Hearts in Defiance (Romance in the Rockies Book 2) by Heather Blanton

white woman had struck
One-Who-Cries. Only Black Elk did not laugh.
    One-Who-Cries straightened up. Black fury crashed over him like a
rushing waterfall. It roared in his ears, sucked the air from his lungs. With
that move, the woman had sung her death song, no matter how many rifles she was
worth.
    She sprinted toward a large boulder, her drab brown skirt
billowing around her. “Jed! Jed! Help us!” One-Who-Cries was on her, bellowing
with rage. He tackled the woman and the two of them tumbled to the ground and
rolled behind a boulder. He raised a fist and brought it down with every ounce
of hate his body held coiled in his lean muscles. Her screams changed, from
anger and fear to the panicked screeching of a dying bird in an eagle’s claws.
He thought his head would come apart. Her shrieking felt like knives stabbing
his brain and made his forehead throb. Scrambling to stop the noise, he grasped
a rock and swung it hard into the side of her head again and again. Her skull
shattered. Blood and brains splattered across the orange pine needles beneath
them.
    Winded, the burn of his hate fading, One-Who-Cries climbed to his
feet and staggered out from behind the rock. He pushed long tendrils of black
hair and feathers out of his face and met Black Elk’s unexpected glare. The
brave had draped the younger girl over his saddle like a dead deer. His stare
said One-Who-Cries should have done the same thing with the yellow-haired girl.
    But One-Who-Cries would not be scolded like a child and he raised
his chin. Black Elk understood this and decided not to fight. Instead, he slid
out of the saddle, snatched a tin plate from the dead white man and heaped stew
onto it. One-Who-Cries could not eat, not while the anger still raged within
him.
    The braves ransacking the wagon returned to their task with
excited whoops and yelps. One of them dumped a jar of peaches down his throat
then tossed the empty glass aside. He grabbed a burning stick from the fire and
threw it inside the wagon. The canvas caught quickly and smoke billowed toward
the circle of blue sky above them. Two other braves, still digging through a
box of dried goods, shouted curses at him and dragged their treasure out of
range of the heat.
    One-Who-Cries let the smoke lift his anger. He watched the ashes
float away and wished he could be that free. Thinking more clearly, he could
see what the girl’s resistance had cost. She had been worth three rifles
because she had yellow hair. She was worth nothing dead. If only she hadn’t
fought. He shook his head, refusing to think about the loss.
    As Black Elk wolfed downed the serving of stew, movement in the
bushes brought One-Who-Cries’ mind back down to the earth. The missing white
man staggered into the open. Black Elk dropped his plate and pulled his bow
from his shoulder. The white man raised his Colt, but with an arm that shook
like an old woman’s. Black Elk swiftly loaded the arrow and drew back on the
string. Before he could release it, One-Who-Cries lobbed the bloodied rock in
his hand at the settler’s arm. The gun flew loose from his fingers. Swaying,
the man turned his empty palm up as if wondering how his weapon had
disappeared.
    Instinctively, One-Who-Cries took a step back. Something was
wrong. The man’s skin was almost yellow, a dull light filled his eyes, and his
face sagged strangely. His confused gaze drifted over to the water and he took
a few unsteady steps toward the creek.
    Sickness.
    Black Elk fired multiple arrows, as did two other braves. The
white man managed two more steps then fell into the water, his body pinned like
a porcupine.
    One-Who-Cries walked up beside Black Elk, folded his arms across
his chest and studied the dead white man. When he didn’t speak, Black Elk did.
“He was sick.” He jerked his chin toward the girl draped over his saddle. “She
might be, too. We should kill her and move on.”
    One-Who-Cries dropped his hands on his hips and stared down at his
moccasins. “We