He turned his head and stared at the white woman with troubled eyes. He'd expected a child. Not a woman. And not a woman of her beauty. In sleep, she wore innocence like a new-born trusting fawn. Her hair, woven of moonlight, spilt across the ground, liquid light soaking into the rich earth. Though he had a grandmother, a French woman, with light hair, he'd never seen hair this pale. He stared at her hands, tucked beneath her chin like a child's. Even her skin was white, as pale as the glittering stars.

Unable to resist, he reached out to touch her hair. It flowed through his fingers. Using two fingers, he rubbed the strands. Soft. Like the fur of his helper, Mastinca, the rabbit. Leaving the one arm stretched out to caress the woman's hair, his other hand reached across his body to his upper arm to touch a wide armlet of Rabbit fur. Mastinca was known for fleetness of foot and endurance on long journeys. Swift-Foot had earned his name at a young age for his ability to run and jump like a rabbit.

Glancing up at the rounded ball of light, he thanked Hunwi for giving him the answer to the troubling dreams he'd experienced over the long, hard, cold winter. But what did this mean? Why had he heard this woman's cries? And more important, now that he'd found the source of his unrest, what was he to do with her? Wakan Tanka had spared this woman's life then led Swift-Foot to her. But why? Did she have a message for him?

Save her. The wind whispered the words in his ear.

That thought gave him pause. She was lost and alone. She shifted restlessly, her arm shoving back the fur. He eyed the generous swells of her gleaming breasts. A stab of desire rolled through him, startling him, as much as did the protective instincts that rose to the surface. This woman in no time had touched some hidden soft and vulnerable spot buried deep within him. He wanted to pull her into his arms and hold her. Forever. She was his. He'd found her. Saved her. She belonged to him. He wanted nothing more than to lay beside her and mate with her.

Horrified that the attraction was so strong, Swift-Foot pulled his hand away, dropping her hair to the ground as if it was evil. He sat, troubled by his thoughts. How could he, soon to be chief of his tribe, feel this need for a white woman?

Leave, his senses ordered. Let her find her own way back to her people. But he couldn't leave her here on her own. She'd never survive.

A soft moan from the woman drew his attention. She cried out briefly, then fell silent. He yearned to go to her, and pull her into his arms and comfort her but her nearness unnerved him. Her presence frightened him. Like a rabbit startled by predators on the prairie, instinct told him to run and hide.

Swift-Foot glared at the heavens, furious with his weakness. He was Swift-Foot, a great warrior, who at twenty winters had fought in many battles and counted coup so many times, he had two coup sticks. He killed his enemy with cold detachment. Soon, he'd proudly take his place as leader of his people, an honor his father had not lived to do.

Another sharp cry jolted him from his thoughts. The woman thrashed and cried out as bad spirits chased her while she slept. He watched, his gut lurching at the soft mewling cries choking her. Her own scream woke her. She scrambled to her knees, her eyes, wild with fear and the lingering darkness of her dreams. Seeing him watching her, she tensed. Before she could bolt like Mastinca, he reached out, his fingers circling her wrist.

Murmuring softly, he scooted close to her, using the white man's tongue to reassure her that he would not harm her. His voice seemed to pierce the fog of fear shrouding her. Slowly, the tension left her shoulders but she made no move to lie back down.

Releasing his hold on her wrist, he used his hands to force her to lie back down. "Istima yo!" He repeated the words in English. "Go to sleep," he ordered, in a voice soft and low, as if speaking to a frightened child.

She watched him through wide eyes. "Who are you? What are you going to do with me?"

Swift-Foot understood her. Like most of his people, he'd learned enough of the white man's tongue to aid him in dealing with trappers and those who came to trade with his tribe. He seldom spoke the words, preferring that the whites not know that he understood.

Listening to her voice, Swift-Foot wasn't sure what he was going to do with her. Already he regretted speaking to her in her own tongue. But his need to comfort had made him careless. He felt strangely vulnerable in her presence. Needing to distance himself from her, he lay down on his side, his back to her as he was unable to think while looking upon her beauty.

With a few words he could reassure her that he meant her no harm but if he did, he'd remove the one barrier that he sensed was his only protection and he needed distance between them. Self-preservation demanded he hold his tongue. He could only hope she wouldn't recall his previous words spoken while bad spirits held her in a troubled sleep.

The woman finally fell silent. Relieved, he took a deep breath. But the silence didn't last long. Soft sounds of tears battered at his determination to remain impassive. Like a deer tearing through the fragile webs between the trees, this woman's fear and sorrow sliced him deeply.

Again, a voice came to him. "Save her. Return her to her people. Prove your worth."

Then it dawned on him. The Great Spirit sought to test his worth, and his devotion to his people before granting him the position of chief of his tribe. And what better way than with a beautiful white woman. His father had taken a white woman for wife and brought dishonor on their tribe, an act that had started a vicious circle of war and death. He knew the Great Spirit was displeased by his tribe. Hadn't the harsh winter, and the poor buffalo hunt last summer been proof that the Great One sorrowed and sought to make his people pay for their foolishness?

During his last vision quest, Swift-Foot had vowed to make things right when he became chief. And now the spirits demanded proof that he could repair the damage of the past and bring peace to his people. They'd sent him a white woman. They sought to tempt him in the same manner as his own father had been tempted.

Closing his eyes, he thanked the Great Spirit for sending him this woman. He vowed to be strong, to make his people proud of him. Where his father had failed, Swift-Foot would not. He would regain the honor his father had destroyed.

Save her. The command came once more from Tate, whispered in his ear as the wind whirled around him. Swift-Foot closed his eyes, drawing strength from the belief that this would be the first step in righting the wrongs of the past. He'd take her to one of the many trading posts along the big muddy river.

His decision didn't make it easier to ignore the woman's painful mourning. He realized just then that she'd lost her family. Her mother and father and desperately needed comforting. Unable to help himself, he turned to face her. Her eyes were still wide open, filled with grief and fear as she stared into his eyes.

Reaching out, he coaxed her head to rest in the cradle of his shoulder. Speaking, he began to tell her about the pranks and tricks of Coyote and Iktomi, a spider-like spirit who enjoyed causing trouble and bringing malicious glee to the life of the Sioux. With a start, he found himself mixing Lakota and English--a prank of Iktomi he was sure.

The woman's sobs subsided and her breathing slowed. Still, he continued to offer comfort. Slowly, her fists relaxed until her fingers rested lightly on his chest. Carefully pulling her body even closer so he could keep her warm, Swift-Foot once again found his fingers tangled in her hair.

Yes, he'd save her, take her to safety. Otherwise she'd surely die at the hands of the elements or animals or worse, end up captive of either another Sioux tribe or Ojibwa or Mandan, all of whom roamed this land. And in doing so, he'd take the first step to proving himself to the spirits who even now watched and waited. An answering caress of his hair, a brief touch to his shoulders from Tate told him Wind was pleased.

He closed his eyes, giving himself over to the fragile softness of the woman in his arms. Come morning, he'd devise a way to keep distance between them. But for tonight, he'd give in, victim to Iktomi, son of Inyan, the rock. Iktomi had the power to work magic over persons and things and for tonight, Swift-Foot was unable to resist holding the white girl or murmuring softly to her.

Emily woke to the scent of roasting meat. Her stomach rumbled at the delicious aroma teasing her from her sleep. Heat radiated toward her, making the cocoon she slept in too warm. She held onto the lingering traces of her sleep, shoving away the horrible nightmares of savages and coyotes. It had been a dream. She'd open her eyes and find her mother cooking. Even a scolding for being lazy sounded like heaven to her for it meant her mother was still alive.

She stretched and opened her eyes then blinked rapidly. A few feet away, a fire blazed. But it wasn't her mother cooking the morning meal. Instead, a savage sat before the flames, holding a stick with chunks of meat speared up on it.

With sudden and stark clarity, the night came back to her: of her sleeping nestled in the savage's arms, of his voice soothing in her ears, and his hands tunneling through her hair. The events scrolled backwards: the coyotes, and the death of her parents, and her mother's deathbed confession. It hadn't been a dream.

She blanked out all the horror, and focused on the here and now: the savage before her, and the immediate danger he represented. She stared at his body clad in only a breechclout. In the daylight, she saw that her first impression of him last night had not been wrong. He was young, with dark, handsome looks, and a body honed to the perfection of a God. The mystical God Apollo came to mind. She'd read about him in a book Millicente had allowed her to read--at her place--because her father refused to allow Emily to read anything but the bible.

Frowning, she stared at the warrior. He wasn't what she'd expected. All during the night, he'd been kind, his voice soft and tender as if reassuring a child each time she woke to find the taste of tears on her lips. Even his touch had been gentle. He'd held her, stroked her head, back and arms until she fell back asleep. Despite the circumstances, Emily had felt safer in his arms than she could remember feeling in a long while. Yet the savage for all his gentle handling was still an unknown.

Her stomach rumbled again, reminding her that aside from that bit of dried meat last night, she hadn't eaten in a long while. Wrapping the fur around her shoulders, she cautiously sat.

The savage didn't look at her or acknowledge her presence. "Thank you for sharing your fur." She took it off, and laid it a safe distance from the fire. Turning, she discreetly tried to pull her bodice up. The sound of cloth ripping stopped her. It was useless to try and make her dress more modest so she gave up before she lost the dress and was down to just her threadbare shift.

Holding her hands out, she warmed them, all the while eyeing the sizzling meat. Juice dripped into the flames and sizzled. She licked her lips, feeling faint with the need for food. "You speak English?" she asked, recalling how he'd talked to her last night. Though she couldn't recall the words, just the soft, reassuring timbre of his voice keeping the nightmares away, she was sure he'd spoken to her in English.

He grunted something in a strange language. Puzzled, Emily could have sworn he'd spoken to her in English. Maybe it had been a dream, she thought. Maybe she'd dreamed that he'd talked to her on and off for most of the night. Leaning forward, she pointed to herself. "My--name--is--Em-a-lee." She spoke slowly. When he glanced up at her, she jabbed her chest. "Em-a-lee."

Still no response. So she studied him. Last night she hadn't been able to see much of him. Her gaze slid over his bare shoulders, noted that he wore his hair long and loose. One strand fell over his shoulder, drawing her gaze down to his muscled chest. She scanned the rest of him, skimming past the only bit of clothing he wore, noted his thighs, bare to his groin, were enormous. His legs, long for a savage, led up to a tapered waist, broad chest and to bulging arms.

He glanced up at her. Embarrassed to be caught staring at his naked flesh, heat infused her body. But he didn't seem to notice as he held out a stick of meat to her. With another thank you, Emily reached out to take the tender morsels of rabbit. As she sat back, she caught his gaze on her breasts and wished she had kept her shawl or suffered the warmth of the fur robe. As if he sensed her concern, he averted his gaze.

After the morning meal, he walked away, through the trees. Emily waited. He hadn't taken his pouches, so she knew he'd be back. When he reappeared, his hair was wet and she realized he'd gone to the river to bathe. He indicated that she could go. She shook her head. He shrugged as if to say it made no difference to him whether she bathed or not. Truthfully, Emily would have loved to have done so, but there wasn't a chance she was undressing with him so near.

He picked up his pouches, rolled the fur and tied it with a long, thin strip of leather. Emily stood, uncertain. Was he leaving? The thought of being alone again frightened her. Between him and the coyotes, she'd learned just now vulnerable she was with no weapon to defend herself. And if she came across another savage, she wasn't sure she'd be able to save herself.

At least this one had treated her well. Panic hit at the thought of being abandoned to make her way alone. Though she didn't know him, it seemed to her that this gentle savage was her only chance of surviving.

In that moment, Emily realized that she'd rather take the known as to facing the unknown. She stepped toward him. "Take me with you. Don't leave me alone." She couldn't quite keep fear from her voice.

His gaze impassive, he uttered an order, "U wo!" He motioned for her to come to him.

Grateful, yet fearful, Emily did as bid. He handed her the pouches, rolled fur and shirt and turned to pick up his bow and quiver of arrows. Emily shouldered her burden and fell into step behind her unlikely rescuer.

CHAPTER THREE - PART ONE

Never had she seen a land so dominated by one color, yet made of so many hues, shades and textures. Sunflowers, the flower of a cactus, tawny-coated animals, all blended in with the scenery yet each stood out, offering the observer a beauty not found anywhere else. Even the night sky seemed to compete, from the dazzle of stars to the cold, green-gold night lights that flashed across open sky.

The richness of the land took her breath away. From where she sat, miles and miles of land lay open to her seeking gaze. Spying a large golden eagle soaring across the sky, she sighed. Oh, to be a bird and soar across this wonderful world she'd adopted as her own. She had no idea exactly how many days she'd wandered the land with her Indian savior and didn't care. For the first time in her life she felt truly happy and free.

Breathing deeply, she stretched her arms high overhead, rejoicing in the feel of air caressing her bare arms. Reaching back, she removed the leather thong holding her hair away from her face. Combing her fingers through her heavy braid, she released the confined strands to the playful tugs of the afternoon breeze.

Clad in the thigh-length shift, she closed her eyes and tipped her head back, bringing her hands slowly down, her fingers lightly brushing against her sides. Then she held them out, slightly behind her, as if they were wings and she a bird in flight.

Giggling softly, she opened her eyes and twirled in small circles, well away from the ridge, her hair swirling around her. The grass beneath her bare feet felt so different than the green grass of spring. The long stems, bent over, cushioned her feet like a thick carpet, and the ripening heads caught between her toes.

Sinking down, she rested her chin on one upraised knee. Never in her life could she recall being able to sit and enjoy the afternoon. Not even as a child. If there were no chores to be done, then she'd been expected to read the Bible or pray. According to her father, idle hands and minds led to sinful thoughts and actions.

Soaking up the last rays of the day, she wondered how anyone could believe that time spent enjoying the beauty of God's earth could be considered sinful. For her, it was another aspect of her newfound freedom.

Freedom. The word tasted sweet on Emily's tongue. Never had she realized just how much freedom her life had lacked. She'd been a prisoner to her father's demanding beliefs, a slave to society's rules, and even held hostage by her own body, afraid to do anything for fear of attracting attention and the ire of her father.

But out here, none of those things mattered. It was just her and the simple world around her.

No pretense.

No falsehoods.

Just the two of them and all this. It was a world she never wanted to leave. A long shadow fell over her. Glancing over her shoulder, she smiled at the warrior watching her. Like everything else around her, he too was golden from the breadth of his shoulders, down to his tapered waist, and strong legs. Even the taupe skin beneath his breechclout and dark eyes reflected the different shades of brown surrounding them.

"You're back," she greeted, happily, jumping to her feet. Seeing the dead rabbit he held by the hind legs she held out her hand.

Holding the animal from her, his eyes sent a silent question. Emily grinned, knowing what answer he sought. Over the last week, she'd had her second monthly flow which meant she wasn't allowed to touch anything he touched, including the food they ate.

She recalled her embarrassment when her bleeding had started. Out here there'd been no way to hide it and he'd quickly let her know that she was to be secluded while in that condition.

Truth to tell, that had been just fine with her and she'd quickly adjusted to being taken care of. In fact, it had felt good to know that for that one week, as with this last week, nothing was expected of her. No chores. No traveling. Just time to sit and reflect. Going to him, she put her hands on his shoulders.

"It's all right. I'm done."

He smiled back, reached up and took a strand of her hair and rubbed the softness between his fingers. Emily knew he loved her hair, and of all things, had probably missed combing, touching, and rubbing it during her time in seclusion.

She reached down to take the rabbit from him. He shook his head, dropped the animal and swept her up into his arms. Laughing, she circled her arms around his neck, and rested her head in the strong curve of his shoulder, relishing the male scent of him, the warmth of his bronzed skin against her cheek, and the strength and security she felt in his arms.

She on the other hand had missed this: his touches, the way he made her feel special, wanted and loved. The first time he'd kissed her, she'd been scared that he been about to rape her.

But he hadn't forced her. He'd been gentle and patient. When the time had come, she'd given herself to him freely. At first because she felt she owed it to him. Repaying his kindness in saving her life with her body had seemed a small price to pay. But now, she loved him. Heart and soul.

Wanton. Sinner. Whore.

Her father's words echoed in her mind.

Daughter of the Devil. Satan's Spawn.

The words still hurt. She hadn't been any of those things, but now? She didn't know. And didn't care. Forcibly she put thoughts of her father from her mind. It was far too beautiful an afternoon to spoil it with memories of a miserable childhood and she preferred to just forget about that last day with her parents and pretend it had never happened. Easier and less painful. But deep down, Emily knew she'd never forget, just as she knew that day had changed her forever.

She stared up at her golden warrior and felt the glow of warmth and happiness. He took her back to the spot where she'd sat waiting for him and gently laid her down on the still flattened patch of grass.

While he discarded his breechclout, Emily pulled her shift over her head, baring herself to him. It warmed her to see his eyes feasting on her flesh. Lying back, she held out her arms and welcomed his weight over her. Soft, tender murmurs filled her ears, making her feel beautiful. And when he sat poised at her entrance, waiting for her to open to him, she felt cherished.

Loved.

Slowly, her knees fell apart, and her legs lifted to hold him to her. With a deep sigh, he entered and together, they flew through the air as one, breathing as one, coming as one. "I love you," she cried when the world around her spun out of control.

A long while later, after she'd dressed, Emily set to cooking their meal. Every so often, she glanced at her warrior. He watched her. He touched her. But he didn't speak much to her. But that was all right. She talked enough for the two of them.

"I missed cooking for you." She grinned and ran an appreciative eye over his body.

"I also missed touching you." His gaze met hers, his eyes darkening as if he understood her but he didn't speak or return the words she wished he could tell her. But the heated look in his eyes spoke louder than words.

"You understand by my tone, my voice. I know you do." She went to him, knelt before him and touched his face, running her fingers across his high cheekbones and lightly over his lips.

"I love you. I don't know what I would have done if you hadn't found me."

Her warrior set his arrow and knife down and pulled her onto his lap where he rocked against her. "The food," she protested with a laugh.

The food waited.

Swift-Foot resumed his arrow making but his attention kept wandering. His gaze strayed to Emily, to her hair. Those white-yellow strands still mesmerized him even after all this time. When she glanced over at him and smiled, heat settled in his groin. From deep within, he vibrated with a need so strong, his hands shook. How had this happened? All his efforts to hold her at bay and keep his distance had failed. Even worse, he sought to delay his return to his people by staying with her.

A sharp pang in the center of his chest grew. He turned his eyes to the ripening land barely discernable in the dimming light. Unrest and worry clouded his mind and filled his heart with dread. He felt as though he stood on an unstable ridge, the earth crumbling beneath his feet. The peace he'd found with this woman compared in his mind to Wi and Hanwi.

Sun needed Moon to be complete. Without each of them, the world would not be the same. He closed his eyes, trying hard to hide the emotions raging inside. But he knew deep in his heart, that without Emily, he would not be the same, just as he knew that soon, this nice little world he'd created and shrouded himself in would come to an end.

Trying to keep his mind from his troubling thoughts, Swift-Foot tried to concentrate on making new arrows. He placed the quill of a feather in his teeth, grabbed hold of the top and pulled one side of the feather out, down and back, using constant pressure and speed to prevent ripping the vane.

Emily walked past, her hips swaying, her hair swinging, drawing his hungry gaze to her. His attention on her and not on the feather, he went too fast and tore the vane. It was the third one he'd ruined. Disgusted at his inability to concentrate, he tossed the feathers aside and gave up. Instead, he forced himself to face his future.

The truth could no longer be denied. Or hidden. Or avoided. Already he'd been gone far longer than he'd planned. His people would be worried for he was to be their next chief when his ailing uncle stepped down. His tribe was small, many of their strong warriors gone, killed in battle. They needed a strong leader. They needed him.

The council had recognized the need of their people, yet they also worried that Swift-Foot was too young, too filled with the restless abandon of youth despite his many achievements. Fearful that their tribe would soon be wiped out, they'd agreed to his becoming chief-on one condition: he must marry a woman of their choosing. By doing this, they ensured he'd be settled and ready to focus on the demands soon to be placed upon his shoulders. The marriage to a woman belonging to another clan of his Hunkpapa tribe would strengthen his own clan.

Normally, the male left his tribe to join his wife's but because of their dwindling numbers, the two tribes had decided to band together, both under his leadership. The council had made their choice. The arrangements were made. All waited for his return and counted on him to find a way to end the war between his tribe and the Miniconjou, another tribe of the Teton Sioux. The two tribes had been at war all of Swift-Foot's life.

Trouble was, Swift-Foot didn't want to wed a stranger. Not only had he found the answer to his haunting dreams, he'd found love. Swift-Foot loved the white woman named Em-a-lee. He wanted to take her back with him.

A test. He tried to block his emotions by remembering that this time with the woman was nothing more than a test. The spirits tested his honor. His worthiness to assume the role of chief.

Gripping his knees with white-knuckled hands. War and the death of his parents had shaped his life and determined his future. He had to remember who he was, and what he was.

Remembering why they'd died gave him the strength to resist the temptation to bring the woman back with him.

Remembering the nights spent in the woman's arms, the feel of her, the taste of her, the love he felt for her tore his heart in two.

Tipping his head back, he lifted his hands to the deepening sky to pray for strength. His hair brushed the exposed flesh of his buttocks as his upper body swayed in prayer. Love hadn't brought his parents happiness. Only death and years of spilt blood.

He thought of the man and woman he'd never known. In order to marry his mother, Swift-Foot's father rejected the woman he'd promised to take for wife-the daughter of a Miniconjou Chief. The scorned woman's tribe had declared war on his Hunkpapa clan, and when he had been only babe, they'd killed his parents, and would have killed him had they known of his existence.

Swift-Foot's lips twisted in grim satisfaction. They now knew he lived, had grown to be a great and feared warrior. War between the two tribes continued, a vicious circle of revenge for each new death. The selfish act of his father continued to cost the tribe much, and with each new death, the dishonor of his family weighed heavily on his shoulders-his legacy from his father.

Somehow, he had to find a way to restore peace. And honor. If he did not, the two tribes would end up destroying each other.

Swift-Foot sighed. He'd accepted the arranged marriage with little emotion. It was his duty to follow the orders of his elders. He hadn't understood the emotion called love that had made his father risk so much. But he did now. In love with a woman with hair the silvery color of a full moon, he understood. His soul wept for what could not be. His heart cursed Iktomi for the cruel joke. To taste love then to have it ripped away. How could he bear the pain?

Shifting, he watched Emily cook their meal. She'd learned fast and seemed eager to please. And she did. More than he'd have thought possible. But love didn't matter. Only honor. He loved this white girl, and wanted to hold onto her as long as he could but with Hawk Eyes, the new chief of the scorned Miniconjou tribe seeking to kill his people, Swift-Foot knew what he had to do. He could no longer delay their parting.

Guilt ate at him. Each day made it worse. For them both.

She was not his to claim forever as his father had once claimed his mother. Even taking her home as a slave for his wife-to-be was out of the question. His people would remember his father's actions, and they'd doubt him.

At first he'd thought he could spend the warm months with her, then leave her. He'd never expected it to be so painful to give her up. He'd never expected to fall in love with her and it didn't help to see the love in her eyes, taste it in her kisses, or hear it in her voice. He'd never thought he'd yearn to say those words in return. But he didn't. Not even in Lakota did he say the words aloud for it would only make it that much harder to let her go.

Only in her arms could he not hide the love he felt - a love destined to tear them each apart when the time came for him to leave.