The Warrior's Captive Bride. Jenna Kernan

gear and their hands held only the reins and their weapons.

      He tied his quiver to the nearest pack saddle and hooked his bow over a pommel. When he turned back, he found her studying him.

      “I no longer ride,” he said.

      She realized why instantly. His falling made it too dangerous. Their eyes met and she saw the pride in the lifting of his chin as he waited for her to say something. This was why he did not wish his people to know, because of this feeling she had for him right now.

      She forced a smile.

      “Soon you will ride again.”

      His guarded expression switched to confusion as his brow furrowed.

      “That is what I pray for every day, to be a warrior once more. I want to serve my people. But to be a burden...” He shook his head in dismay.

      “I understand that. Everyone needs a purpose.”

      “And I have lost mine.”

      “We will find it again, together.” She spoke with a confidence she did not feel, but still she held her smile and finally she saw his mouth quirk. The transformation was immediate and startling. He looked less severe and even more handsome. She could not keep from reaching out to stroke his cheek. Excitement buzzed through her, tickling her skin like bees on an open blossom. She leaned toward him. His hand captured hers, trapping it to his jaw for just an instant. Then he released her and stepped back.

      She stood, bereft by his withdrawal. “Tonight we will talk,” she said. “Tomorrow I will begin gathering plants.”

      “Yes. That is good.”

      “I have to know all about you. If I am to treat you, I mean.” It was true, but she was grateful for the excuse to hear his voice.

      When he spoke, the low rumble tickled her deep in the pit of her stomach. A warning prickled her neck. He had asked for her help. Nothing more. Yet he seemed to also feel the lure that tugged between them.

      “Well, that may take some time.”

      He picked a place with a wall of rock beside a small, pretty lake. The open ground had tall green grass for the horses, and nearby a cold spring tumbled down the rocks, giving them drinking water. It was a good camp. The rocks behind them protected against the wind and the ground all around was scattered with much firewood. She set to work gathering timber and kindling as he unburdened his horses and hobbled them to keep them from wandering. When she returned, the horses were happily munching on grass, unconcerned that their front feet were tied with a leather binding.

      Frost was sniffing about in the cattails, and trying and failing to catch frogs.

      The sun was directly over them, so they sat in the shade beside the lake and shared a meal.

      They drank cold water from the cascading stream and ate the pemmican they both carried. Hers was filled with wax currants mixed with tallow and his was filled with nuts and dried Saskatoon berries. Traveling food, portable, dense and delicious.

      Frost appeared, his tail wagging, hopeful for some food. Night Storm fed him some of his pemmican and then waved him off. Frost left in good humor, returning to his futile attempts at hunting. The process involved a great deal of leaping into the water, swimming back to shore and shaking off only to leap in once more.

      “He will chase away all the fish,” said Night Storm.

      As they ate, she began her questions with ones about his family, learning that his father, Many Coups, was one of the chief warriors of his tribe and the head of his medicine society. Every tribe had secret warrior societies and their business was never shared with women. Just as women had rites and ceremonies kept secret from the men. Red Corn Woman had born Many Coups three children. His brother, the oldest, had already taken a wife from the Wind Basin people who bore him a son. Night Storm also had two younger sisters, six years his junior at seventeen winters and another who was fourteen winters and already a woman.

      Skylark realized that at twenty-three winters, Night Storm was three years her senior.

      “Most of my friends and family call me Storm. You may do so, as well.”

      She nodded her acceptance of this. “My family calls me Sky.”

      “Sky? A pretty name. I understand that you have no brothers or sisters,” said Night Storm.

      “Yes. That is so.”

      “And you live with your father and aunt and uncle.”

      “Yes.” Her mother was gone because Sky could not heal her. Sky was silent. Should she say that her mother had left her husband before the time of Sky’s birth? Did he already know that Sky and her mother had lived alone for much of her childhood? Perhaps she should tell him that her mother’s family had advised against her marriage but her mother had left her people to wed a man whose first wife was of the Low River Tribe and when she left this husband a few years later she was too proud to go home to her family. Thoughts of her mother saddened her and even after three winters since the passing of her mother, the pain was still heavy on her heart.

      “Some say you are like your father.”

      “I have heard that said. Do you think so?”

      “I have not decided yet.”

      “Why have you not married Beautiful Meadow?” she asked.

      “You need to know this to cure me?”

      “No. It is a woman’s curiosity.”

      He made a face. “She is angry that I have not yet married her. Her father, Broken Saddle, was of the Shallow Water people, like my father, until he married. Now Broken Saddle is chief of the Wind River tribe and his brother, Thunder Horse, married one of our women and joined the Black Lodges. He is our shaman.”

      She raised her brows at the implications of this. No wonder he had not wed. A shaman’s niece would quickly note his illness and seek her uncle’s help. His condition would be raised at tribal council and then known by all.

      “I see.”

      “And understand why I have not yet taken her to my lodge?”

      She nodded.

      He liked that he did not have to explain everything to her.

      “Beyond that, I cannot hunt for her or protect her.” His eyes lingered on Skylark. “No woman wants a man who cannot ride.”

      Except perhaps a woman who did not sew? They were a strange pair, she thought. She almost said that aloud and then quickly reminded herself that he would not marry while he was ill and if she managed to cure him, he would marry Beautiful Meadow. She needed to cease her folly and get back to her people as soon as she could.

      Storm growled and lifted a stick, preparing to throw it into the water. But his dog placed his mouth over it and Storm let go. Frost sank to the ground and began gnawing on the branch.

      “Is that all?” he asked.

      Her gaze shot to him. She had promised to try to help him and instead she had become consumed with her own wants, needs and burdens.

      “No. Not all. If your falling sickness is from a ghost or curse, then your children would not be affected. If you are ill, we will find a cure.”

      “I hope so. Because becoming a burden, it would be worse than death.”

      The responsibility she had taken now weighed upon her. Why had she thought by leaving her tribe for a few days she would be free? Free from the burden of chasing after her father, free of the curious stares of the men and the pitying glances of the friends who had found good husbands. But this new burden was heavy, indeed.

      “What other questions do you have?” he asked.

      “Have you had visions?”

      He scrubbed his face with his hands as if washing. Then he blew out a breath to the sky.

      “How