Song of the Raven (Daughters of the Prairie 3)

She entered. Raven sat as she had left him, his back plastered to the wall. His black eyes seared her.

“How are you this morning?” she asked.

“Better. I think.”

“Do you need to—” Warmth crept onto her face. How did one bring up the subject of personal needs?

“I did. Earlier.”

“Goodness!” Ella set down the bowl of oats. “You must take care to not be seen.”

“I am Lakota. We are trained to…tread quietly. And invisibly.”

“Well”—Ella picked up the pail, which was nearly dry—“I must fetch you some fresh water.” She dropped the pail with a jerk. “I’m so sorry. I brought you breakfast.” She retrieved the bowl of porridge from the dirt floor and handed it to him. “I hope you like oatmeal. I added some butter and sugar.”

“You limp, itka,” Raven said. “What is wrong?”

“Oh, that dratted cow, Sukie,” Ella said. “She kicked me in the shin.”

“May I look?”

Look at her leg? How could he suggest such an improper act? “I’m fine, really. Now eat. Please. I hope it’s satisfactory for you.”

“It will be fine. I thank you.”

“You are most welcome. Now I shall see to your water.”

“Please.” His deep voice trickled over her like hot maple syrup. “Stay with me. While I eat.”

“But you need water.”

“It can wait. I would rather have your company, itka.”

“You called me that yesterday. What does it mean?”

“Itka means bloom. Or blossom. I call you that because your eyes are the color of the violets on the hills, when they first bloom. At first bloom they are darker. Then they lighten in the sun.”

“Oh, my.” Ella breathed, willing herself not to faint dead away. Did all Indians have such a way with words? Embarrassed, she changed the subject. “I must have a look at your leg. You said you’re feeling better?”

“Yes.”

“Thank goodness. If you haven’t developed a fever by now, you likely won’t. You’re quite lucky, you know. Most bear wounds are more severe.”

“Yes. I know. I got away quickly. I only wish I could have saved my horse.”

“Be glad you saved your own hide,” Ella said, inspecting the wound. It was still raw, but looked no worse than before. “I see no reason why you can’t return home tomorrow. Perhaps even tonight if you’re feeling up to it.” A pang of regret washed over Ella at her own words. If he left, she would not see him again.

“I will leave as soon as I am able. You need not be burdened with me any longer than necessary.”

“Oh, I didn’t mean—” Ella motioned to the bowl of cereal he still held. “You must eat.” She looked away and began tidying the small room. “You are no bother. I am happy to look after you.”

“I am glad, itka.” She turned and watched him take a spoonful of oats into his mouth. He winced.

“Is something the matter?”

“It is…sweet.”

“Of course it is. I told you I added sugar.”