Savage Illusions

An ex­pert trac­ker, he pe­ered at the tall grass, the mo­on's glow re­ve­aling which ro­ute had be­en ta­ken by his fri­end and his cop­per prin­cess.

His eyes con­ti­nu­ing to fol­low the tra­il of crus­hed grass, he tra­ve­led a far dis­tan­ce, then gas­ped when he fo­und the body of the pan­t­her, two ar­rows pi­er­cing its si­de.

He knelt clo­se to the pan­t­her and exa­mi­ned the ar­rows.

"Spotted Eag­le's," he his­sed.

His jaw tight and his he­art thun­de­ring, he aga­in fol­lo­wed the tra­il, stop­ping with a start when just up ahe­ad, in a cle­aring, he saw two nu­de fi­gu­res in­ter­t­wi­ned on the gro­und.

His thro­at went im­me­di­ately dry and his he­art se­emed to tum­b­le to his fe­et, kno­wing who the lo­vers we­re wit­ho­ut ta­king anot­her step.

"I am too la­te," Two Rid­ges whis­pe­red an­g­rily to him­self. "But I still will not gi­ve her up. She will be mi­ne. So­on. It can­not be any ot­her way. Even if fri­ends be­co­me fast ene­mi­es, this wo­man will be my wi­fe!"

When Spot­ted Eag­le wo­ve his fin­gers thro­ugh Jole­na's dark ha­ir and drew her lips to his aga­in and kis­sed her, Two Rid­ges bit­terly tur­ned his eyes away, his hands cir­c­led in­to tight fists at his si­des.

"You will be sorry," he sa­id, his vo­ice le­vel and fil­led with ve­nom.

Chapter Ten

Jolena was de­li­ri­o­usly, de­li­ci­o­usly in lo­ve for the first ti­me in her li­fe. Yet she felt bas­h­ful­ly aw­k­ward in the pre­sen­ce of Spot­ted Eag­le now that she had gi­ven her­self to him. Whe­ne­ver he lo­oked at her from his po­wer­ful stal­li­on as he ro­de be­si­de her and Kirk's wa­gon, a sen­su­al thrill at­tac­ked her in­si­des.

r /> She co­uld not help but fe­el so­mew­hat as­ha­med for what her he­art had led her to do be­ne­ath the mysti­cal spill of the mo­on­light. Yet de­ep down, whe­re her de­si­res and wants we­re mol­ded, she knew that she wo­uld al­low it aga­in. She was even eager for her next tryst with the man she lo­ved. Just thin­king abo­ut it ma­de her warm all over.

Jolena avo­ided her brot­her's oc­ca­si­onal qu­es­ti­oning glan­ces, thin­king that su­rely he saw the dif­fe­ren­ce in his sis­ter to­day by the way her eyes sho­ne and her lips cur­ved in­to a smi­le fil­led with sec­ret, won­d­ro­us tho­ughts.

As now, as she sat stra­ig­ht-bac­ked on the un­com­for­tab­le wo­oden se­at of the co­ve­red wa­gon, she co­uld fe­el two sets of eyes on her from each si­de of her. Wit­ho­ut even lo­oking at her brot­her and at the man she lo­ved, she knew that the­ir eyes we­re fil­led with a ke­en pos­ses­si­on.

Not al­lo­wing her­self to even co­nj­ure up the pos­si­bi­lity of her brot­her and lo­ver clas­hing over who pos­ses­sed whom, Jole­na smi­led softly and kept her eyes stra­ight ahe­ad. The wind whip­ped her long black ha­ir back from her sho­ul­ders, and her cle­an, fresh blo­use, which she had put on af­ter her bri­ef bath in the ri­ver this mor­ning, clung to her bre­asts as the wind pres­sed aga­inst the cot­ton fab­ric.

As the wa­gons be­gan tra­ve­ling on a path that had be­en cut out of a to­we­ring fo­rest, the wind was si­len­ced. Ever­y­t­hing in the fo­rest was still in the mo­ist he­at of mid-mor­ning, as if every le­af of every tree was bre­at­hing slowly in the mo­ist air, tas­ting its frag­ran­ce.

Thin shafts of sun­light fell in criss-cross pat­terns bet­we­en the gently ri­sing tree-trunks. So­me tre­es we­re gi­gan­tic. So­me we­re small. So­me we­re ro­und and smo­oth, ot­hers gnar­led and co­ar­se, so­me rot­ting and re­ady to drop.

It was li­ving so in­ten­sely, this fo­rest, that Jole­na felt as tho­ugh she da­red not bre­at­he lo­udly or gi­ve signs of her ani­mal res­t­les­sness. All aro­und her, sap­lings, shrubs, flo­wers, and gras­ses rus­hed to clo­se the ho­le that had be­en torn in the fab­ric of the fo­rest ro­of. Slen­der growths stret­c­hed up­ward. The so­il burst with ir­rep­res­sib­le ve­ge­ta­ti­on, and mas­ses of pa­ra­si­tic fo­li­age we­re en­t­wi­ned with the glo­ri­o­us blos­soms of cre­epers, la­ced and bo­und and in­ter­wo­ven with in­ter­mi­nab­le tan­g­les of vi­nes.

The air hum­med with flying cre­atu­res, with birds as bright as but­ter­f­li­es, star­t­ling Jole­na in­to thin­king that fi­nal­ly she was go­ing to find the elu­si­ve, ra­re but­terfly.

She wat­c­hed mo­re in­ten­sely for any signs of but­ter­f­li­es as the sun­light stre­amed thro­ugh many tints of gre­en over­he­ad on­to the black mas­ses of mol­de­ring wo­od and le­aves be­ne­ath the tre­es.

But still the­re we­re no signs of but­ter­f­li­es, and when this stretch of fo­rest was left be­hind and they we­re tra­ve­ling over a mo­re rocky ter­ra­in, whe­re ne­it­her tre­es nor grass grew, Jole­na set­tled down, sig­hing re­so­lu­tely, now wor­rying mo­re abo­ut the sun that was be­ating down upon her, scor­c­hing her as if a he­ated iron we­re be­ing held only in­c­hes away from her flesh. She fan­ned her­self with one of her hands, whi­le with the ot­her she grip­ped the se­at of the wa­gon, the jo­ur­ney ha­ving be­co­me slow and ro­ugh as the whe­els of the wa­gon rol­led and bum­ped over the rocks.

Out of the cor­ner of her eye, Jole­na saw Spot­ted Eag­le dis­mo­unt, then be­gin tra­ve­ling on fo­ot, his hor­se's re­ins held limply in his fin­gers as his ste­ed fell back away from him at a much slo­wer ga­it.

Jolena shif­ted her ga­ze and wat­c­hed Spot­ted Eag­le as he wal­ked tall and pro­ud be­si­de the wa­gon, so clo­se she co­uld re­ach out and to­uch him if she wis­hed to.

But she da­red not to­uch him, for it might start a cha­in re­ac­ti­on of fe­elings tum­b­ling thro­ugh her­fe­elings she co­uld not act on un­til pri­vacy was on­ce aga­in gran­ted to her and her han­d­so­me war­ri­or lo­ver.

She smi­led to her­self, fin­ding it hard to be­li­eve that her li­fe had chan­ged so dras­ti­cal­ly sin­ce she left Sa­int Lo­u­is. She had ho­ped for many things as she tra­ve­led up the long stretch of the Mis­so­uri, but ne­ver had she ima­gi­ned that she wo­uld find lo­ve, and that she wo­uld be ta­ught the true me­aning of be­ing a wo­man whi­le loc­ked wit­hin her lo­ver's po­wer­ful em­b­ra­ce.

Her mid­night dre­am had co­me true, she tho­ught. Now if only the ot­her thing that she had pra­yed upon the stars for each night wo­uld hap­pen­t­hen she wo­uld fe­el ful­fil­led. She wo­uld be who­le. As long as she ne­ver knew her true fat­her and pe­op­le, she was only half a per­son.

It was not fa­ir, ha­ving be­en che­ated of a li­fe­ti­me of be­ing with her pe­op­le and be­ing lo­ved by her true fat­her.

But now she had ho­pes that even this wo­uld so­on chan­ge. If she co­uld find the co­ura­ge to ask Spot­ted Eag­le the im­por­tant qu­es­ti­ons that we­re bur­ning wit­hin her he­art, per­haps then she wo­uld not ha­ve to se­arch any fur­t­her for an­s­wers!

As Spot­ted Eag­le wal­ked qu­i­etly be­si­de the wa­gon whe­re his wo­man was so clo­se he co­uld re­ach out and to­uch her if he so de­si­red, he was lost in me­mo­ri­es of the mo­ments he had spent alo­ne with her. So­on he wo­uld tell her many things that wo­uld thrill her he­art. He was pro­ud that he wo­uld be the one to put back to­get­her the pi­eces of her li­fe that had be­en wren­c­hed apart all tho­se ye­ars ago when the whi­te pe­op­le had ta­ken her from her be­lo­ved mot­her. On­ce he re­ve­aled this truth to Jole­na, she wo­uld be Blac­k­fo­ot in­s­te­ad of li­ving the pre­ten­se of be­ing whi­te.

His he­art le­apt when, up ahe­ad, a fox emer­ged from the fo­rest. When the fox cros­sed Spot­ted Eag­le's path from left to right, Spot­ted Eag­le smi­led, kno­wing that me­ant go­od luck.