“There are too many women for a Cougar-in-the-Night,” Willow teased.
Sloan shrugged, his dark eyes inscrutable. “Ah, well, wives and women! They are like the sun, eh? Beautiful, dazzling…burning. One must always take care. No wife for me, Crazy Horse.”
“And no children,” Crazy Horse noted sagely.
Sloan smiled ruefully. “You’re right, my friend.”
They rose then, bidding one another good night, all of the guests leaving Crazy Horse’s home.
Night had come. The air was crisp and cool, stars dotted what appeared to be a never-ending velvet and ebony sky. It was stunning country, cloaked in a beautiful night.
As they stood just outside Crazy Horse’s home, Ice Raven pointed in the direction of the newly made tipi the women had given to Skylar. “Sleep well, cousin!” Ice Raven told him. He clapped him on the back, turned, and started toward his sister’s. His brothers followed him.
“Hmm. Nice place. Just a bit different from Mayfair, but then, it is completely hers. I did tell her that the tipi was the wife’s property, didn’t I? How convenient. You’ll get to be alone when you tell her you’re having Crazy Horse to dinner!” Sloan told him, smiling.
“Every single god out there will do something evil to you, Sloan!” Hawk muttered.
“It’s a hell of a night. A hell of a night! Because just think of it. You’ve given her one hell of a time,” Sloan said.
“I haven’t really had much choice,” Hawk muttered.
“You bet!” Sloan said. He was still laughing, Hawk thought, but then Sloan suddenly sobered, shaking his head to the sky above them. “Actually, I envy you the night!” he said lightly. “Good night, Hawk.”
He turned and followed Hawk’s cousins.
Fires blazed outside tipis. Smoke rose into the night sky. The breeze just stirred the dirt on the ground, and the stars burst down on the river.
Hawk hesitated just a moment longer.
Then headed for his wife’s new home.
CHAPTER 18
It was an extremely handsome tipi. The women had done an exceptional job with it. It had been sewn from bleached-white buffalo hides, and someone with great artistic skills had painted his life upon it, his days as a child, his participation in the Sun Dance, his coups against the Crows. Scenes depicted his departure with his father, his “white” war against his own people, his marriage and loss, his years at Mayfair—his arriving home to his grandfather with a new wife. It had all been very beautifully done.
Yet standing in the center of the tipi, having studied the pictographs, he felt a moment’s sharp dread and a simmer of defensive anger—he was alone. She wasn’t there. She had run somewhere.
But then his eyes adjusted to the hazy firelight, and he saw that against the wall of the lodge there appeared to a long bundle. It was a sleeping robe, and someone slept within it. His wife. The hour had grown very late, though he had not realized it. He had spent a long time in the sweat bath, and a far longer time with Crazy Horse than he had realized.
He approached the sleeping robe—warning himself that he couldn’t just assume that the body was Skylar’s—she might havedisappeared, and an old friend might have found her way in here. But when he knelt down, he saw the stream of blonde hair flowing over the buffalo robe and he sat back on his calves with relief. As he did so, she stirred, turning within the robe restlessly, trying to kick it aside. It was warm within the lodge. A fire burned in the center—set there by someone who had known what he or she was doing—and she was dressed in doeskin as well, a beautiful dress, expertly embroidered and cut. As he studied the garment, surely from the talented hands of Deer Woman, her eyes suddenly fluttered and opened.
She stared at him, her eyes widening. For a moment he thought that she was going to scream, and he belatedly realized how he was dressed himself, still in breechclout, leggings, moccasins, and no more.
“It’s me, Skylar,” he said quietly.
She nodded, staring at him, still struggling to awaken.
“You survived the day, so I see.”
She nodded again, still studying him.
“And my grandfather.”
“Your grandfather was very kind.”
“He is a great man. A wise one.” He waited, curious as to what she would tell him. “And his English is much better than he is ever willing to allow others to know, so I’m sure you had no difficulty understanding him.”
“I had no difficulty understanding him.”
