Chapter Seven
On the wind, Iron Knife smelled just the slightest scent. He turned his face and breathed deep, not sure. Yes, it was wood smoke. Could it be from Cherokee’s cabin? No, he was up wind from that. It was just the slightest whiff of smoke; maybe from a tiny camp fire. His heart beat a little faster with hope. Iron Knife rode cautiously now for the next several miles after tying a scrap of rawhide around Spotted Blanket’s muzzle to keep it from whinnying should it smell another horse. He faced the fact that it might not be Angry Wolf ahead. He would have to be cautious approaching that camp; it could be a half-dozen well-armed white hunters, scouts, or enemy warriors.
His mouth tasted dry with tension, but his palms were wet as he smelled the breeze and tried to judge where that camp fire was located. The scent was stronger now. He rode a little farther, dismounted, and tied his horse to a tree, moving through the woods as quiet as a shadow. The moon had disappeared behind a bank of clouds, and the night was spitting snow. He’d be lucky if he didn’t get caught in a bad storm.
Following the scent of smoke, he crept through the forest, watching and listening. In the mouth of an abandoned mine, a woman and a man sat before a tiny fire that threw giant, grotesque shadows of them against the rocks. The woman was trussed up, her hands tied above her, the front of her shift torn so that her full, soft breasts were visible. Long blond hair hung loose like spilled gold down her creamy shoulders. Around her neck, a little gold locket gleamed in the firelight. Summer Sky! He had to force himself not to run to her. The Indian who sat cross-legged had his head half turned, guzzling whiskey from a bottle. As Iron Knife watched, the man put the bottle down, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and leered at the helpless captive.
Iron Knife leaned forward, peering closely at the ugly, pock-marked face. It couldn’t be, but it was Angry Wolf. How had the man survived when Iron Knife had seen Summer stab him? In the light, the white, jagged scar contrasted sharply with his dark chest. Somehow, Angry Wolf had survived that wound and recovered. Now he had crossed his enemy’s path again and planned revenge on a helpless girl.
Iron Knife gritted his teeth with rage. He would seek vengeance, even though it violated tribe taboo to kill one of their own.
As he watched, Angry Wolf reached for Summer. “Now that I have filled my belly, I have time for you, white bitch, before I set up an ambush for your man!”
Summer struggled to pull free while the drunken warrior laughed and pawed at her, tangling his hands in her hair. “It does you no good to fight me; I will take you anyway.”
Angry Wolf put one hand on Summer’s bare breast; the other jerked her mouth against his as he kissed her brutally.
Iron Knife shook with anger as he unsheathed his big blade. Angry Wolf wore a knife, too, but Iron Knife didn’t intend to give him a chance to use it. The drunken brave’s attention stayed focused on the half-naked woman as he pawed and kissed her. Iron Knife stepped out of the woods, moving as silent as a shadow while he crept closer.
But even as he crept up behind Angry Wolf, Summer seemed to see him for the first time, and her eyes widened in relief. Angry Wolf froze, realized she was looking at something behind him, and whirled even as he grabbed for his own blade.
“Iron Knife!” she cried out, trying to scramble to her feet, but she was tied.
“So you come!” Angry Wolf stood feet wide apart, dagger in hand. “Now we settle this at last, and then I rape your woman!”
“We’ve talked enough!” Iron Knife thundered. “Prepare to die!” He attacked, knife flashing brightly in the firelight. For a drunk, Angry Wolf was as agile as a rattlesnake. He dodged away, and Iron Knife’s blade sliced empty air.
Angry Wolf threw back his head and laughed. “Your worry for your woman affects your judgment, dog soldier!”
He was right. Iron Knife struggled to get a grip on his raging emotions. If he was going to kill Angry Wolf, he would have to be as cold and emotionless as if he were killing any predator. Certainly both had survived enough life and death battles against enemies of the Cheyenne to go at killing each other coldly and methodically. All these years, Iron Knife had worried about breaking that taboo, and yet here he was prepared, no, eager, to do it again.
Angry Wolf lunged at him, but Iron Knife sidestepped the move deftly, threw back his head and chided, “You’re drunk; you run on liquid courage!”
“Big talk for a warrior whose woman saved him the last time we fought!”
Summer lay there, watching helplessly. With her hands tied, there was nothing she could do to aid her man, and she didn’t think Iron Knife had completely recovered from his Sand Creek wound. She struggled to break free, but she was tied tightly. Her heart hammered, for she knew that if Angry Wolf won, he would scalp Iron Knife, throw the bloody trophy across her naked body and rape her. There seemed to be no way to help her man.
The men parried and clashed, steel blade ringing against steel blade.
Angry Wolf laughed as the two circled each other warily. “Are you not worried about the taboo of the Medicine Arrows if you kill me, dog soldier?”
“They already run with blood—” Iron Knife drew great gulps of air into his mighty chest—“but it is not my doing.”
“I killed Horse Stealer,” Angry Wolf snarled, “and now I will kill you, too!” He lunged toward Iron Knife, but the big man was as graceful as a mountain lion. He stepped to one side, and the drunken savage tripped, lost his balance, staggered and fell as he thrust with his knife. He screamed out as he landed on his own dagger.
“Angry Wolf?” Iron Knife ran to him and turned him over. The other lay with his own blade buried to the hilt in his chest at almost exactly the location where Summer had stabbed him all those long years ago.
The dying man grimaced and looked down at the knife stuck in his flesh almost as if he could not believe what had happened. “Strange . . . so strange . . .” he muttered, “the great god, Heammawihio, takes revenge for my killing Horse Stealer. . . .”
Summer stared, stunned at the scarlet stream running down the man’s chest. Even from here, she smelled the sweet, hot scent of his blood. He gasped one more time and died.
Iron Knife stood up, swayed for a moment as he got his breath, and came over to pull her to her feet. “Little One, are you all right?”
“I—he had Lance. . . .” Summer lost control and began to cry as he slipped his big arms around her and started untying her hands.
“Don’t cry, Little One, you’re all right. I’m here.”
When he got her hands untied, she threw her arms around him, burying her face against the protection of his muscular chest while he held her tightly, stroking her hair. “He—he was going to force me—”
“It’s all right, Summer,” he whispered. “I won’t ever let anyone hurt you; you’re mine.”
A sudden thought came to her, and she looked up at him. “The children?”
“All right.” He tilted her small, heart-shaped face up to his and kissed her gently. “Silver’s looking after them.”
She was shaking with cold and exhaustion. It was snowing in earnest now. “Did you hear? He killed a Cheyenne warrior. He’s the reason there was blood on the Medicine Arrows!”
“I heard.” He cradled her in his arms, soothing her, murmuring to her while he held her close.
She buried her face in the hollow of his wide shoulder and clung to him, shaking with sobs while he comforted her. It felt so good to have his powerful arms around her. She was his in the most primitive definition of the word, and for the moment, nothing else mattered. He picked her up like a fragile doll, carried her into the cave, then stood her on her feet gently.
Iron Knife said, “The snow’s getting worse; we’d better make plans to wait out the night here.”
“But the children—”
“Silver can deal with the children until morning,” he said firmly. “I’ll drag the body away, get the horses in out of the wind. You build up the fire and see how much food there is. I can use some coffee; it’s in the canteen.”
She was so shaken, she didn’t want to let him out of her sight, but there were things that had to be done, she knew. He was back in a few minutes and grunted with satisfaction to see she had built the fire into a warm blaze. “Good. I’ve also got a blanket.”
They wrapped up in the blanket together before the fire.
“I’m still cold.” She shivered, and he handed her the whiskey.
“Here, this should warm us both up.”
They snuggled down by the blaze, pulled the blanket more tightly around them, ate the meat and bread Silver had sent, and drank strong coffee laced with whiskey. It was snowing steadily now, covering the earth with a white velvet blanket.
With her belly full of meat and whiskey, she felt warm and securely content curled up in her man’s arms under the blanket by the blazing fire, watching the snow fall. They lay like two spoons, his body around hers, kissing the nape of her neck, his big hand on her bare breast. His hand slipped down to her belly.
“I—I wish. . . .” He let the words trail off, but she felt his maleness big and urgent against her hips.
She wanted him, too. It didn’t seem fair that he had taught her passion and now they must continually deny that need.
“Dearest,” she whispered, and realized she was a bit drunk, “it wouldn’t hurt anything if you only kissed me a little.” She turned on her back and laid her golden head in the hollow of his powerful dark shoulder and felt his fingers trace the aura of her nipple.
“No harm in that, Little One.” He leaned over and kissed her, running his tongue deep into her mouth. She could taste the warm whiskey on it as he teased around the edges of her lips. Without meaning to, her body went tense and molded itself against his. His manhood was pulsating hard as he pressed against her. She felt her pulse quicken, felt his heart beat harder against her breast.
“Just a few kisses,” she murmured against his mouth, “to keep us warm.”
“No more than that,” he warned and touched the tip of his tongue in her ear, sucking the lobe as he caressed her breast.
She had not forgotten how his tender touch made her want him beyond any reason. Without meaning to, she arched against him and locked her hands behind his dark head so he couldn’t move away from kissing her deeper and with mounting passion.
His big hand went down to cup her small bottom, bringing it up against him. “Just keeping you warm,” he said.
“Keep me warm; I like it.” They were both a little drunk, she thought, but it didn’t matter. They were safe and snug, and there was a long, cold night ahead of them. What did it hurt if they just teased each other’s bodies a little as long as they didn’t complete the act?
She reached down and clasped him with her hand. He was rock hard and wet with seed. He groaned aloud when she did that and kissed both her breasts, teasing her soft skin with his lips as they brushed across her body. She closed her eyes and concentrated on the feelings, giddy with whiskey and exhaustion, yet cosy and safe in his arms.
“I want you,” he said insistently. “I want to put myself deep in you so men can smell the scent of me on you, know you belong to me.”
“We don’t dare,” she reminded him, “but you can touch me a little if you want.”
“Touch you?” he snorted, “how about possess you?”
In her mind, she saw herself as it had been between them in times past with her thighs spread wide and his lean hips pumping hard into her depths while she writhed under him, clawing his back and hips, kissing his lips while he urged her into ecstasy.
He kissed her again, breathing his whiskey-sweet breath deep into her mouth. “Do you know how a warrior makes a horse his obedient possession?”
She knew. A warrior blew his life’s breath into a horse’s lungs. It also worked with a woman, she thought dimly as she breathed in his warm scent and kissed his lips.
His hands were stroking down her belly to her thighs. He ran his thumb gently over the rosebud of her femininity. It felt like a bolt of lightning striking her. She protested, “I—I don’t think you’d better . . .”
“I just want to touch you . . . stroke you.” His voice was full of urgency, and he didn’t stop his caressing and kissing.
Yes, that’s all they were doing, she told herself as she spread her thighs wider, unable to resist his touch as he kissed her again. His breath was coming in gasps, and she felt the pulse beating in his big manhood as he pressed it against her. She wanted more than kisses and touches; what she really hungered for was his big manhood throbbing deep in her inner core. She yearned to feel him stiffen as he released his seed into her waiting vessel. It had been a long time since they had mated.
He wasn’t going to do it, she told herself vaguely; he was pleasuring himself with the feel of her soft, warm flesh. She was glad he had willpower, because as drunk and comfortable as she was in his embrace, she wasn’t sure she could make herself stop if he left it up to her. He leaned over her, and she bit his nipple so that he groaned and pressed it against her mouth while his hand gently massaged her full breasts.
They kissed longer and deeper and more urgently each time. “We should stop,” she whispered, but he only kissed her harder in a way that excited her.
He was stroking her thighs, and she spread her legs so he could stroke where she most wanted his touch. The fire of desire seemed to burn hotter and brighter between them. He had moved so he was half on her, kissing her breasts, rubbing himself against her belly.
“Oh, Little One, I want you so . . . please. . . .”
It wasn’t fair; they needed each other, and their passion was flaming as hot as the fire they lay before. She dug her nails into his muscular shoulders as he kissed her eyes, her lips, her throat.
“Please,” he gasped.
We shouldn’t, her mind cried out, but she couldn’t stop herself from pressing her body against his insistent manhood.
“Summer, let me . . . please let me . . . I want you so. . . .”
She had lost all judgment and worry about tomorrow. She only knew that her whole insides seemed to be an aching void that needed to be filled with something iron hard and pulsating, throbbing down to her very core. When he reached to put himself against the velvet of her womanliness, they were both silky wet. He lay half on her, pressing against her, throbbing. Summer knew she should push him away, but the truth was she wanted him every bit as badly as he wanted her. She kissed him wildly, reaching down to dig her nails into his hard hips. She surrendered by letting her thighs fall apart, arching her pelvis up to meet him.
With a groan, he buried himself in her.
It felt so good, being pinned against the soft blanket by his steel maleness throbbing deep inside her while his warm insistent mouth caressed her tongue, drew it deep into his mouth.
His fingers tangled in her hair, he began to ride her body, hard and deep and sure. She arched her back so that her pelvis came up and met his thrust for thrust. He had the power to play her body until her nerves were as taut as wires, wanting the release that only he could give. Summer locked her legs around his lean, dark body. “You know what I want,” she demanded, “give it to me! Please . . . !”
He pulled back his long length and came into her hard, pulled back and then came down on her again. Summer arched up to meet him, encouraged him to ride her with hard, relentless thrusts. His big hands covered her breasts, squeezing them in a gentle caress while his tongue went deep in her throat. She was his woman, his to possess and mate—his alone.
She had forgotten how much she loved him, how satisfying it felt to have him inside her. Summer dug her nails into his shoulders, urging him deeper still. “More!” she gasped. “Give me everything you’ve got!”
“Little vixen, you can’t take everything I’ve got!”
“Try me!” she challenged, and spread her thighs farther, arching up to meet him stroke for stroke. She had forgotten just how big he was. And she was small. Every time he slammed down into her, he seemed to rub against her very womb. The sensation excited her to new heights of passion. “Don’t stop!” she whispered, frantic with her own need. “Oh, God, please don’t stop!”
“Not until I satisfy you,” he promised, and began to ride her with an intensity she hadn’t experienced in a long time. Her rising ecstasy seemed to excite him to even greater passion. It was wild, beautiful, and savage.
“My once in a lifetime love,” she whispered against his lips as he gasped and began to climax. She felt him shudder all the way into her depths as he gave up his seed. It had been a long time since they had mated, and it seemed it was taking a long time to release all that he had saved. Then she couldn’t think of anything else because her body began to react to his, locking onto his manhood as if to squeeze every precious drop from him deep into her womb where it belonged. They trembled thus a long moment, giving and getting from each other. Then, with exhausted sighs, the splendor faded, and they clung to each other.
“Oh, Summer . . .” he sighed again, “what have we done?”
What had they done? Now, as their passion cooled, she realized the chance they had taken. “We—we shouldn’t have.” She was apprehensive and a little annoyed with both him and herself. But when she had been in the throes of rising heat, she had wanted him enough to throw caution to the wind.
He brushed her damp blond hair out of her eyes and kissed her forehead. “I’ve had to fight to keep my hands off you all these months while the other braves were telling me to take a second woman.”
She closed her eyes and pictured sharing the tipi with a dark and beautiful Cheyenne girl, listening to her man panting and mating with his other woman. How could a civilized person deal with the reality of the Indian culture? “I hate their primitive custom!”
“I know, Little One, I know; but I’m only a man after all.” He kissed her gently. “What do white men do?”
“Well, they don’t do that.” She didn’t know the answer; yes, she did. White men went to whores or kept a mistress. Did her father keep a mistress? Somehow she couldn’t imagine proper and stern Silas Van Schuyler in the throes of passion with any woman. “Maybe I’ll never really be part of your culture,” she admitted. “I’m the jealous type. I don’t know what I would do if I ever found out that you had been unfaithful to me with another woman.”
Iron Knife looked down at her, his mind troubled. If only. . . . If only he could go back and erase the past. Once, in a rage of passion when he had thought Summer had betrayed him, run away back to her people, he had been angry and hurt. A lusty Indian girl had seduced him in a quick coupling that was not love, but nothing more than a frenzied, mindless mating. He regretted it bitterly, and only hoped his beloved never discovered his secret. He didn’t want to lose Summer Sky, and if she ever found out, he would. Iron Knife prayed that Summer would never learn about the time when he had mated with that Arapaho tramp, Gray Dove.