Many Flowers Moon
Northern Yellowstone River Valley,
Crow Territory
1859
Night Storm stared down at the young woman standing before his horse and felt his throat go dry.
It was her.
His heart beat as fast as running feet and accelerated again when her eyes met his and she realized she’d been discovered. A glance would tell her that he was not enemy Sioux but one of the Crow people.
She grasped her collecting bag and straightened, her hand going to her skinning knife. What a picture she made, outwardly plain, her clothing drab as the feathers of a female pheasant. But it was not her clothing that appealed. Not even her elaborate moccasins and the ornately quilled sheath for her knife that fell between her full breasts. His little quail’s beauty was more subtle. She did not need feathers and beads. Her dress was not dyed a bright yellow or green or red like so many women he could name. Neither did she sew coins or elks’ teeth to the yoke of her dress. Her hair was long and braided, but she did not dress the braids with fur or trade cloth. In fact she seemed to have secured the ends with green grass. He chuckled at her complete lack of guile.
This one needed none of those adornments to shine. Her beauty came from her face and figure, her grace and poise, and also from her skills.
He knew of no other woman who would ever consider straying on her own so far from her tribe. But when she stood to face him, he did not see fear, just a kind of watchfulness.
“Why are you out here all alone?” he asked.
“I am not alone.”
“No?” He glanced about for some rival. Had she come to this place to meet someone? His teeth locked together.
“I am with you.”
His gaze snapped back to her to find her smiling. “And I am searching for someone else.”
“A lover?”
She flushed. “A heyoka.”
His dog, Frost, whined and then gave a single bark. It had been that bark that had given him away when he had discovered her here alone in the forest. He quieted his dog, who thumped to his seat. He should have left the mutt at camp, but since his accident Frost had been a near constant companion, and in truth he was good company.
“The heyoka. He is your father.”
She did not deny it but her eyes rounded. Was she surprised to discover that he knew this about her? She shouldn’t be. She was the most desirable woman of either the Wind Basin or Low River tribes. But none had offered for her because of her father’s power. It frightened most of the warriors. But he was not like the others. He had a secret he had kept since his vision quest. And his survival in the last battle proved he had powerful magic. Dangerous magic. His injury should have sent him to the spirit road. Why had he lived?
“How do you know my father?”
“I have seen him at the gatherings. And I have seen you.”
He knew she lived with her aunt, uncle and occasionally her father.
A heyoka was a difficult thing to be. And to choose this path was to choose a holy journey. Her father was a wise fool, a contrarian, revealing the people’s follies by demonstrating their foibles. He suspected that her father’s spiritual powers shone in his daughter. That power and wisdom, he needed it to understand his path.
“I could help you look.”
She stared up at this warrior of the Black Lodges people. His hair was black and braided at each temple. The rest fell down his shoulders and back like the mane of his horse. His forelock was cut and his bangs stood stiffly up in the fashion of all Crow warriors. He displayed the record of his accomplishments tied with leather cording in his loose hair, each eagle feather signifying honor earned in battle, in raids and in counting coup against his enemies. About his neck hung his medicine bundle, a string of white glass beads and a copper coin on a leather cord. She looked at the clean line of his collarbone and the smooth brown skin she could see through the opening in his hunting shirt, and felt the urge to touch him.
She had seen him at the gathering of tribes in the Winter Camp Moon. He had caught her eye immediately. But she was not alone in her interest. Many of the unmarried women had made complete fools of themselves as they vied for his attention. But she would not. Though now his steady stare made her skin itch and she resisted the urge to cast him a look of invitation.
She even knew his name. Night Storm. His name had power in it.
His gray dog came forward, bushy tail wagging, and sniffed her offered hand before trotting back to his master.
“We have not been introduced,” he said.
She lifted her chin and wondered if he found her as appealing as she found him.
“I am the daughter of Gathers Quills and Falling Otter. My name is Skylark.”
“I am Night Storm of the Black Lodges people.”
“I know.”
His brow quirked and his smile widened. Her breath caught at the transformation. This steady stare and the curling of his generous mouth made her twitch.
“You do?”
“I saw you at the gathering, as well. It is my honor to meet you, Night Storm.”
“Will you ride with me?”
She knew what he asked. It was not unheard-of. A woman met a man from another tribe. They rendezvoused in secret and one day he took her from her parent’s lodge. When the tribes gathered in the fall, she would return to her people with a new husband from another tribe. But she did not know this man.
Oh, she could see his accomplishments and his strength.