Eyes wide with surprise, Running Cloud turned, releasing his hold on Anna. White Eagle jerked him back and shoved him to the ground. Running Cloud raised his hands, palms up as White Eagle towered over him.
Anna turned to run, but White Eagle caught her by the arm and swung her around. Screaming, she shoved, but he held her against him. His hair and feathers cascaded onto her shoulder, and his painted face came inches from hers, emphasizing his bandit-like mask, the white stripe beneath it, and the red slashes on his cheeks and chin. Leather and sage assailed her senses as his breath feathered against her cheek.
“Lord help me,” she whispered, wishing she could faint. Perhaps she did want to know what it would feel like. Now seemed the perfect time to lose consciousness.
Heavy breathing blocked out the sounds around them. A dangling feather tickled her face. His fingers slid up onto her chin—her breath caught in her throat. They glided across her cheek and tenderly brushed his feather away.
Their gazes met. Behind dark lashes, warm blue-green eyes swept over her from his gentle, almost sympathetic gaze.
There was a man buried beneath that mask of war paint.
~*~
White Eagle released a long, slow hiss as his gaze swept over the woman’s face and down his arm where her yellow hair wrapped around his dark skin and silver armband—a stark contrast.
Despite the fear evident in the pine-green depths of her eyes, he felt as if she could see inside of him, as if her gut knew she saw a man, not a savage.
From her nose to her chin, her face burned bright red from the sun, and her lips were cracked and dry. This woman needed water.
Her gaze darted to her carpetbag. “Please,” she whispered.
He glanced down at the bag. Did it have weapons? He jerked it from the ground. To her obvious dismay, he tore it open. He found a book, The Last of the Mohicans, and photographs. Then nothing of significance, just fake jewelry and other feminine articles. But one item practically burned like fire in his hand—a Bible. He hadn’t seen the white man’s book since he left Denver six years ago. The one his father had. He shoved it back in. No weapons. He stuffed everything else in and handed it to her.
Relief reflected in her eyes as she hugged the bag.
White Eagle ambled to his horse, his stride uneasy.
Distant cries of women and children carried up from the wagons as the other braves rummaged through their belongings. If only that man hadn’t raised his rifle, no one would have been killed. But had their roles been reversed, White Eagle might have done the same.
He grabbed his water skin and removed the stopper. He walked back to the woman and held it out to her.
She gaped at it.
He shook the water.
She looked at him then back at the skin. Lunging forward, she dropped her bag. After a moment’s hesitation, she snatched the water skin. Water spilled down her chin and over her front. She choked.
“Slow down,” he said in Cheyenne. “I mean, slow down,” he said again, only this time in French. He shook his head and went back to his horse. “I can’t talk,” he mumbled in English.
Running Cloud rode up to him on his horse. White Eagle boldly met his gaze. He’d almost forgotten about tossing his friend to the ground. He’d never before laid a hand on Running Cloud, who was more like a brother than a friend.
“We’re taking the woman,” Running Cloud said in Cheyenne, motioning towards Walks Alone.
“No.” White Eagle turned to his horse and straightened out the blanket. “I don’t want her.”
“You’re refusing my gift?” Running Cloud’s voice rose as he thumbed his chest. “You knock me down for her, and now you don’t want her?” He turned to Walks Alone, eyes blazing. “Then I’ll take her.” Running Cloud moved toward the woman.
“No!” White Eagle grabbed the reins, ready to grab more than that if he had to. “I’ll keep her.” White Eagle never agreed with Running Cloud’s ways of war, ravishing innocent women, and if he even laid a pinky on this one, he’d . . . what would he do? Kill his friend? The thought of him touching her made him so livid with rage, he just might. But at what cost? He’d lose his life to the other braves protecting their war chief, and then what would happen to the woman?
Was he actually contemplating murdering his friend? A friend who had been more like his brother? What had come over him? Sure it was the Cheyenne way to kill a man who touched his woman, but this woman didn’t even belong to him.
Running Cloud leaned over his saddle. “She’s mine,” he said slowly, laying emphasis on each word, “until you make her yours.”
White Eagle’s fists tightened on the reins at his suggestion. “I don’t do that, and you know it.” His words were like the low rumble of thunder before a storm.
Running Cloud arched a brow, a smirk on his lips. He then laughed. “You think that’s what I meant?” He continued to laugh. “Then you’re a fool.”
The significance of his words poured over White Eagle like a heavy rainfall. He meant for him to take her as his wife. A wife? He didn’t need a wife. He was ready to tear into Running Cloud for that, but he kept his hands to himself. He had to calm down. There’d been enough fighting between friends with Black Bear on the rampage. But how could Running Cloud force him to take this woman as his wife? He ran his hand down his face, trying to contain his fury.
Clenching his jaw, he shook his head in disbelief. At least the woman would remain unharmed. But did he have to make her his wife to keep her safe?
White Eagle marched to Walks Alone, seething with fury.
Spotted Owl galloped up to them, letting them know the other braves were ready to go. Running Cloud took off toward the wagons.
Now Walks Alone not only hugged her carpetbag but also his water skin. He took the water skin, grabbed the woman’s dainty elbow, and led her to his horse.
She gasped as they neared the painted beast, and it wasn’t until then that he realized just how large his horse must appear to a woman her size. “Get on the horse,” White Eagle said in Cheyenne. He shook his head in frustration. English. He needed to speak English.
Realizing she wouldn’t be able to mount without help, he lifted the stiff and proper young lady from the ground. Wide, green eyes looked down on his face. The position reminded him of his father when he’d pick him up and playfully toss him in the water. And just as his father had done, White Eagle lifted her above his head. She weighed no more than a child, and despite his anger, a chuckle rumbled in his chest as the woman, stiff as a board, hugged the bag as if it might keep her from falling. Forcing the grin from his face, he set her on his horse. He then pried the carpetbag from her fingers, and as she protested, he tossed it to Spotted Owl who looked none too happy about having to carry the lady’s belongings—he already had a bag of sugar, and some of the white crystals stuck to the corners of his mouth.
“I’m not carrying this.” Spotted Owl made ready to toss the bag on the ground.
White Eagle turned on him. “You will.” He had a feeling that bag was all the woman owned, and he hated the thought of leaving her photographs to the elements. What he wouldn’t give to have pictures of his own parents. Or was that truly the only reason he wished her to keep it? His hand still tingled from touching the white man’s holy book.
Another scream carried from the wagons, but White Eagle pushed it out of his mind, unwilling to investigate. They should leave.
He mounted behind Walks Alone, and she straightened. Her feet dangled over one side of the horse, and he sensed she might jump off, so he wrapped his arm around her waist and clicked the reins. The horse galloped away from the settlers. Spotted Owl, Standing Elk, and the other four warriors joined him. To