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She could not, she would not, give in to him and his soft voice and alluring eyes.
If he thought that he was winning her over, might he not then go further and try to seduce her?
The thought did not altogether sicken her, for he was not a man who would make a woman feel disgusted at the thought of his taking her into his arms and kissing her.
Suddenly she realized where her thoughts had now gone. She was angry that he had this effect on her.
“All that you have said is a lie,” she declared venomously. “Please take yourself and your lies elsewhere. I tire of hearing you.”
Absolutely stunned by her attitude, after he had opened himself up so much to her, Brave Wolf rose quickly to his feet.
“You choose not to believe me, and that is alright,” he said softly. “At the moment you are not my concern. It is my mother whose face I see in my mind’s eye and inside my heart. It is for her that I travel far from my village. Not you. Only by chance did I find you . . . and save your life. It is up to you whether or not you ever believe that.”
He gave her another lengthy gaze, glanced over the fire at his warriors, who had heard her insulting him again, then walked away. He went to his horse and rubbed it down with his hands.
This woman. Surely she was talking out of anger and hurt.
He just could not believe that such a lovely person normally had such a spiteful, hurtful tongue.
Mary Beth gazed at Brave Wolf as he tended to his horse. What he had said about his mother did seem true enough, for he had mentioned her more than once.
Despite her best efforts, she was beginning to see him in a different light. A man who put his mother before other things, even his own best interests and health, was surely a good man with a good heart.
Yet . . . he was an Indian. She knew too much about them, and the hate they felt for whites, ever to allow herself to trust one.
Even a man who made her pulse race when his eyes met hers, stirring flames within her that no other man had ever caused.
It was that sort of feeling that she had never known with Lloyd. Strange that it was a red-skinned man who aroused such feelings now.
She had to fight those feelings with every fiber of her being! She did not want to feel anything but loathing for this man and those who rode with him!
She was still too afraid to trust Brave Wolf.
“Brave Wolf,” she whispered to herself.
Even his name made her feel something she had never felt before for a man: desire.
Chapter Eight
For man, as for flower and beast,
and bird, the supreme triumph is to
be most vividly, most perfectly, alive.
—D. H. Lawrence
The blowing night winds in the pines moaned low outside the cave. The campfire gave off a strange whistling sound.
Chilled to the bone, Night Horse trembled beneath his blanket as he sat as close to the fire as he could get. Although he had been in the cave during the rain, it had not kept out the cold dampness that blew through the entrance.
The fire and the lone blanket were just not enough to warm Night Horse any longer. His skin was clammy cold, yet he knew by the stars that seemed to be exploding i
nside his skull, and by the pounding of his temples, that he had a fever.
His cough was deep. He could even hear a rattling in his lungs with each breath he took.
He was very, very ill, and he had begun to think of death. He was afraid of dying.
