Page 28 of The Last Warrior

“Why?”

“If we are to marry⁠—”

“We are married.”

He ignored her. “We must do this in an honorable manner.”

“We have done this in an honorable way.”

“Come.” He held out his hand to her.

She hesitated. After all, what did she really know of this person? That he was handsome? Yes. That she felt alive, enjoyed his company, felt secure in his presence? Yes. But was that enough?

She stared at that hand, as though within it were the secrets to this man’s character.

“Come,” he repeated.

She looked up into his dark eyes, which were calmly observing her. She exhaled, again watching her breath mirror the temperature in the air. She brought her gloved hand up to meet his, where he grasped it against his own.

There were some things, she decided, that one had to take on trust. Call it instinct, call it feminine intuition. Whatever it was, she sensed she could believe in this man’s integrity. For now, that was enough.

He didn’t escort her into the Indian encampment, which was what she had thought he might do. Instead, he guided her into the woods that adjoined the entire Wild West encampment.

Even in the frosty air, the distinct scent of the ever-present pine trees greeted her. Aside from several large cottonwood trees, and a few birch dotting the landscape, it was a wonderland of pine.

He led her to one of the larger trees, there being much room beneath its balmy branches to shelter them. Here, he positioned her against the toughened bark of the tree. Moonlight shone into their little grove, a gentle shaft of light that highlighted his features with the silvery moonbeam. It has been said that moonlight is a woman’s best friend. She dared to challenge that the concept was for women only, for this very handsome man had never looked so good. Her emotions were heightened, and she was more than aware of it. Indeed, the moment seemed exaggerated, his looks, even the scent of his flesh, stirring her imagination.

It was a strangely intimate environment, protected somewhat from the cold air, and it hid them and anything they might do or say from the world at large. Truly, this was their own private haven.

She felt close to him.

“I am glad now that I brought this,” he said.

“What?” she whispered. “What did you bring?”

“This.” He pulled out a piece of buckskin from a bag tied around his waist.

Buckskin? She stared at it, then at him.

“I am going to tie your hand to mine.”

She nodded, though her expression was a puzzled one.

“But first,” he continued, “I am going to cleanse you and myself, that we might make our ceremony pure, and that the smoke from the sage we use will drift up to the heavens where the Above One will know what it is that we do on this very cold morning.”

Again she nodded, and this time with a little more understanding. This was to be their own private wedding ceremony. No priest. No witnesses to approve. Just her, him. And of course, God.

He lit a small bundle of sage, reciting something in his language as he directed the smoke over her head, on down to her shoulders, her chest, downward still toward her legs. It didn’t require knowledge of his language to understand that he prayed.

“Take the smoke into your hands,” he said to her, “and use it as though you were washing yourself. Spread it over your face and body.”

She did as he directed, inhaling the scent of burning sage.

“And say a prayer to yourself as you do this.”

Once again, she did as he instructed.

“Waste. Good. It is good. And now I will cleanse myself in the same way.” He proceeded to do so, whisking the smoke from the sage over his head, his shoulders, his body.