white as sun-washed silver. Every time he looked upon her, shock coursed through him. The woman of the prophecy? His woman? He yearned for a plump, comfortable female with beautiful brown skin and long curtains of black, shiny hair. Instead he got skin the color of buffalo fat, stretched taut over spindly bones, and hair the same yellow brown as parched grass.
The girl’s screams during her delirium had convinced him that she was indeed the woman of the prophecy. Just as the Great Ones had foretold, her voice wasn’t gone, only silenced by great sadness . . . the massacre of her parents. Long ago, Hunter had known another girl whose voice had been stolen from her in such a way. After examining that girl at length, the puhakut in the village had claimed that her heart had been laid upon the ground by seeing her family killed and that one day, when joy returned to her, she would speak again. Many winters later the mute girl had married a kindly man, and after the birth of her first child, which brought her great gladness, she regained her voice, just as the puhakut had predicted. This white girl would as well. How or when, Hunter couldn’t begin to imagine, but he knew it would come to pass. Beyond that, he refused to think. According to the song of the Great Ones, he was to be instrumental in her recovery.
With a shaky sigh, he reached for the grease pouch and loosened its drawstring. Like it or not, he had to take care of her. If she died, the Great Ones would be displeased. If he had had only himself to worry about, he might have walked off and left her. After all, what could the Great Ones do to him that would be worse than this? But he must think of his people, of how his actions might affect them.
The hot flare of anger within him condensed into a hard little knot in the pit of his stomach. He dipped his hand into the grease and leaned forward to smear it on the woman’s tortured skin. His hand hovered above her leg. He couldn’t help but remember how jealously she had guarded her ruffled breeches that first day or how painfully ashamed she had been this morning when the hem of her pitsikwina had ridden up on her thighs. If she had any idea that she was lying here naked, he felt sure her face would turn redder than the sunburn had already made it. And if she knew he was about to run his hands over her? He could only guess what her reaction might be. Terror, probably. Accompanied by a good deal of spitting if her past transgressions were an indication. Stupid girl. Grown men had dared less and died for their trouble. Perhaps his brother was right, and she didn’t know who he was. Hunter was well aware of the fear he inspired in the tosi tivo. Most whites recognized him the moment they saw the scar on his cheek and looked into his indigo eyes.
A suppressed smile made the corners of his mouth twitch. Perhaps he would be wise not to tell her who he was. As much as he disliked her spitting, the thought of her being obedient and too easily cowed appealed even less. Something about her—he had no idea what—evoked confusing emotions within him. Anger blanketed those emotions, prevented him from having to deal with them. Ah, yes, he liked her much better when she was spitting. Much better. Sick and helpless as she was now, he found himself feeling sorry for her.
He glided his greased hand up her thigh to her hip, acutely aware of how hot her skin was and how fragile her jutting hipbone felt against the leathery surface of his palm. She tossed her head and moaned, her sooty lashes fluttering on her flushed cheeks. He studied her face for a moment, then lowered his gaze to her breasts. The tips were the delicate pink of cacti blossoms. In all his life, he had never seen such nipples. The anger in his gut tightened into a knot, fiery and churning. Skidding his hand along the ladder of her ribs, he cupped the underside of her breast, then feathered his fingertips over its crest and watched the pebbled surface go taut and
The girl’s screams during her delirium had convinced him that she was indeed the woman of the prophecy. Just as the Great Ones had foretold, her voice wasn’t gone, only silenced by great sadness . . . the massacre of her parents. Long ago, Hunter had known another girl whose voice had been stolen from her in such a way. After examining that girl at length, the puhakut in the village had claimed that her heart had been laid upon the ground by seeing her family killed and that one day, when joy returned to her, she would speak again. Many winters later the mute girl had married a kindly man, and after the birth of her first child, which brought her great gladness, she regained her voice, just as the puhakut had predicted. This white girl would as well. How or when, Hunter couldn’t begin to imagine, but he knew it would come to pass. Beyond that, he refused to think. According to the song of the Great Ones, he was to be instrumental in her recovery.
With a shaky sigh, he reached for the grease pouch and loosened its drawstring. Like it or not, he had to take care of her. If she died, the Great Ones would be displeased. If he had had only himself to worry about, he might have walked off and left her. After all, what could the Great Ones do to him that would be worse than this? But he must think of his people, of how his actions might affect them.
The hot flare of anger within him condensed into a hard little knot in the pit of his stomach. He dipped his hand into the grease and leaned forward to smear it on the woman’s tortured skin. His hand hovered above her leg. He couldn’t help but remember how jealously she had guarded her ruffled breeches that first day or how painfully ashamed she had been this morning when the hem of her pitsikwina had ridden up on her thighs. If she had any idea that she was lying here naked, he felt sure her face would turn redder than the sunburn had already made it. And if she knew he was about to run his hands over her? He could only guess what her reaction might be. Terror, probably. Accompanied by a good deal of spitting if her past transgressions were an indication. Stupid girl. Grown men had dared less and died for their trouble. Perhaps his brother was right, and she didn’t know who he was. Hunter was well aware of the fear he inspired in the tosi tivo. Most whites recognized him the moment they saw the scar on his cheek and looked into his indigo eyes.
A suppressed smile made the corners of his mouth twitch. Perhaps he would be wise not to tell her who he was. As much as he disliked her spitting, the thought of her being obedient and too easily cowed appealed even less. Something about her—he had no idea what—evoked confusing emotions within him. Anger blanketed those emotions, prevented him from having to deal with them. Ah, yes, he liked her much better when she was spitting. Much better. Sick and helpless as she was now, he found himself feeling sorry for her.
He glided his greased hand up her thigh to her hip, acutely aware of how hot her skin was and how fragile her jutting hipbone felt against the leathery surface of his palm. She tossed her head and moaned, her sooty lashes fluttering on her flushed cheeks. He studied her face for a moment, then lowered his gaze to her breasts. The tips were the delicate pink of cacti blossoms. In all his life, he had never seen such nipples. The anger in his gut tightened into a knot, fiery and churning. Skidding his hand along the ladder of her ribs, he cupped the underside of her breast, then feathered his fingertips over its crest and watched the pebbled surface go taut and
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