Chapter 1
Chapter
One
Black, rain-engorged clouds raced overhead as Grey Coyote set out from the village.
Though it was early morning, the day was almost as dusky as night.
Thunder rolled above him, water poured down from the heavens as though it meant to flood the land, and lightning forked through an ever-darkening sky.
Iho, this was no mere downpour. The Thunderer, god of the clouds and lightning, followed him.
But this occurrence, though perhaps unusual for another, did not startle Grey Coyote.
Indeed, for him it was always the same. Since he had been ten winters old, the Thunderer had been his constant bedfellow.
Never a friend, the Thunderer taunted him, laughed at him, antagonized him.
In an effort to end his clan’s curse, many were the deeds that Grey Coyote had accomplished which would have been hailed as successful were Grey Coyote a simpler man.
But never had any of his accomplishments broken the spell.
Each time he failed, the Thunderer jeered at him, mocked and ridiculed him.
No, the rain and thunderstorms followed him, blocked out his sun, left him always in the dark. However, these were such usual occurrences for Grey Coyote that on this day he paid neither god nor weather heed. In truth, the murkiness of the day matched his mood.
Grey Coyote was annoyed. Very annoyed. Not with the woman, who was draped in front and against him unconscious. Rather, he was aggravated with himself.
Was the task set before him impossible? Was there no ending this spell?
Grey Coyote had only six or seven moons left in which to undo the curse that plagued his people.
Already he was twenty-nine years of age, and by the very conditions of the enchantment itself, if he could not resolve the riddle by his thirtieth birthday, the opportunity to do so would pass.
If he missed this chance now, he would never again have another.
Indeed, if he failed, he would be relegated to live his life forever humiliated.
Not that his life at present was a joy. In his youth, Grey Coyote had been no stranger to sunshine-filled days, laughter and friendship. But as soon as he had come of age, his existence on this earth had been nothing if not a series of failed attempts and deep losses.
His was a lonely life, made more so because he would not inflict his travails upon anyone else. But then, Grey Coyote was also a scout, and scouts worked best alone, were even trained to take heart in their own company.
However, there were times…
In an effort to end this unproductive line of thought, Grey Coyote took a deep breath and inhaled the invigorating scent of wet skin and wet hair…
feminine skin and hair. Like amber curls of sunshine, the woman’s tresses fell back over his shoulder as, unconscious, the white woman leaned back against him.
The touch of those locks across him was as sweet as a caress, and despite himself, Grey Coyote was not of a mood to end it by setting her away from him.
Glancing down at the woman’s oval face, he speculated that perhaps she was prettier close up than from a distance. Her lips were full—the color of a pale rose—her skin was unblemished and satiny, and her cheeks were alive with the hue of a crimson sunset.
He wondered if it had really been necessary to force the white man’s liquor and drugs on her. Had she loved LaCroix so much? Or had she merely balked at the idea of her loyalties being transferred to another?
Whatever the case, LaCroix’s actions had disturbed Grey Coyote. It was one thing to take things from a man, another to cart away an unwilling wife.
But what was done was done, he reasoned philosophically. Since it was too late to change it—not that he could—both he and the woman would have to abide by what was to be.
Yet, already it was as he had feared. Though only traveling for the better part of the morning, he was finding the woman more than a little distracting.
Of course it didn’t help that the feel of her skin was soft beneath his fingers, or that she smelled enticing, or that she was so scantily dressed.
Here was another matter for fruitful thought.
He couldn’t help observing again how odd was the white woman’s form of apparel.
In one of his bags he carried her clothes, and there were many of them.
Not only a dress, but some stiff article that felt as though it were made of the most rigid rawhide.
Plus, there was a lacy pair of clothing that looked much like the white man’s pants.
There were also mounds of other frilly articles, slips, delicate things that Grey Coyote could barely understand.
Where did the woman wear them all?
At present, perhaps because she had been taken while still abed, she wore only a thin, white slip of a garment, one which, beneath the heavy rain, accentuated her figure’s every curve and valley. Grey Coyote could only wonder how LaCroix had expected her to keep warm.
Certainly, the style in which she was attired didn’t help still his need, not when her buttocks bore in against him.
Indeed, the feel of her before him was becoming pure torture, and to add to matters, the movement of the horse beneath him was luring Grey Coyote toward a physical pleasure that he did not dare indulge.
Maybe it would have been easier for him if he had been with a woman sometime in these past few months. But he had not.
Therein lay the problem. Physically Grey Coyote needed a woman, but emotionally he required peace. Though what peace he would find until he solved his riddle and freed his people was seriously in question.
One thing, however, was certain. Every moment in these next several moons was precious. He could little afford to do anything but endeavor to end the curse. Courting a woman had no place in his life.
Unless she were a part of this. And she could not very well be. His guess, which had involved her, had been incorrect.
Hunhe-hunhe, she was a mere distraction. Nothing more, nothing less. And the sooner he returned her to her own people, the better.
At the next trading post—which was less than a moon away—he would leave her there. In the meantime, he would do well to keep his honor, to behave himself and put distance between them, for she seemed to be made for temptation.
A temptation he would not indulge.
But even as he thought it, his arm tightened around her, and he pulled her in toward him. Taking a deep breath, he sighed.
Marietta became aware gradually that she was drenched, and she was getting wetter by the minute. Large raindrops hit her forehead, her neck and breast. Had she fallen under a waterfall, or had the mud hut washed out to the river?
It was with a shock she realized she had no recollection of what had happened or where she was.
How had she come to be leaning against another human being?
Slowly, she drew in her breath, and without daring to move her head—which had fallen back on a muscular shoulder—she opened her eyes and peeked downward.
Sure enough, she was sitting astride a horse, and there was an arm around her middle…a buckskin-clad arm. Curiously, she studied the brown-tanned hand of her captor, noting the long fingers…fingers that held her tightly within their grasp.
This was not the hand of Jacques LaCroix.
Where was she?
Gradually, gently, so as not to alert the one who held her, she turned her head to the side, glancing upward at her captor’s face.
She gasped aloud.
“Careful,” said a male voice in English, his words colored with an unusual accent. He gazed down at her. “You might frighten the horses.”
Horses?
Again, she chanced a glance upward. This time she sat upright and screamed.
It was an Indian holding her, one who was painted for war, or at least he might have been once upon a time. The paint was almost gone now, rivulets of it running down his face.
The man sighed before he said, on a note that held little patience, “If you must wail like a child now that you are awake, I will have to place a cloth around your mouth. I fear that if you scream again, you will scare the horses.”
Scare the horses? What about her?
Where was she? Who was this man? Where was LaCroix? Yellow Swan? What had happened?
She couldn’t remember anything, except an early morning, Jacques LaCroix offering her coffee, and…
“He…he…” As the previous events fell quickly into place, she stumbled on her words, fearing to speak. After a moment, she could no longer hold her tongue. “You…you drugged me.”
“I have done no such thing,” said the man, whose arm still remained around her, as though to steady her.
“No, but you managed to bribe my guide to do it for you, didn’t you?”
“Hiya. You are upset. That is to be expected, but do not accuse me of things that I have not done.”
It was odd. The man’s voice, sounding quietly bored, seemed to reach out to her. And although it calmed her, Marietta was beyond such tactics. “If not that, then why am I here?” She scooted forward as well as she could, trying to put distance between her hips and this man’s. But the pony was small.
“Before he put you to sleep, did your husband not tell you all that was to happen?”
“Husband?”
“Hau, husband.”
Marietta shook her head, hoping to clear her thoughts. Had she gone to sleep only to awaken in a different time and place?
When she shot another glance behind her to better see her enemy, her eyes met those the exact color of the blackest night. Her stomach dropped.
This was not simply an Indian. This was the man from the Minnetaree village, the same one who had been gambling with Jacques LaCroix, the man she had dared to think might be handsome.
And he had stolen her.
Glaring at him, she murmured, “I remember you.”
She witnessed his brief nod before he gave her a considering glance. “I am surprised.”
“Surprised?” She waited in vain for an explanation.
After several moments he said, “Perhaps your husband did not make his meaning understood.”