The Warrior's Captive Bride. Jenna Kernan

had already gutted the fish, so she cut green skewers and returned to construct a simple rack for the whole fish. Then she peeled the cattail tubers and cut the inner tender shoots into manageable sizes. She left the cactus and thistle roots for another meal but crushed several juniper berries and stuffed them inside the hollow cavities of the fish.

      When the fire had burned for a time, she set her moccasins to dry but not too close to the flames. They were precious to her, because, like her knife sheath, they had been made by her mother, the best quill worker in her village. Or she had been.

      When the larger logs began to collapse into glowing embers, she raked the coals into a neat pile and set the shoots to roast while he tended the fish. Frost watched his every motion with hungry eyes and a drooling mouth. Despite the warmth of the fire, the air surrounding Night Storm was still cold and he did not look at her.

      “I am sorry,” she said. “I meant no insult.”

      Finally he met her gaze. “It is why I do not speak of it and why I do not want those in my tribe to know. Then they will see me as you do.”

      “How is that?”

      “Imperfect. Weak. Helpless.”

      Her shoulders sank at the truth of that. But she also thought they might see him as dangerous and frightening because of the owls.

      “I am sorry. I know you are strong. I see you are capable. But everyone has a weakness of some kind.”

      “I never did.”

      She turned the subject to something that troubled her.

      “How have you kept the others from seeing you fall?”

      “I spend more and more time away, alone.”

      She thought of him, unaided in a falling spell and frowned. “That is dangerous.”

      “No worse than losing everything I am,” he said.

      “Is your life worth any less?”

      “Less and less every day.”

      She reached in her bag and drew out a leaf from the nosebleed plant she had collected. Then she crushed the leaf between her fingers and applied it to the scabbing wound on her hand.

      “You have been alone during each spell?”

      “But I usually have warning. I did not recognize it at first, but now I do and I move away from others.”

      Her anger faded as her curiosity was piqued. “What warning?”

      “I smell the odor of burning flesh. Then my vision wavers as if I am looking through lake water or like staring through the bands of heat that rise from ground baking in the summer sun.”

      “You see movement?”

      “A wavering or trembling of the world around me.”

      “Can you see the spirit world beyond?”

      His brow furrowed. “I have not tried that. I think I see only this world. Sometimes it is just in one eye. I notice this because I closed one eye and then the other.”

      “Which eye?”

      He pointed to his right.

      “Is that all?”

      “Once my hand began to tremble and I left the hunt. I found a place to hide, curled on my side and held my pounding head.”

      That was incredibly dangerous. If he had choked, none would know where to find him.

      “When I woke, it was evening. My mouth was bleeding and my head ached.”

      He returned his attention to the fish, and she rolled the cattail shoots and tubers.

      He offered her a stick with the two smaller fish and she passed him a portion of the roasted tubers and tender steamed shoots. He shared some of his trout with Frost, who gobbled without the bother of chewing. Once Storm motioned the dog away with a hand, his dog went with good nature and settled to sleep beside the fire and his master.

      The fish was flaky and sweet and the tubers starchy and savory. The tart flavor of the junipers came through with each bite. As he ate he told her of the time that he and his brother had put a fish in his youngest sister’s dress when she was bathing and she had thought the spirit of the deer had returned to its skin.

      “She screamed so loud it brought the men to the woman’s bathing place.”

      Skylark laughed at his imitation of his sister and then the escaping fish. She told of how she had once been so preoccupied finding a curative for burns that she had been caught in the forest at night and slept in the crotch of a tree because she was certain she heard wolves nearby.

      “How did you keep from falling?” he asked.

      “I used my belt to tie myself to the tree trunk. And do you know, there were wolf tracks all around the tree in the morning.”

      “You came down in the morning?”

      “No. I didn’t. I waited until I heard my uncle calling.”

      “That was wise. Wolves can run very fast.”

      “It was the first night I slept out in the forest, but not the last. My aunt and uncle are used to my wanderings.”

      “Most women stay together and keep close to the village.”

      “Most men hunt in groups, raid in groups, war in groups.”

      He smiled at her answer. Somehow the meal had changed them, made their conversation relaxed and more personal. She’d glimpsed a part of him that was comfortable. She felt content and even happy. It was wonderful to be away from the responsibility of shepherding after her father and helping her aunt tend their home. She did not want to think she was like her mother. But perhaps she was more like her than she cared to admit.

      No, she was not like that. She wanted a man, a home and children. But she would heed her mother’s words and choose a man who wanted only her.

      She gazed skyward, seeing the pink bands of clouds beyond the aspen and pine. Still, she knew a part of her enjoyed her work and her time alone. Sometimes it was a struggle to be like other women. But it was important, too.

      When she returned her gaze to the fire it was to note that their conversation had ceased and he was staring at her with a strange, speculative expression.

      “What?”

      “You look happy.”

      She smiled and nodded. “There is nothing like a fire against the growing darkness. A full belly and a full bag of roots and plants.” She patted the bag at her side. “What about you? What makes you happy?”

      His smile faded. “Riding. Riding, fast.”

      And now he walked.

      The conversation that had flowed as naturally as a river came to a sudden stop. She glanced at him, his face glowing with the warm colors of the fire.

      “You have more questions?” he asked.

      “Many.”

      He drew up his knees and wrapped his strong arms about them. “All right then. Ask your questions.”

      “When you smell the searing flesh or your vision shakes or your hand trembles, do you always fall down?”

      “Yes.”

      “Do you hear anything?”

      “When the falling begins, I hear a hum.”

      “Like bees?”

      “No, more like the ring, when you strike metal to metal. But it does not fade. It grows louder and louder, until I cannot hear anything else, and then I fall.”

      She thought on all he had said, trying to make some meaning out of it.

      “You