Brave the Wild Wind by Johanna Lindsey Page A

protested.
    “Every little smile will lessen your worth. He will think he has already won you, so he will not offer so many horses. Do you want to be a poor wife?”
    “No, Mother.” Little Gray Bird Woman’s voice was submissive. “And I will remember not to smile so much.”
    “Not to smile at all, daughter,” Wide River Woman reprimanded. “And you must not let Gray Kettle or White Dog stay so long when they come to visit.”
    “Yes, Mother.”
    “Has either of your young men asked you to marry?” Wide River Woman’s voice grew even more serious.
    “No, not yet.”
    “Well, you must remember to refuse the first time you are asked. Refuse gently, but let them know you are not an easy conquest.”
    “But, Mother—”
    “Listen to me. I tell you these things for your own good,” Wide River Woman said patiently. “Do not let either of your young men see you when you are alone, even the man you prefer. You must not let a man touch you, daughter, especially your breasts. If a man touches your breasts, he considers that you belong to him. Would you have your two men fighting each other because one boasts that he has won you before he has consent? No, you would not, for the one you prefer may lose. Have you made a choice yet? My husband favors White Dog, as I do, but if Gray Kettle should offer more, then…”
    Their voices trailed off. Jessie’s face was bright red. She had let Chase Summers touch her breasts and do a great deal more. But he wasn’t an Indian. He’d not think she belonged to him. No, quite the opposite. Chase had known her in the most intimate way, then wanted nothing more to do with her!
    White Thunder had been watching Jessie closely, and he’d known her for a long time.
    “You blush. Have you been touched by a man, Looks Like Woman?” he teased.
    Jessie gasped. Could he see into her mind? It was eerie and it had happened many times before.
    “Do you wish to speak of it?” he asked hesitantly.
    “No, not yet.”
    “It was not Little Hawk?”
    She laughed bitterly and he was shocked.
    “At least he wouldn’t want a woman one minute, then decide she was unworthy of him the next.”
    “Who has treated you this way?” White Thunder stood up. He was very angry.
    “Sit down, my friend,” Jessie said gently. “I was probably as much to blame for what happened as he was. I was naive.”
    “But you are hurt.”
    “I will get over it.”
    Jessie returned to pounding the wild cherries, pits and all, in a stone mortar. Later they would be dried and mixed with strips of buffalo meat and fat to make pemmican, a food that would keep for months.
    He moved away from her, leaving her to her thoughts. Jessie was glad she had told him. He would understand now if she suddenly became moody.
    White Thunder was such a wise, thoughtful man for one so young. He was, in fact, only two years older than she was. How she loved him, her dear friend! She glanced at him and smiled as he looked up at her.
    The Cheyenne were the tallest of the Plains tribes, and White Thunder was six feet in height. He was disturbingly handsome, too, with those startling blue eyes inherited from his father. His skin was copper, but mostly from the sun. He was a young warrior who had already proved himself as fit as any man, stronger than most. She was proud of their friendship.
    Little Hawk came in a few minutes later, entering the tepee silently. He wore a shirt reserved for special occasions, one made of the hide of the bighorn sheep. The long sleeves were fringed, as were his leggings, and the bead work was beautiful. There were also tassels and bits of metal and shells hanging here and there. On his braids were wrappings of white fur, and a single blue feather was attached, just like the feather he had left her.
    White Thunder was impressed, and concerned. The way the Sioux was dressed portended something important, and he was afraid he knew what that something was. He was not pleased.
    Little Hawk, following protocol,