avoided
her gaze. “How could you leave him?”
Willow Talks strode to her side and took her hand. “Come
away. They should not tell you of any dishonor.”
“I must know where my husband is.” She shook her off. “If
they left him wounded and bleeding, I will—”
Die. She clamped a hand over her mouth, stifling her
screams of pain. “He lives. I know he does.” She reeled and forced herself to
stand tall and proud. If Bull Elk had died, she would know in her heart. She
would feel the earth groan and rivers moan. The sky would cry and she would
feel the arrow in her soul that he was no longer here to love her.
Horses’ hooves pounded the earth. All of them turned to the sound.
The dust rose, obscuring the sight of the rider and mount
who ran parallel to the camp around the edge of a ravine.
“Who is it?” Fancy whispered, shoved Willow Talks from her
and picked up her skirts to race out to meet the rider.
He was tall. Broad. Fierce.
“Oh, god. Oh Bull Elk!” Thrusting her arms open wide, she
ran toward the caramel-colored palomino her husband had won in a raid of a
Spanish mission last month. He sat proud in his saddle, his bare chest bronze
and heaving, marked by an angry red trail from his shoulder. “No. No. You will
be well. I will make it so.”
She ran heedlessly on, over rocks and stones, twisting her
ankle and righting herself. She smiled at him, tears winding down her cheeks,
scalding her mind, cheering her heart.
He galloped toward her, a grin on his face, his umber eyes
melding with hers. Then he scooped her up much as he had that brilliant spring
day more than a year ago. This time, he caught her to him, swung her up to his
lap and slowed his horse to a stop.
“ Patuwa kum. ” Fancy could not say his name enough to
prove to herself that he was here and he still lived. “My husband. You are
hurt.”
He pressed her hand to his bleeding shoulder and strained to
withstand the pain so that the cordons in his neck flexed. “You will take me
home and make me well with your love.”
She cried out, kissing his lips, thin and white with his
suffering. “I will. I promise you I will.”
The morning of his return, Fancy dug from his shoulder an
ugly bullet. Biting a leather-wrapped log, her husband had endured the torture
of her surgery without the benefit of the white man’s opium. But she had
cleaned his wound with water Willow Talks had boiled. Then she sewed the wound
shut with leather string.
For four days, Bull Elk lay on their cot in their tipi,
recovering. He rose from his rest that fourth afternoon and went to visit with
his elders in their smoke lodge.
At dusk, Fancy wended her way into the woods and there she
paused to listen to her husband’s prayers to the Great Spirit. His words held anger
and hope, but she was struck by one grievous quality in his appeals. He
bargained with his god to let him live for many, many moons. “So that my wife
will never run, never fear and always live in love.”
Fancy left him to his prayers and when he returned to their
tipi, he took her in his arms and kissed her heartily.
“The elders say you are a worthy squaw to heal me as you
have.”
“I should say I am pleased that they like me now, but I care
only that you are well.”
“You truly are one with me now.”
“Because your elders have accepted me?” she asked, half
teasing him.
“Because you live well with me.”
“And you with me, my love. May it be for many years to
come.”
He nodded and, with a glint in his handsome eyes, led her to
their cot. “We live for today. Let me show you how that is done.”
About Cerise DeLand
What’s an East Coast gal to do to if she lives deep in the
heart of Texas, travels often everywhere, and adores Paris, Florence, London,
Tokyo and all points east and west?
Ah.
She becomes an author who can write about those romantic
places. With a passion for cowboys, spies, rakes, knights in shining armor and
their gutsy women, Cerise
her gaze. “How could you leave him?”
Willow Talks strode to her side and took her hand. “Come
away. They should not tell you of any dishonor.”
“I must know where my husband is.” She shook her off. “If
they left him wounded and bleeding, I will—”
Die. She clamped a hand over her mouth, stifling her
screams of pain. “He lives. I know he does.” She reeled and forced herself to
stand tall and proud. If Bull Elk had died, she would know in her heart. She
would feel the earth groan and rivers moan. The sky would cry and she would
feel the arrow in her soul that he was no longer here to love her.
Horses’ hooves pounded the earth. All of them turned to the sound.
The dust rose, obscuring the sight of the rider and mount
who ran parallel to the camp around the edge of a ravine.
“Who is it?” Fancy whispered, shoved Willow Talks from her
and picked up her skirts to race out to meet the rider.
He was tall. Broad. Fierce.
“Oh, god. Oh Bull Elk!” Thrusting her arms open wide, she
ran toward the caramel-colored palomino her husband had won in a raid of a
Spanish mission last month. He sat proud in his saddle, his bare chest bronze
and heaving, marked by an angry red trail from his shoulder. “No. No. You will
be well. I will make it so.”
She ran heedlessly on, over rocks and stones, twisting her
ankle and righting herself. She smiled at him, tears winding down her cheeks,
scalding her mind, cheering her heart.
He galloped toward her, a grin on his face, his umber eyes
melding with hers. Then he scooped her up much as he had that brilliant spring
day more than a year ago. This time, he caught her to him, swung her up to his
lap and slowed his horse to a stop.
“ Patuwa kum. ” Fancy could not say his name enough to
prove to herself that he was here and he still lived. “My husband. You are
hurt.”
He pressed her hand to his bleeding shoulder and strained to
withstand the pain so that the cordons in his neck flexed. “You will take me
home and make me well with your love.”
She cried out, kissing his lips, thin and white with his
suffering. “I will. I promise you I will.”
The morning of his return, Fancy dug from his shoulder an
ugly bullet. Biting a leather-wrapped log, her husband had endured the torture
of her surgery without the benefit of the white man’s opium. But she had
cleaned his wound with water Willow Talks had boiled. Then she sewed the wound
shut with leather string.
For four days, Bull Elk lay on their cot in their tipi,
recovering. He rose from his rest that fourth afternoon and went to visit with
his elders in their smoke lodge.
At dusk, Fancy wended her way into the woods and there she
paused to listen to her husband’s prayers to the Great Spirit. His words held anger
and hope, but she was struck by one grievous quality in his appeals. He
bargained with his god to let him live for many, many moons. “So that my wife
will never run, never fear and always live in love.”
Fancy left him to his prayers and when he returned to their
tipi, he took her in his arms and kissed her heartily.
“The elders say you are a worthy squaw to heal me as you
have.”
“I should say I am pleased that they like me now, but I care
only that you are well.”
“You truly are one with me now.”
“Because your elders have accepted me?” she asked, half
teasing him.
“Because you live well with me.”
“And you with me, my love. May it be for many years to
come.”
He nodded and, with a glint in his handsome eyes, led her to
their cot. “We live for today. Let me show you how that is done.”
About Cerise DeLand
What’s an East Coast gal to do to if she lives deep in the
heart of Texas, travels often everywhere, and adores Paris, Florence, London,
Tokyo and all points east and west?
Ah.
She becomes an author who can write about those romantic
places. With a passion for cowboys, spies, rakes, knights in shining armor and
their gutsy women, Cerise
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