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This had been a frequent occurrence, because of her size; everyone always got the better of her in the rougher sorts of games.
She had preferred jump rope or jacks, games that would not cause her harm, or dirty her pretty dresses.
“I believe you should be called Tiny Flames,” Morning Thunder said as he stopped and admired her red hair, which reminded him of the color of flame. “While you are in my presence, I shall always address you by your Indian name.”
Shirleen’s eyes widened with pleasure at being given an Indian name . . . and one that was so beautiful!
She hoped that Morning Thunder’s kindness wasn’t part of a scheme to make her relax so she would be a more compliant prisoner. She did want to trust those who had made kind overtures toward her, especially Blue Thunder.
“I love the name,” Shirleen murmured, blushing slightly when she noticed him studying her face. “Thank you.”
“In my tongue you thank someone by saying pila-maye,” Morning Thunder explained, smiling at her as he set aside the cloth that he had used to wash the blood from her hair.
“Pila-maye,” Shirleen murmured. “I will try to remember the correct words in your tongue when I have a reason to thank someone.”
“You will have many reasons, for my people are going to be nothing but kind to you,” Morning Thunder said, now applying a white medicinal powder to her wound. “As I am being kind to you today, I shall also be kind tomorrow.”
Shirleen stiffened when the powder he was applying to her wound caused a pain to shoot through her scalp.
“It will hurt for only a little while, and then the true healing begins,” Morning Thunder said as he drew his hand away from her head.
“You are so very kind,” Shirleen murmured. “I will always remember your kindness.”
“And I will remember your soft sweetness,” Morning Thunder said, his eyes smiling into hers as she blushed.
She was feeling less and less apprehensive about being in the Assiniboine village, especially now that she believed that these Indians truly wanted to help her.
Now if she could only find Megan!
Chapter Eight
So sweet the blush of bashfulness,
Even pity scarce can wish it less.
—Byron
Alone and now dressed comfortably in a clean doeskin gown that the shaman had given her, Shirleen sat on a soft pallet of blankets beside the fire in the tepee that had been assigned her. Physically, she was feeling better since Morning Thunder had medicated her wound.
But tears filled her eyes, for she had never felt as alone and desperate as now.
Yes, she had gone through some rough times with her husband Earl, but nothing compared to being captured by renegades and separated from her precious daughter.
She was beginning to fear that she would never know Megan’s fate, even if she went to a fort after she left the Indian village and reported her loss to the colonel in charge. Out there in the West, one could disappear and never be heard of again.
That was one thing that had frightened her when Earl had talked of moving to Wyoming, yet at the time, he was behaving normally and protectively toward her, so she had put her trust in him. She had believed he would protect her and had left Boston without so much as a look back over her shoulder.
It had been exciting to think of going to a new land, where she and Earl would build a home and have children.
She had felt proud to be creating a home of her own. Before she had met and married Earl, she’d scarcely left her parents’ home, except for an occasional social function with her parents and their friends.
She had not even joined the other girls her age to go to parties, where she heard they danced the night away in beautiful gowns in the arms of handsome partners.
Although many young men had wanted to come courting, enthralled by her sweetness and beauty, she had not had the desire to receive any of them inside her heart.
She had been content spending time alone in her bedroom, reading books and dreaming of things that surely would never be.
She had at times even dreamed of coming face-to-face with a handsome Indian after reading novels about life out West.
