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Savage Illusions

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did for me," she sa­id so­lemnly, but was in­ter­rup­ted be­fo­re she co­uld fi­nish.

Kirk yan­ked him­self away from her, flin­ging a hand wildly in the air. "Did you just he­ar yo­ur­self?" he sho­uted. "Did you he­ar how you cal­led fat­her yo­ur 'whi­te' fat­her? Lord, Jole­na, you've ne­ver sa­id that be­fo­re. He is yo­ur fat­her in every way. How can you for­get that?"

Tired of this ar­gu­ing and be­ing ma­de to fe­el as­ha­med for her na­tu­ral fe­elings, Jole­na's eyes sud­denly glit­te­red mu­ti­no­usly. "Kirk, ple­ase le­ave," she sa­id, her vo­ice and jaw tight. "I wo­uld li­ke to stop dis­cus­sing the­se things be­fo­re we say so­met­hing we might reg­ret. Just le­ave it be, Kirk. Do you he­ar? Le­ave it be."

"Jolena, I will say this one mo­re ti­me," Kirk sa­id stub­bornly. "Don't be fri­ends with In­di­ans. They can't be trus­ted."

The ve­nom in her brot­her's vo­ice ma­de Jole­na le­ap to the de­fen­se of In­di­ans. She le­aned in­to his fa­ce. " I am In­di­an, aren't I?" she sa­id, her eyes fla­ring an­g­rily. "Can't I be trus­ted?" When Kirk did not res­pond and still sto­od his gro­und, re­fu­sing to bud­ge, Jole­na sig­hed he­avily and wal­ked in a huff past him.

Her fin­gers we­re trem­b­ling as she yan­ked the do­or open and be­gan run­ning down the nar­row cor­ri­dor lig­h­ted by can­d­les flic­ke­ring in wall scon­ces. With Kirk clo­se on her he­els, she ran on out­si­de and ac­ross the co­ur­t­yard, angry, frus­t­ra­ted te­ars blin­ding her from whe­re she was ac­tu­al­ly go­ing as Kirk be­gan sho­uting at her to stop.

"Jolena!" Kirk sho­uted. "Yes, you are In­di­an, but it's not the sa­me for you. You we­re ra­ised in a ci­vi­li­zed man­ner. In­di­ans are ra­ised as he­at­hens!"

His words to­re at Jole­na's he­art. Al­most blin­ded with ra­ge, she sob­bed fu­ri­o­usly and kept on run­ning, then stop­ped sud­denly when she col­li­ded with so­me­one.

Raising her eyes, she swal­lo­wed hard and her he­art ra­ced when she fo­und her­self lo­oking squ­arely up at the han­d­so­me Blac­k­fo­ot war­ri­or.

And when his hands went to her sho­ul­der to ste­ady her from fal­ling from the jolt of the col­li­si­on, the mel­ting she ex­pe­ri­en­ced de­eply wit­hin her was so swe­et that she fe­ared it.

Kirk's war­nings kept flas­hing on and off wit­hin her mind, yet they se­emed to be gro­wing dim­mer the lon­ger she sto­od in awes­t­ruck si­len­ce fa­cing Spot­ted Eag­le.

Spotted Eag­le ga­zed down at her when he saw her eyes all swol­len and red from crying; he wan­ted to draw her in­to his tight em­b­ra­ce to pro­tect her from her brot­her's scal­ding words, which Spot­ted Eag­le had over­he­ard.

But he did not da­re ca­use any mo­re tur­mo­il bet­we­en a brot­her and sis­ter and qu­ickly re­le­ased her as Kirk ca­me in a bre­at­h­less rush to her si­de.

Staring at the In­di­an, Kirk re­ac­hed out for Jole­na and pla­ced an arm pos­ses­si­vely aro­und her wa­ist. He fo­ught to ke­ep his vo­ice ste­ady as he be­gan us­he­ring her back to­ward the fort. "Co­me now, sis," he sa­id softly. "We must get you back to yo­ur ro­om. It is best that you get to bed so­on, for we will be le­aving be­fo­re sun­ri­se on the mor­row."

Jolena mo­ved in a half-stum­b­le alon­g­si­de Kirk, stun­ned by her true fe­elings for Spot­ted Eag­le. It wo­uld be hard to hi­de them, es­pe­ci­al­ly from Kirk. "Yes, I ima­gi­ne you are right," she mur­mu­red. "Sud­denly I am so ti­red."

"And must I re­mind you aga­in of the true re­ason we are in the Mon­ta­na Ter­ri­tory?" Kirk per­sis­ted, thin­king that per­haps if he ham­me­red it in­to her bra­in, she might fi­nal­ly be­li­eve it to be so. "The but­terfly, Jole­na. The ra­re but­terfly. Only the ra­re but­terfly."

Jolena tur­ned soft, dark eyes to her brot­her. "Kirk, you can say that all you want," she mur­mu­red. "But I fe­el that I am he­re for a bet­ter pur­po­se. I even fe­el as tho­ugh I be­long he­re. My dre­ams ha­ve drawn me he­re, Kirk."

"Hogwash," Kirk ex­c­la­imed lo­udly.

He stop­ped and drew her in­to his gen­t­le em­b­ra­ce. "I'm so sorry for bat­tling with you abo­ut so many things," he sa­id softly. "And I ad­mit that I was a bit rash in my re­marks abo­ut the In­di­ans. I apo­lo­gi­ze." "I un­der­s­tand why you did it, and I ac­cept yo­ur apo­logy," Jole­na sa­id.

Over Kirk's sho­ul­der she was wat­c­hing Spot­ted Eag­le as he mo­ved to his ha­un­c­hes be­si­de his cam­p­fi­re. Just the sight of him ca­used her he­art to ra­ce. She was fil­led with an­ti­ci­pa­ti­on for the co­ming days, when she wo­uld co­me to know Spot­ted Eag­le bet­ter.

She clo­sed her eyes, en­vi­si­oning him hol­ding and kis­sing her, wis­hing it to be true, so­on…

Spotted Eag­le sta­red in­to the fla­mes of the fi­re, yet did not see it. He was still too ca­ught up in fe­elings for this wo­man who had sud­denly en­te­red his li­fe li­ke wil­d­fi­re rus­hing thro­ugh his blo­od to see an­y­t­hing but her ima­ge ever­y­w­he­re he lo­oked!

It was not li­ke him to al­low a wo­man to ru­le his every tho­ught.

Until to­day he had al­lo­wed but one wo­man to en­ter his he­art, and she was long go­ne from him.

He had put the im­por­tan­ce of le­ar­ning ever­y­t­hing that he wo­uld ne­ed when he was cal­led to ru­le his pe­op­le, as the­ir po­wer­ful chi­ef, abo­ve all el­se. He had lis­te­ned well to his fat­her's in­s­t­ruc­ti­ons abo­ut the re­qu­ire­ments of be­ing chi­ef.

His fat­her was not a well man, ha­ving mo­ur­ned the de­ath of Spot­ted Eag­le's mot­her for too long now, so that he had be­gun ailing him­self, and Spot­ted Eag­le fe­ared that it was mo­re from a bro­ken he­art than an­y­t­hing el­se physi­cal. This al­so had ma­de Spot­ted Eag­le shy away from al­lo­wing anot­her wo­man in­si­de his he­art. He did not want to ever fe­el the sa­me pa­in aga­in that he and his fat­her had felt over the loss of a wo­man.

There we­re many things in li­fe to enj­oy be­si­des wo­men!

Yet Spot­ted Eag­le co­uld not grasp exactly what, now that he had met the wo­man cal­led Jole­na.

"She has drawn you in­si­de yo­ur­self, has she not?" Two Rid­ges sa­id, sud­denly bre­aking Spot­ted Eag­le's tra­in of tho­ught. "She is this spe­ci­al to you?"

"The wo­man who has ar­ri­ved with the whi­te pe­op­le on the lar­ge ri­ver ca­noe?" Spot­ted Eag­le sa­id, lo­oking gu­ar­dedly back at Two Rid­ges. "She is not­hing to me. Not­hing."



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