The Warrior's Captive Bride

Familiar laughter reached her. She did not pursue. Instead, she rested her head in her hands.

Her father called himself Falling Otter, choosing that name because otters never fall. And because otters are playful.

Once her father had been perfect in her eyes. Important. More important even than the chief because only he could question the chief and even sometimes mock the medicine man, something no one else was brave enough to do. He made the people think of things they had not before and that made him a powerful teacher. Didn’t it?

Skylark indulged in tears and immediately heard laughter. She lifted her head to see Falling Otter dancing off with his loincloth on his head. This was exactly the sort of behavior that she found embarrassing, and then she felt guilty for her reaction.

“Wait. Papa. We have to go.”

“Daughter. Stay, stay. Stay all day,” he sang, and vanished into the thick shrubs.

She hurried after him and decided that when she saw him again she would insist that they stay, stay, stay all day. Maybe that would get him moving back to camp. He was so thin now. Her aunt tried to feed him, but he insisted he was too full. Then he would beg food from someone else. Where had he left his horse?

The ground changed from thick ferns and dried leaves to a stretch of exposed rock. She paused, glancing about the clearing, and a chill climbed up her neck. This was the very spot where she had met her warrior.

He wasn’t hers, of course. But he had tried to make her so. She wondered what would have happened if she had let herself be taken.

“Papa. I’m going to stay here. You should stay, too! No reason to go back and eat breakfast with Auntie. Your sister said to stay away. She doesn’t want you there.”

She noticed the sunlight streaming down in golden beams through the tall trees, illuminating the small clearing. She spotted something of interest and paused to gather goosegrass. The roots made a nice red dye, but she collected the entire plant because it could also make the bowels move and cool a fevered body. She stuffed several handfuls of the spindly plants into her pouch noticing the tiny white flowers that bloomed all the way to the War Moon.

She glanced about the clearing, recalling the man, his horse, his gray dog. Then it had happened. The sun had streamed down upon them, the light flashing off the new green leaves, shimmering like water from a lake. His dog had started to whine and then bark, his pointed ears up and alert. The warrior’s smile had dropped away, his eyes had rolled white and he had fallen as if shot. They had tumbled together from his horse, rolling on the soft mossy ground. But his body had gone limp and she feared he had died. His dog had been near frantic, but the animal had let her tend him. She’d had time to check him for wounds before the tremors began, shaking his entire body. She had seen it before. It was not the palsy of the old or a simple hand trembling, but full-out witchcraft frenzy. He was cursed by a witch or perhaps an enemy. At least, that was what she had learned from Spirit Bear, their shaman. That the ghosts of the fallen might haunt the living. Despite what some of her tribe said, she could not lift a curse or rescue the haunted. Only a shaman could do that.

But her grandmother, Smiling One, had said that plants could heal any ills if only we knew which one to use. Was it true? Could all curses and maladies be healed?

It was that possibility that sent her searching for the plant that could cure her mother. Her first and greatest failure. There had been others since, ones she could not save. She could heal many things, but not all things and not the malady that sent her warrior into fits.

She had kept him from choking on the blood from his lacerated tongue, set him on his side and waited at a distance until he woke. His dog had not left his master’s side and had watched her go, giving a whine as she slipped away.

Now she wondered if she should have stayed.

Her father broke her musings by dashing across the clearing waving his loincloth in one hand and a thick stick in the other. He ran in the direction of their village.

“Can’t be late, daughter. Everyone must take a nap at midday.”

Skylark turned to follow him. Of course, everyone would not nap at midday. They would be doing the complete opposite of resting, which was exactly why her father had said this. By midday the entire village would be struck and moving to their next hunting site. The Hunting Moon was a busy time with the buffalo hunts and preparation of meat and hides. All would be working hard except, of course, her father.

* * *

Night Storm led his horses through the dense undergrowth with his dog at his heels. He didn’t know if lightning would strike twice, but he was growing desperate. This was very near the place he had met her, during the Many Flowers Moon. Only three moons ago and his life had changed completely. The time of first meeting her had also been the last time he had ridden his horse. She had looked like an ordinary woman, but now he knew better. What they said was true. She had unnatural powers. Her exceptional beauty was just a lure. A trap. He recalled her thick ropes of hair and wide eyes that sloped upward at the edges. That was what he remembered most, her eyes and her smiling mouth. But her form had also been perfect, full and lush as the ripe berries she gathered. Perfect, too perfect, he now realized.

He had been so taken with her that he had tried to carry her off. And she had warned him. Told him to let her go before it was too late. He had thought the warning odd. But he had not recognized then that she had cursed him.

Now he understood why she had not shown the least bit of fear at his approach. Because, like the puma, she was beautiful, powerful and deadly.

How had she cast a spell without his notice?

He was uncertain. What he did know was that he must find her, capture her and then, somehow, he must make her remove the spell.

But what if she was not even a witch? What if she was a spirit? Anog Ite, Double-Faced woman, or Kanka, the greatest of all witches? Night Storm knew that it did not matter. If he found this woman, he would succeed in getting her to restore him before someone found out. Even his father had asked him why he did not ride. Any day now those of his tribe might discover he was cursed. And then he would be outcast.

At the very least he would lose his status as hunter and warrior and that was a fate worse than death. His malady even kept him from fulfilling his promise to wed Beautiful Meadow, the niece of Thunder Horse, who was their shaman. Her uncle was very strict. Men unfit to hunt or raid were stripped of their duties. If Beautiful Meadow discovered his affliction, would she help him or tell her uncle?

It was his doubts that kept him from speaking the words that would make her his wife. But she was growing impatient.

He must find Skylark and make her reverse her magic. Then he would kill her so she could never do this to another man.

An unfamiliar sound drew his attention. Something large was crashing through the forest in his direction. Frost whined but he ordered him to heel and the dog sat, his ears alert.

Night Storm slipped his bow from his shoulder and notched an arrow. From the sound it was an elk, though soon he realized that it made too much noise. He sighted down the long shaft. Perhaps he would bring home meat for his mother and father after all. If it was an elk, there would be more than enough to share with many families. His mother would be so happy to have the fine white teeth to decorate his sister’s dresses.

But the creature thrashing his way now howled like a wolf and then quacked like a duck. Night Storm lowered his bow and watched as a naked man leaped over a rock and headed straight for him. The man waved his arms and shouted.

Falling Otter, he realized. Skylark’s father. He glanced about. Was she here?

“Napping at noon. Everyone nap. Feasting, napping and then games!”

The man spotted Night Storm and slowed. He grinned and came forward at a trot, holding out a stick.

Night Storm returned the arrow to its quiver and slung the bow across his shoulder.

“For your new home, unless you think to live with your mother forever.”

He didn’t live with his mother. “Here.” The man extended the loincloth. “Put this over your eyes for a napping. It will block out the light. Have to go. She is after me again.”

She? Night Storm looked back the way the man had come. Skylark was here. He knew it.

The man did a little circle dance, a dance reserved for women and then continued on.

“Tell her she’ll be late for staying put. Hurry, hurry. I’m so full.”

He lifted a new stick and used it to hit each tree trunk he passed. The knocking sound continued long after he was out of sight.

Night Storm turned in the direction the man had appeared. He had a certainty growing within him that he would find her soon. He had first found her here on a day when the new green leaves were so bright with sunlight that they hurt his eyes. He dropped the stick and tucked the scrap of buckskin in his pouch. Then he moved as quietly as he could, but still the jays called out from the treetops warning all creatures of his approach.

He saw her then, moving with a delicate tread in his direction. He ducked behind a thick tree trunk and drew out one arrow, gripping his bow. He pressed his naked back against the rough surface of the tree’s solid trunk.

He peered around the tree to watch her approach. She was just as lovely. The fringe of her simple dress swayed with her graceful stride. If he killed her would it break the curse?

He didn’t know.

Could he force her to remove it? If he captured her, would she trade his freedom for hers?

He could only try. Night Storm lifted his eyes to the heavens and offered a prayer to the Great Spirit asking for his help. Then he stepped from behind the tree and drew back the bowstring far enough to send an arrow cleanly through her heart.

Her step faltered and she stopped, staring with widening, mysterious eyes. Her mouth dropped open next as she gasped.

“You,” she said.

“Me,” he answered, and sighted the arrow.

Chapter Two

Night Storm held his bow poised. Beside him, his dog whined and crept forward, gray eyes fixed on the woman as he wagged his narrow tail. He ordered his dog to stay and Frost dropped to the ground.

Skylark’s eyes went wide as he held her in his sights. Had she now realized that he had not mistaken her for game but was intentionally targeting her?

She lifted her hands and waved them before her.

“You know me. I am Crow!” Her voice rose in volume and pitch on her last word.

“I know you.” He held the bow steady.

She shook her head, her expression bewildered.

“Witch. Remove the curse,” he said.

“What?”

“Witch! You cursed me.”

Her head shook from side to side. “I am not a witch.”

“It is what a witch would say. Remove the curse or I will shoot.”

Her eyes narrowed, sparkling bright as she fixed them upon him, and for just a moment he feared she would bring on another spell. But his vision remained clear and he heard no ringing in his ears.

“Even if that were true, killing a witch would not end a curse.”

That made him hesitate. He had not expected the witch to do anything but what he asked. Why did she not fall to her knees and weep like an ordinary woman? Instead, she met his gaze with an unwavering one.

His grip tightened on the bow, but his conviction faltered.

“The spell you had here in the forest. You think I caused that?”

“And the ones that have followed.”

“Why would I do that?” she asked.

“Witches need no reason to curse a man.”

“Of course they do.”

“You knew that I would take you with me, so you stopped me.” Doubts filled him. Was this just another trick?

She scowled as if his words angered her. “You say I did this thing. Now, I will tell you what I did do. When you fell, I went to you and put you on your side so you would not choke on your blood. I put your bag under your head, to protect you from striking the ground.’

He stared, not knowing what to believe. Although the tension in the flexed bow urged him to release his arrow, he pointed it at the ground.

“Did you find your horse tied to a tree?”

He had.

Astonishment filled him. All she said was so. He had awakened on the ground beside his dog with his bag under his head like a pillow. The buffalo skin he used as a saddle blanket covered his body and his horse had waited patiently for him, saddle hanging over a branch by his side.

She lifted her chin as if he had answered her.

He released the tension of his bow, easing it back to rest but keeping the arrow notched.

“If I meant you harm, why did your dog not attack me then or now? I have not cursed you. I have saved you.”

“You are not a witch?”

“I am a medicine woman and the daughter of a heyoka. I heal with bark, roots and growing things. I help people as I helped you. I do not curse them.”

His skin turned to gooseflesh again. He slung his bow over his shoulder and returned the arrow to the quiver on his back. If he needed a weapon, his ax and his knife were close at hand and he could throw both with deadly accuracy. Neither, however, could defend against magic.

“Have you asked your medicine man to help you?” asked Skylark.

He had not. Because to do so was to admit to all that he was no longer a man.

“I do not need medicine. I need only find the one who has cursed me.”

“You could come with me to my home and consult with our medicine man. Spirit Bear is very powerful.”

He would not be seeing her shaman, either. Word would travel from her village to his at the winter gathering, and he would lose his place as a warrior of the Black Lodges. That was his deepest fear. He must keep this secret and find a cure.

His gaze fixed on this medicine woman.

Could she help him?

She paused and glanced in the direction of her village. Then she bit her bottom lip. The act sent a growling need through him that took him by surprise. When she cast her gaze back to him, his skin felt hot and prickly. He recognized that now she wove a different kind of spell. He knew it instantly, though he had not felt it with any other woman. But he had experienced it once before, the first time he had spoken to her, alone, in the forest digging roots. It was elk madness, the love sickness which was the cause of much foolishness by many great men. This was why a man, a serious man, with many coups and a reputation of profound honor, could follow after a pretty woman, playing his flute for her at night and pursuing her like an elk in rut. This power was just as strong as bewitchment and he did not want it. Not with this woman.

She stooped over to pet his dog, her elegant fingers gliding over Frost’s short coat. He could see the outline of her full breasts and the curve of her flank. She was perfect in his eyes, which brought him back to his original worry. What if she was Double-Faced Woman?

“How do I know you are not a spirit?” he asked her.

She glanced up from his dog and laughed. “What?”

But her smile dropped away and her hand left the dog’s head as she looked at him. Did his expression reveal the real seriousness of his question? Skylark drew out her skinning knife from the elaborately quilled sheath she wore about her neck. She lifted the knife and her left hand, and nicked the round flesh at the base of her thumb. Immediately she bled.

She extended her hand to show him.

His shoulders sagged with relief. Spirits did not bleed. He rested a hand on the bone grip of his iron knife.

She glanced at her bleeding hand and returned her knife to the sheath. Then she searched in her bag and retrieved only a sprig of leaves, which she crushed, rolled into a ball and pressed to her wound. Making a fist, she held the poultice in place.

He reached out and captured one of her wrists. With a little tug he brought her tight against him, her soft curves contacting his chest. The sensation was like diving into cold water. His body felt charged and alive. She did not struggle. In an instant he had her hands gathered in one of his own and pinned behind her back.

“Can you remove the curse?”

She lifted her chin. “What kind of curse? Were you cursed by an enemy in battle? Or are you haunted by a ghost? Or perhaps you have had unclean relations with someone? All these could bring you to this place.”

He did not know. “I have not had unclean relations. But I have killed enemies. Many.”

He wanted to leave her here. But more than that he wanted to press their hips together, fall upon the green grass and taste the sweetness of her body. His heart galloped as the musky scent of her rose all about him in a different kind of spell.

This attraction that he had felt for her on first sight was even stronger now. He stared at her beautiful flushed face and the full, parted lips where her breath came in erratic little pants. Was that her reaction to him or the fear? And then she shifted, moving their hips closer and pressing herself to him. He should have known. This one did not show fear. But her desire was clear. He did not trust her. Those things they said about her, that she was odd and dangerous and could heal or kill, he now thought they might be true.

Night Storm thrust her away. The poultice had fallen off, but already the bleeding had stopped.

“How do you know about ghosts and taboos?”

“I am learning about such things. I have learned all I can from the wisest women in our tribe. I wish there were someone who knew more than I do, so I could...find cures for the incurables.”

Was he an incurable? He longed to ask but feared she would hear the desperation in his voice.

“Did you really do those things? Tie my horse? Cover me?”

“Who else?”

It was an excellent question. He had been alone. His first ride since his head injury. He had seen her. Remembered her. Wanted her.

“If you are a healer...” How did one ask a favor of a woman he had just threatened to kill?

“Yes?”

“Do you know what causes me to fall?”

She considered him. He felt small and vulnerable and he hated it. This was why none must know of his weakness.

“There are many things that will still tremors and quiet the winds that blow through the mind. But I know some medicines and charms that can send away trembling and shaking and even falling. Does your mind disappear?”

That was what it felt like exactly. “Yes.”

The knowledge she had might save him, keep him whole, give him back his life or end it.

What would she do if he asked? Laugh? Give him medicine that was actually poison? Or, worse, reveal his secret?

They stared in silence for a moment and then he performed the bravest act of his life, braver than riding into battle against his enemies or placing his lance in the hump of a charging buffalo. He asked for her help.

* * *

Skylark’s mouth dropped open in surprise. Her warrior had asked for her help. Hers.

She took a step closer and then paused, glancing in the direction she had come. Would her father be all right without her?

He had his sister. Her auntie fed him and clothed him and let him sleep by her fire during the cold moons. She just did not have the time to follow him about, talking him down from trees and coaxing him to eat.

Night Storm took her hand and she looked into his dark eyes. A yearning pulsed within her and she did not resist as he drew her closer. He was a full head taller than her and his shoulders were broad.

“I need a healer. One who can help me and one who will keep my secret.”

Her eyes fixed on her warrior.

He swallowed and she looked at his face. Handsome, hopeful. There was a crease between his dark brows and his full mouth pursed as he stood for her scrutiny.

He looked like many warriors, but somehow he was different because of how she felt when she looked at him. And there was something else, an important difference between this man and all other men. He knew she was the daughter of heyoka and a medicine woman and still he wanted her, not for herself but for what she might do.

Night Storm did not see her as dangerous. Or if he did, he was willing to take the risk.

He looked at her with hope. She did not need any man. Her healing talents could more than provide for her. She did not need this man. But somehow she did.

He wanted her because she knew his secret and would not tell.

He thought she could help him.

But what if she could not? After all, she had failed to save her mother.

“I have responsibilities in my tribe,” she said.

His mouth went grim and his grip on her hand tightened. “Have you taken a husband?”

She blinked in surprise. To have him think she was married, that she would be desired by a man enough for him to overlook her flaws, made her throat close and ache. She shook her head.

“I still live with my aunt and uncle.”

“They can do without you.”

It was true and that hurt her. The only one who needed her was Falling Otter. “We are moving.”

“I can return you to them, wherever they go.”

The look he gave her was full of hope and longing. She tingled with awareness at the way he stared at her. Was that the need of a man for a woman or of a desperate man for a cure? She didn’t know, but, oh, how she wanted to be the object of that desire again. Everything about him called to her except that he had a falling sickness. She hedged.

He laid aside his bow and then removed the beautiful strand of white beads from about his neck. He held them before her in both hands, presenting them for her inspection and then draping them over her head. They settled warm upon her skin. Gently he pulled her braids from beneath the necklace. The way he slipped his hand down her braided hair made her stomach quiver and her skin tingle.

“One so beautiful needs no such adornments, but I would give you this. It has value.”

She pressed a hand over the beads and felt her heart pounding in her chest. “I know of roots and plants that are known to stop hand trembling, shaking and some that quiet the mind. I know several that ease dizziness,” Skylark said. “But I will not promise I can stop this falling sickness.”

“But you will try?”

“I cannot change those who are possessed. I cannot lift a curse or chase away evil ghosts.”

“Am I cursed?” he asked, and rubbed his thumb on the back of her hand.

The motion was just the simple brush of skin on skin, but the sensation that rippled through her made her gasp.

“I do not know. But this thing that has happened to you, it is sudden. So perhaps it is an ailment of the body.”

He took her other hand, forming a sacred circle between them, and somehow this felt holy.

She stood before him, thinking she was not up to the task. She had confidence in her plants, roots, barks and minerals. But she had never tried to cure a man who fell. She had seen his sort of sickness. It was a fearsome thing.

He waited, his eyes glittering with hope as he set his mouth tight to receive bad news.

“I will try.”

* * *

Winter Moon heard her brother’s arrival before she saw him because he was clapping his hands to the beat of an imaginary horse. His arrival was well-timed, as many of the people had already begun their journey. She had tied the household belongings on one travois and two packhorses. She smiled her welcome.

In search of Skylark, Winter Moon glanced the way her brother had come but did not find her. Her smile faded.

“I must see to my horse,” said Falling Otter.

“Where is Skylark?”

“She is coming right along.”

Winter Moon frowned. Her brother’s words meant Skylark was not coming.