Wild Thunder

Strong Wolf loosened his reins and swung himself into his saddle. “And now, with Tiny dead, we are certain of peace,” he said as Colonel Mooney eased into his own saddle. “Come. Have council with me. Share a smoke.”

Smiling, the young colonel nodded.

They rode away together as more rock tumbled in on Tiny’s body.

“Winter is near,” Colonel Mooney said, in light, friendly conversation.

“Yes, and should your men ever grow short of meat, just com

e to me and my warriors will gladly go on the hunt for you,” Strong Wolf said, smiling over at the young colonel. “Your table will never be without meat, even on the coldest days of winter.”

“Why, thank you,” Colonel Mooney said, returning Strong Wolf’s smile. “You are a most generous man for making such an offer.”

“It is made by a friend,” Strong Wolf said.

“Yes, a friend,” Colonel Mooney said, nodding.

The sun was lowering in the sky. The trees overhead were silent, the birds having flown south for the winter. Acorns suddenly showered the path as the breeze picked up and became a howling wind.

“This friend most certainly needs the warmth of a fire before heading on to the fort,” the young colonel said, drawing his jacket collar closer around his throat.

“We will be at my lodge soon,” Strong Wolf said, nodding.

The colonel gave Strong Wolf another smile and rode off, Strong Wolf at his side.

Strong Wolf rode tall in the saddle, his thoughts now on Hannah. Just thinking of her made his heart soar and sing! For now, at least, everything seemed perfect for him and his wife, and his people.

But he could not help but worry about someone else. White Wolf and Dawnmarie. They should have arrived by now. If they waited too much longer, they would be threatened by the ice and snow of winter.

He gazed up at the sky. The sun was setting, painting the sky the color of chokeberries. He wondered where White Wolf and Dawnmarie were now as they gazed heavenward?

Hopefully near!

Chapter 43

Ere the oldest star began to shine,

Or the farthest sun to burn,

The oldest of words, O heart of mine,

Yet newest, and sweet to learn.

—HILDEGARDE HAWTHORNE

The aroma of freshly baked plum pudding and bread wafted through the air as Hannah prepared the cabin for the arrival of her parents for Christmas.

Alone in the house, Swallow Song with Strong Wolf outside enjoying a walk through the thin layer of snow that had fallen through the night, Hannah stopped and looked around at her creations. Evergreen sprigs clipped from the forest framed her fireplace mantel. Candles that Hannah had made of rolled cotton and the silky down from milkweeds flamed and danced on the mantel, shedding soft white light across the room. A tree as tall as the ceiling, displayed glass balls dangling from the limbs, as well as stoneware ornaments, crisp blue on white, that Hannah had hand painted and sponged with native designs. A Christmas angel stood at the top of the tree, glistening white. Gold-braided garland adorned the tree.

Above the door hung a handmade wreath of preserved leaves and flowers in winter white, gold, and cream, with a muslin bow a generous twenty inches wide. And beside the door stood Chuck’s organ. He had sent cowhands to Hannah’s house only this morning with the organ, so that everyone could sing Christmas carols.

Her mother had always had a romance with the holidays. She had spent the full week before Christmas decorating the house and baking breads, cakes, and cookies.

Some of Hannah’s fondest memories were of family holidays when she was young. She was going to carry on the tradition, anxious to be the one who had a house full of friends and relatives, laughing, and singing Christmas songs together.

The room exuded a warmth that came naturally from being loved, for Hannah did adore her home. And she couldn’t be happier.

She placed her hand over the tight ball of her stomach. “Come spring, child, you will also join the fun,” she whispered proudly.