The Warrior's Captive Bride. Jenna Kernan
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.
Night Storm held his bow poised. Beside him, his dog whined and crept forward, gray eyes fixed