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Savage Illusions

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Spotted Eag­le was sud­denly the­re on his mag­ni­fi­cent stal­li­on, grab­bing the re­ins from Kirk, ste­ad­ying the hor­ses. "Get in­si­de out of the ra­in!" he sho­uted at Jole­na.

The ra­in had blown her ha­ir and plas­te­red it aga­inst her wet fa­ce. She gat­he­red it in her fin­gers and par­ted it, yet the ra­in was co­ming down in such blin­ding she­ets that she still co­uld not see Spot­ted Eag­le cle­arly.

She nod­ded and tur­ned to un­tie the le­at­her thongs that held the front can­vas of the wa­gon in pla­ce, but stop­ped and sta­red up at the sky as the storm ab­ruptly stop­ped. It was as tho­ugh so­me­one had wa­ved a ma­gic wand in the air, or­de­ring the sky to cle­ar.

Jolena tur­ned back aro­und, and as she com­bed her fin­gers thro­ugh her dren­c­hed ha­ir, she ga­zed slowly abo­ut her. As the sun bro­ke thro­ugh, the co­lors of ever­y­t­hing se­emed brig­h­ter, the air was fres­her, and the birds sang che­er­ful­ly.

The le­aves of the tre­es we­re co­ated with a film of wa­ter, and as the air grew slowly war­mer, whi­te va­por for­med in the tree tops, drif­ting idly up­ward to the clo­uds. The fo­rest lo­oked as if a tho­usand cam­p­fi­res we­re smol­de­ring be­low the tre­es.

Jolena star­ted to step down from the wa­gon, then stop­ped and scre­amed when her ga­ze fell upon so­met­hing that had be­en un­co­ve­red at the si­de of the path by the hard, pel­ting ra­in.

Spotted Eag­le slid qu­ickly from his sad­dle and rus­hed to see what was ca­using Jole­na's alarm. He stop­ped and his jaw tig­h­te­ned as he ga­zed down in­to a gra­ve, from which the dirt had be­en was­hed away slowly thro­ugh the ye­ars.

His eyes wi­de with cu­ri­osity, Kirk le­aned aro­und Jole­na trying to see, angry to find that his vi­ew was be­ing bloc­ked by Spot­ted Eag­le. "What was it, sis?" he as­ked, ga­zing over at her. "I'm not su­re," Jole­na sa­id, a shi­ver ra­cing up and down her spi­ne as she re­tur­ned his stu­di­o­us sta­re. "It… it lo­oked li­ke a baby."

"Baby?" Kirk gas­ped, pa­ling.

Kirk con­ti­nu­ed sit­ting the­re as Jole­na step­ped down from the wa­gon and went to Spot­ted Eag­le's si­de. She co­ve­red her mo­uth with a hand as she sta­red down at the tiny re­ma­ins of the body in the gra­ve. It was lying cur­led up as if it we­re still in the womb. Its blan­ket, which se­emed to ha­ve be­en ma­de of tur­key fe­at­hers, was rot­ted.

Spotted Eag­le knelt down upon one knee and be­gan sho­ve­ling mud back on­to the tiny thing. "It is Pu­eb­lo," he sa­id so­lemnly. "Tur­keys we­re in many ways sac­red to them. To bury a child wrap­ped in tur­key fe­at­hers was to gi­ve it wings to the land of the he­re­af­ter."

Seeing the bu­ri­ed in­fant ca­ta­pul­ted Spot­ted Eag­le back in­to ti­me to the day when he he­ard abo­ut Swe­et Do­ve's de­ath and the fa­te of her newly born child. He was gra­te­ful for the whi­te pe­op­le who had fo­und the child and ca­red for her as tho­ugh she we­re the­ir own. But for them, that child might ha­ve se­en the sa­me end as this child lying in this shal­low gra­ve.

Perhaps she wo­uld still ha­ve be­en ali­ve when her fat­her fo­und the body of his wi­fe, yet the chan­ces we­re the child wo­uld ha­ve di­ed by then. Wit­ho­ut no­uris­h­ment, and lying ex­po­sed be­ne­ath the be­ating rays of the sun to any fo­ur-leg­ged ani­mal that might pass by, the child's chan­ces of sur­vi­ving wo­uld ha­ve be­en slim. "How lo­nely the baby lo­oked," Jole­na mur­mu­red, ha­ving be­en sad­de­ned de­eply by the sight of the in­fant. "It must ha­ve bro­ken the mot­her's he­art to ha­ve to bury her child so alo­ne. I co­uld not be­ar it if a child of mi­ne di­ed."

"This child has be­en de­ad for many ye­ars," Spot­ted Eag­le sa­id, sho­ve­ling the last pi­le of mud on­to the gra­ve. "Her mot­her is su­rely now de­ad, al­so. Per­haps her gra­ve is al­so ne­arby. We shall ne­ver know."

Wiping his dirty hands on the thick le­aves of bus­hes, he tur­ned to Jole­na, not ca­ring that Kirk was ne­ar eno­ugh to he­ar him.

"We will ha­ve many he­althy chil­d­ren," he as­su­red her, ig­no­ring Kirk's lo­ud gasp and not se­e­ing Two Rid­ge's glo­wer as he sat on his hor­se just be­hind the wa­gon. "And the­r

e will be no gra­ves ne­ces­sary for our chil­d­ren. Nor for the­ir mot­her. I shall stay at yo­ur si­de whi­le you are bir­t­hing. Ne­ver wo­uld I send you away from our vil­la­ge to gi­ve birth to yo­ur child alo­ne."

Jolena's eyes wi­de­ned with hor­ror. "Are you sa­ying that so­me In­di­an wo­men le­ave the­ir vil­la­ges to… to ha­ve the­ir chil­d­ren?" she as­ked, shoc­ked at the tho­ught. "Why wo­uld the­ir hus­bands al­low it?"

"It is not for me to say the wrongs or rights of anot­her man's cus­toms," Spot­ted Eag­le sa­id, ri­sing to his full he­ight and pla­cing a gen­t­le hand on Jole­na's che­ek. "But for us, when the ti­me co­mes, we want only what is sa­fe for you and the child. Ne­ver will I al­low an­y­t­hing to harm you." Awa­re that mo­re than one set of eyes we­re on her and Spot­ted Eag­le, Jole­na co­uld fe­el her che­eks be­co­ming hot with a blush. She flatly ig­no­red Two Rid­ges' ste­ady ga­ze, but she ga­ve Kirk a si­de­ways glan­ce. Her eyes wa­ve­red when she saw her brot­her's ir­ri­ta­ti­on with Spot­ted Eag­le for ha­ving spo­ken so openly abo­ut chil­d­ren.

Jolena qu­ickly chan­ged the su­bj­ect. "I'm cold," she sa­id, hug­ging her­self with her arms. "I'd best chan­ge in­to dry clot­hes." She lo­oked Spot­ted Eag­le up and down. His buc­k­s­kin clot­hes we­re so wet they lo­oked as tho­ugh they might be his se­cond skin, em­bar­ras­sing her when she lo­we­red her ga­ze to that part of his ana­tomy whe­re he was so very well equ­ip­ped.

Smiling aw­k­wardly, she shif­ted her ga­ze qu­ickly back up aga­in, yet dis­co­ve­ring that she had not lif­ted her ga­ze up­ward fast eno­ugh. The­re was a qu­i­et amu­se­ment in the depths of Spot­ted Eag­le's eyes.

Before she had the chan­ce to turn aro­und and climb in­to the wa­gon, she felt Spot­ted Eag­le's eyes on her, al­so re­dis­co­ve­ring her body with the­ir he­at as they ro­ved over her, whe­re her wet skirt and blo­use clung sen­su­al­ly to her cur­ves and the ge­ne­ro­us mo­unds of her bre­asts. It was as tho­ugh ever­y­w­he­re he to­uc­hed with his eyes he lit small fla­mes, ca­using a gen­t­le pas­si­on to ri­se wit­hin her.

Knowing the dan­gers in this, sin­ce they we­re the cen­ter of at­ten­ti­on now that ever­yo­ne had re­tur­ned to the­ir wa­gons and we­re wa­iting for Spot­ted Eag­le's com­mand to con­ti­nue on with the jo­ur­ney, Jole­na tur­ned her back qu­ickly to Spot­ted Eag­le and be­gan to climb abo­ard the wa­gon.

But her bre­ath se­emed to lock in her thro­at when Spot­ted Eag­le's hands we­re sud­denly the­re at her wa­ist, hel­ping her.

She wan­ted to cry out to him that this was not the ti­me for him to to­uch her an­y­w­he­re!

She felt as tho­ugh she was re­ady to melt right on the spot, and she fe­ared that her fe­elings we­re too vi­vid in her eyes and in the way she was so ra­pidly bre­at­hing.

One mo­re qu­ick lo­ok over at Kirk told Jole­na that he was per­haps at the end of the li­mit of what he wo­uld al­low bet­we­en her and the han­d­so­me war­ri­or. She was af­ra­id that they so­on wo­uld co­me to blows, and that was the last thing she wan­ted­t­ro­ub­le bet­we­en the man she had grown up with and the man that she lo­ved, with whom she wan­ted to spend the rest of her li­fe!

Chapter Fifteen

The af­ter­no­on was en­ding. Dull and red, the sun was lo­we­ring in the sky. The cam­p­fi­re bla­zed low, and the aro­ma of cof­fee waf­ted thro­ugh the air. The ex­pe­di­ti­on had stop­ped ear­li­er than usu­al to ma­ke camp for the night be­ca­use ever­yo­ne ne­eded to dry out the­ir be­lon­gings that had got­ten wet du­ring the tor­ren­ti­al ra­ins and winds of the storm.

Jolena had crept away from the ot­hers, se­eking pri­vacy eno­ugh to ta­ke a bath in the ri­ver, al­t­ho­ugh she fe­ared be­ing alo­ne eno­ugh to ha­ve sne­aked Kirk's pis­tol out of his hol­s­ter af­ter Kirk had re­mo­ved it whi­le he was chan­ging in­to so­met­hing dri­er and mo­re com­for­tab­le for the long ho­urs of night that lay ahe­ad of them. She didn't ex­pect that he wo­uld miss the pis­tol un­til to­mor­row, when he dres­sed for tra­vel aga­in. And she didn't ex­pect him to miss her. She had set up her tent and clo­sed its flap, ma­king a pre­ten­se of al­re­ady ha­ving re­ti­red for the night.



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