White Fire

As he rode toward his cabin, his thoughts went to Flame, then he brushed her from his mind again, for thinking of her brought her father to mind. He would never allow himself to forget the hate in the colonel’s eyes when he had warned White Fire to stay away from his daughter.

Yet, why should he allow such a threat to stand in his way of doing anything that he wished to do? he thought to himself, smiling. No threat had ever stopped him from pursuing a goal he wished to achieve.

Nor would it now.

Now that he had seen Flame all grown up into a beautiful woman, how could he be expected to forget her?

Chapter 12

She seemed to hear my silent voice,

Not love’s appeals to know.

I never saw so sweet a face,

As that I stood before.

—John Clare

Ignoring the military chaperon that she had left outside the commissary, yet angry at her father for forcing Lieutenant Green on her, as though she were a prisoner, Flame stood at the back of the room, admiring the beautiful dresses hanging from a rack. Since there were so few women at the fort, there weren’t that many dresses, but enough from which to choose a new wardrobe.

She then glanced around her. The dreary room was dimly lit with kerosene lanterns and their smoke-blackened chimneys hanging from the open beams of the ceiling. They scarcely gave off enough light to see by. Even the small windows at the top of the commissary walls did not help much, for they were hazed over with rain-blown dust from the last storm.

She looked then at the far side of the room where the men’s clothes and military equipment lay on shelves in vast rows. She tried to make out the features of a man who was going through the arsenal of weapons. She squinted her eyes to see him better, but he was standing too much in the shadows for her to make out his face, or even his build, or what he wore.

Her flame-red hair hung in luscious waves across her shoulders, halfway down to her waist. She was dressed in a demure, pale green chiffon dress, with a floral print skirt and wide embroidered sash. Flame soon forgot the man and began sorting through the dresses. Her eyes devoured the sweeping lines of a two-piece linen outfit with lavishly worked lace insets embellishing the bodice and sleeves. Her fingers nimbly scooted the linen outfit aside.

Her green eyes lingered on the sweeping lines of a velvet cloak. Then she sighed when she saw a white organdy dress with petallike sleeves and hem. As she turned it around, and from side to side, in awe of its loveliness, she felt as though she might never find anything as perfectly right for the ball tonight.

Yet she must make sure something else was not there even more tempting and beautiful.

She looked through the rest of the graceful, deliciously feminine chiffon and organdy dresses. Her fingers moved over moire silks, then she smoothed them over cut velvet and brocade, many of which were intricately trimmed with lace, while others were lush with embroidery.

Quickly, she plucked several dresses from the rack and laid them aside on a table alongside the velvet cloak. Then she stepped over to where many hats were displayed on stands.

Loving them all, Flame clasped her hands and looked from one to the other, from straw hats trimmed with silk flowers to others with voluminous veils of muslin. Finding it too hard to choose which one just yet, she moved onward.

Her gaze swept over fine chemises and petticoats, bracelets, brooches, and purses, stopping on a silk parasol with an ivory-and-green lining.

Then she went to the shoes, sighing at how flirty and feminine they were. She picked up an ivory satin shoe and ran her fingers over its exquisite smoothness.

“I think that would be my choice,” White Fire said suddenly from behind her. He had been choosing a rifle and had heard a noise at the back of the room. When he had turned around and saw who was there, he had almost melted in his shoes at her loveliness. It was hard to believe his luck—that he would be at the commissary at the exact time Flame was there.

And now that she had turned and was gazing into his eyes, as though awestruck, he was aware again of how they seemed drawn to one another.

Seeing her the day of his father’s funeral came into White Fire’s mind’s eye, remembering how exquisitely beautiful she had been even then at ten. He had known that she would grow up to be someone exquisite and heart stopping.

Finding White Fire there, being alone with him, made Flame’s heart flutter nervously. Had she known it was him standing in the shadows, choosing weapons, she would have been too nervous to continue her own shopping. Her knees would have been too weak with excitement had she known that he was so near; had she known that they were alone in the commissary.

She clutched the shoe to her chest as she continued to look up at him, his midnight dark eyes mesmerizing her as much as they had the first time she had seen him when she was ten and knew even then that she would never forget him.

“Do you truly like the shoes?” she finally blurted out, self-conscious of the blush of her cheeks, their heat proof enough to know that he, too, could see how his presence affected her.

“They seem made for you,” White Fire said, picking up the matching shoe, gazing at it, then sliding his gaze again to Flame. “Are you looking for new shoes for a special occasion?”

“Why, surely you’ve heard,” Flame said, thinking that he himself might be at the commissary to look for more than weapons. He had surely come to choose clothes for the ball that was being held this night in her honor.

“Heard wh