams begging for him to save them. Cries of pain and fear.

His legs wobbled, nearly sending him to his knees. His reaction made him afraid that he was losing his mind. He feared for his sanity should Clay rise and overpower the warrior.

As Clay, he’d nearly been driven mad by the dreams and memories. Night Shadow had saved him. Now, for the first time, Clay had risen. He was strong, and he wanted to live.

Clay desperately called back the harsh warrior who was fearless and willing to do whatever it took to find Jenny and kill Henry Black Bear. The tears of a woman would not stop him, or give life to a man who had no life to live.

And yet two long strides carried him down to where Winona sat in the cold, shallow water with her knees drawn up to her chest. He froze. Rays of silvery light washed over her, revealing curving bare skin. Though he’d touched her, been consumed by her, he had yet to see her without her clothing.

His gaze traveled down the line of her spine. Water lapped at her buttocks. Remembering the feel of those soft, rounded handfuls of flesh made him swallow hard.

His fingers had gripped her, urged her hard against him. He’d dug his fingers into that curved softness as he thrust hard into her, and had held her while spasms rocked them both out of control.

“He’kotoo’estse!”
he ordered.
Be
quiet. Please,
he begged himself, afraid of losing control.

Winona’s sobs didn’t stop, though they were now muffled, as though she’d covered her mouth with her hand. That made him feel worse. Guilt spread through him. Glaring down at the top of Winona’s bent head, he reminded himself that this was war. Sometimes the innocent got hurt.

But he’d never intended for Winona to get hurt. That was why he’d separated her from her friend—he hadn’t wanted to use force to keep her under control. And still he’d hurt her in a way he’d never envisioned. Night Shadow tried to blame her for pushing him beyond his limits, but he couldn’t. He and he alone was responsible for his actions.

“Nehetaa’e.”
He softened his voice but was at a loss as to what else to say or do. How did one stop a crying woman? He saw her shivering and knew he had to get her back to the fire.

He repeated his order in English. “That’s enough. Stop so we can talk.” So he could find the words to tell her he hadn’t meant to hurt or use her.

“G-go a-away,” she mumbled.

Night Shadow frowned. “No. You are cold. Come out of the water. The fire will warm you.”

“N-no.”

Sighing, Night Shadow ran his hand through his hair. Why were women so stubborn? “Did we not have this conversation already today? Do I need to carry you to the fire?”

He tried hard to gentle his voice, but frustration, guilt and worry made him sound harsher than he’d intended.

To his relief, Winona stood slowly. He swallowed hard. In his concern for her he’d forgotten that she wasn’t wearing any clothes. “Where is your dress?”

Without answering, Winona walked over to a bush where her dress hung. Her hair, a sheet of silvery midnight blue in the moonlight, slid down her back when she shoved it over her shoulders. The long strands swept across her bottom. He forced his gaze back to the water.

“I washed it.” She sounded embarrassed. Her voice dropped to a thready whisper. “It was stained.”

Now he felt stupid. She’d lost—no, he’d taken—her innocence. Nothing he said or did could give her back that which she’d lost. But Clay, the man who’d been touched by this woman, would apologize for the hurtful and untrue words he’d flung at her.

“I’m…” He frowned when he saw her lift the dress off the bush and hold it over her head. “You cannot put that on. It is wet.” He yanked his shirt over his head, walked over to her and pulled the shirt over her head, sliding his hand beneath her heavy curtain of hair and pulling it free.

Needing no encouragement or orders, she slipped her hands into the arms, then tugged the hem down over her bare skin.

“P-pilamayaye.”

Night Shadow opened his hand and watched her damp strands of hair fall in a tangle from his fingers. When she shivered violently, he scooped her into his arms. “We will talk after you are warm.”

Winona didn’t struggle. She lay limp in his arms.
“Taku ehe kin ecel ecanu sni,”
she whispered brokenly in Lakota.

He glanced down at her closed eyes. “No, I did not keep my promise. I hurt you. That was not my intention.” He entered the warm shelter and set Winona down. She backed away from him, her eyes wide in the firelight.

“You understand Lakota?”

Realizing he’d given himself away, Night Shadow shifted away from her. He tossed a few more twigs onto the fire and shrugged. “Some,” he hedged, eyeing her warily.

“Sunka.”
She moved closer. “What does it mean?”

He tossed one of the furs to her. “We will talk in the morning.”

Winona didn’t catch the fur. It fell and landed in front of her. She stepped over it.

“Maka. Itunkala. Zuzeca.”
She moved around the fire, following him.

Night Shadow sidestepped her, crossing back to the other side of the fire. At his back the cold rolled over him. He sighed and sat.

“Dog. Skunk. Rat. Snake.”

At her indrawn hiss of air, he added, “Do not forget
gnaska.”
Her eyes widened.

“What?”

Night Shadow almost welcomed her fury. Anything was better than tears, so he made the same frog sound as she’d made at him when she’d called him a frog before.

“Kukuse.”

Night Shadow stretched out. “Yeah, pig too.”