White Eagle's Touch: Blackfoot Warriors, Book 2 Read online

  And how much better it would have been.

  Enough! Katrina admonished herself. She could not afford to ponder such dispiriting thoughts. Not now. Not when she needed her wits about her. Besides, this line of reasoning led nowhere. She knew this from experience.

  Taking a firm, mental grip upon herself, Katrina turned her gaze to the prairie.

  “Barren.” She hardly knew she’d said the word aloud, until her maid responded with, “Yes, ma’am.”

  “This land is hardly fit for life. Really, it is most barren,” Katrina continued, the word “barren” being the only descriptive term to come to mind.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “It is completely devoid of the gentler side of life, it appears to me,” Katrina went on to say, more to herself than to her maid. “Why, I can hardly see a streak of green grass anywhere, and the Indians…look at them all. This would hardly have been a place to bring a new bride.”

  “Pardon, ma’am?”

  Katrina stopped speaking and gave herself a shake. Had she really spoken all that aloud? “I meant nothing,” she said to the young maid, who stood behind her, “I was talking more to myself…mumbling.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Setting her glance onto something else, Katrina determined to stop this pondering about her father…her mother, but peace of mind was not to be hers.

  Like a familiar old song, her thoughts turned again to her parents. Why had he done it? Had her father known the terrible price he would have to pay for demanding that he and his new bride live here?

  Of course not, Katrina answered her own question. Still…

  All at once old hurts, long-forgotten memories resurfaced, bringing with them stories which had been told to a young girl. Enchanting stories, rich tales of a land far away.

  Katrina’s father and uncle had loved this territory, or so the saga had gone, and it had been this love alone which had caused her father to bring his new bride to this territory.

  And her mother, Katrina remembered from the tale, had tried to make a home in this godforsaken land. But it hadn’t been possible, not in this wilderness. In the end, the land had exacted an enormous toll upon these two people, demanding more from her parents than either of them should have been willing to pay: their lives.

  Katrina swallowed and cleared her throat before bringing her gaze once more toward the fort. Of course, there had been no fort back in her father and mother’s time, only a wilderness and the Indians.

  Indians.

  Katrina had been told that the Indians had not been the cause of her parents’ death all those years ago, that the Indians had actually tried to save the young couple, who had been caught in a flash flood.

  But, the reports of what happened meant nothing to Katrina. She had her own opinions. She knew better.

  Katrina visibly shook herself, and this time, when she returned her gaze to the fort, it was with a determined effort.

  Fort Union lay sprawled out upon an open plain. Its wooden walls glowed almost red under the shadowed rays of a setting sun. Katrina studied the place with dubious interest.

  The walls were made of a kind of timber she didn’t recognize and, placed vertically, the logs created a barrier that would be almost impossible to scale, had any savage been of a mind to try. A further deterrent came in the form of bastions on two sides of the fort, their towering presence meant to fortify the fort against attacks.

  But the most noticeable feature about the fort, and, if she were to give it credit, the most magnificent, was the sight of the American flag, which fluttered back and forth in the strong winds. It was a reminder to all, she presumed, that the presence of white men and the fort were here to stay.

  Did her uncle even now wait for her beneath that flag? Or was he at the dock, anxious to meet and, she was certain, to disapprove of his niece’s fiancé, the Marquess of Leicester?

  She frowned. She expected no less than disapproval from her uncle, that horrible man. How dare he set such ridiculous conditions upon her: forcing her to travel to this land, demanding to meet and to approve her fiancé.

  Such was the epitome of selfishness. Such was the embodiment of disfavor.

  Oh, well, these things would make little difference to her in the end. She would win in this, and why shouldn’t she? In truth, she had little to lose.

  Not herself, not even her heart.

  She sighed. “It certainly doesn’t look like a ‘crown jewel,’ does it?” She spoke again to her maid.

  “No, Miss Wellington, it doesn’t,” came the rejoining feminine reply.

  “I wish,” Katrina continued, “that on the way up the Missouri, Mr. McKenzie and the others from ‘the company’ hadn’t told me that Fort Union was likened to some sparkling gem. From their descriptions of it, I expected more.” Katrina raised her chin in the air. “The most I would say about it now is that it is…pretty.”

  “Yes,” said the maid, Rebecca, “it is most certainly comely.”

  “Except for the Indian tepees, of course.”

  Rebecca didn’t utter a word in response.

  “You do not agree?” Katrina turned her gaze upon her servant. “You find those heathen structures attractive?”

  Rebecca sighed. “Yes, Miss Wellington,” she responded with her typical honesty. “I find the Indian lodges…pleasing.”

  “Humph!” Katrina said, although, gazing outward again, she had to admit that perhaps in this, Rebecca was right. For truly, the sight before her was splendid.

  Graced around the fort, out on the open prairie, stood Indian tepees, the structures amazingly picturesque, despite the obvious primitive conditions of the aboriginal people. Katrina stared at the lodges more closely, observing that many of the dwellings were bleached white, most of them boasting painted designs upon their outer linings, the colors of those designs ranging from red and blue to yellow and black.

  A strong wind blew against Katrina’s cheeks of a sudden, casting back her bonnet, mussing her hair and sweeping the blond ringlets of her coiffure against her neck. With the draft, too, came the clamor of drumming and rhythmic chanting. Off in the distance, in one of the far Indian encampments, she could hear the shouts of a crowd of people who looked to be watching what appeared to be…a horse race…

  Odd.

  In another camp, closer to hand, Katrina could just make out the shapes of Indian boys playing some sort of ball game, a sport which looked amazingly like a New England game of kick-ball.

  The aroma of roasted meat drifted up to her, and Katrina looked down upon some Indian women who were standing, cooking over fires and talking to one another. Naked children ran wildly in and around the colorful dwellings of the Indian homes, the youngsters shooting imaginary arrows from bows that looked to be no more than short sticks.

  Strange. Such a scene as this had the look and feel of…home. Curious, too, to watch a primitive people who seemed to be enjoying pastimes which were, at least to Katrina’s understanding…civilized.

  Suddenly she felt as if she were being watched.

  She glanced toward the shore. She saw nothing—no one, save a lone Indian man, who stood apart from the others and, by the looks of him, he was a dangerous warrior. He held himself erect, straight and proud, his long, black hair caught in the wind, blowing around a face where white and black paint slashes blazed across his cheeks. Except for the man’s quiver full of arrows—the front strap of which spread across a wide breast—he stood before her, his upper body utterly and positively, naked.

  And what a chest it was, she was quick to realize—all hard flesh and muscle. She should have looked away, but she didn’t, she couldn’t. She had never before witnessed the bare bosom of a man, and somehow she couldn’t quite bring herself to glance away.

  He stared back at her, too, and for a moment, the tiny space of a second, she felt an indescribable warmth spread through her.

  No, it couldn’t be. She stared all the harder at the man until, at last, she turned away.


  Such foolishness.

  “Are you ready to disembark, Miss Wellington?”

  Katrina faced Kenneth McKenzie, the big Scottish proprietor, who, it was said, much likened himself to king of this Missouri territory.

  Just then another boom sounded from the cannons, exploding both from inside the fort and from upon the decks of the steamship.

  Katrina jumped.

  “There, there, lass. It’s only the fort’s way of welcoming home the dignitaries on the boat. ’Tis the custom in these parts.”

  “Yes,” she said, “I know. Of course it would have been most welcome had I been warned of their imminent firing.”

  McKenzie smiled. “Yes, I can very well understand that, Miss Wellington. I will see to it that you are cautioned about this in the future. Would you require an escort ashore, lass?”

  “That would be quite agreeable,” Katrina responded, “although I should most likely await my fiancé. He, too, I am sure, is most anxious to see to his quarters within the fort.”

  The Scotsman coughed and looked away before he took Katrina’s gloved hand into his own, setting her fingers upon his arm. “Pardon, miss, but your fiancé, the marquess, and his friends have already gone ashore with Prince Maximilian and his man, the artist, Mr. Bodmer.”

  Katrina paused. What was this? Her fiancé had left the ship without giving escort to her?

  Did the man not understand the insult of such ill-mannered behavior?

  She frowned, trying her best to conceal her astonishment. Surely her fiancé could not mean to disgrace her, could he?

  She cautioned herself to take a few short breaths instead of giving in to anger. Perhaps she was misjudging the marquess. She must remember that the man was from England, that he did bear the distinction of nobility, and, because of this, he might not act in a manner to which she was accustomed. Mayhap the man himself was used to being pampered.

  She forced herself to smile. “How nice that my fiancé has the prince to talk to,” she said the words as demurely as she was able. “Then the prince must already be starting his studies on the biology and flora of this place?”

  “Aye, lass, it would appear so. I could not keep the prince aboard the steamboat another moment. Seemed anxious to set foot on shore immediately, but I suppose that is to be understood. After the artist, George Catlin, visited us last year and set the savage image to paper, it can only be expected that both the prince and Mr. Bodmer would be most impatient to begin their own observations of the natives.”

  Katrina nodded, intent on being polite. “How nice for them,” she said. “Well, if my fiancé has already seen to himself and his friends, then by all means, Mr. McKenzie, please lead the way.”

  “I would be pleased, Miss Wellington. Most pleased, indeed,” he said, offering his arm.

  Katrina curtsied, although the gesture was purely for show.

  And as she allowed the proprietor to take her arm, she sent a quick, fleeting glance ashore, there to witness still, the intense regard of that one Indian man.

  All at once he smiled. And Katrina, unable to help herself, shivered.

  Chapter Three

  He stood on the edge of the bank, high above the river; he stood, boldly, ignoring the wind whipping around him; he stood, watching her.

  So, he thought, the child from his past had returned home.

  He’d known her at once. He’d watched her from the shore of the big, muddy river.

  Her hair was still that pale shade of yellow, and recalled to him the color of the daffodil in early summer. And she wore the mane of those locks in a way that he had never before witnessed, her golden tresses swirled round and round so as to resemble tiny whirlwinds, framing her soft, pretty face.

  Her eyes were dark, too, just as he’d remembered they had been, as deep and intense as a midnight sky.

  She was beautiful. Haiya, yes, she was more stunning than he could have ever imagined she would be.

  And she had looked at him, had seen him.

  He’d witnessed much about her then, in that single glance they had shared.

  And he had seen the hurt in her. That, he hadn’t expected.

  He continued to stare back at her, too, until she dropped her glance, looking away from him; pretending, he sensed, that nothing out of the ordinary had just occurred.

  And in a sense, nothing had—yet.

  She gazed back at him in due time and, catching that glance, he observed something else about her. He knew, as soundly as if he had spent his entire life around her, that here was a woman who was spoiled, willful, untamed. And yet, she was as naive as she was pampered.

  The knowledge made him grin, and he smiled at her, sensing her shock at the gesture, even as he stood so far away from her.

  He turned his back on her then, seeing what he had come to see, and he began to pace back toward the fort.

  So, his old childhood friend possessed as much spirit as she did beauty. Perhaps this trip to fetch her was to be filled with more excitement than he had at first realized.

  It pleased him; pleased him very much, indeed.

  Katrina shut the door to Kenneth McKenzie’s office several hours later and fled to her own set of rooms.

  It couldn’t be true. It was the only thing she could focus on for the moment. It just couldn’t be true.

  She flung open the door to her suite and stepped quickly inside, closing the door behind her with a decisive click. She didn’t move for a very long time.

  Closing her eyes, she leaned back, taking several deep breaths as she tried to pull her thoughts together.

  Her uncle was not here.

  Not here.

  Worse yet, according to Mr. McKenzie, her uncle wanted her fiancé to travel to Fort McKenzie, situated deep in the heart of Blackfoot country. It was a journey which might take months, perhaps a year.

  How could this be happening to her? Hadn’t she done all that her uncle requested of her? Hadn’t she come here? Even brought her fiancé?

  Her fiancé. She grimaced, certain the man would not budge from this location…definitely not without her, especially considering the man’s noble birth, his lack of experience with the wilderness and the fact that he had looked upon his mere journey to New York City as the height of adventure.

  She frowned. Only a few months ago the marquess had seemed the perfect choice in a husband, at least from the moment it was suggested by a mutual acquaintance. Her subsequent correspondence with the marquess convinced her. She had been after a title and a scheme to obtain her inheritance, and he…her wealth, which had suited her fine. It had seemed to be an ideal match.

  But she hadn’t anticipated the current complications. How could she?

  Which brought her full circle.

  Her fiancé would probably refuse to travel further, and she could not afford to stay here and finance him, his servants, and all of his habits while she tried to get word to her uncle. Not without the money from her inheritance and dowry.

  Nor could she return to New York City without it.

  What was she to do?

  A low moan escaped her throat. Never could she remember a time when she had felt so alone, so unsure of herself. And this from a woman who had been without companionship or guidance most of her life.

  There was no one, not a single person to advise her. Not Kenneth McKenzie, not the German prince, not even her own fiancé.

  Especially not her fiancé.

  Briefly a mental image flashed before her—a silhouette of an Indian, the same Indian warrior who was so disturbing to her thoughts, the same warrior whose glance earlier this day had stirred some intangible force within her. Without warning, an unusual awareness swept over her, as though she were somehow protected.

  What utter nonsense.

  She moaned and shook her head.

  What was wrong with her? She had no one, no one at all to turn to and…she was scared. More frightened than she had ever been in her life.

  Tears gathered in her eyes, and she alm
ost wept, but Katrina would not give in to such weakness.

  Instead, she threw back her head and opened her eyes, gazing out before her, focusing on nothing but her troubles.

  There was really no option for her.

  She would have to go to the other fort. She and her fiancé.

  No one would understand. Nor would anyone condone a sophisticated lady making such a trip, but she would have to do it if she were to obtain her inheritance.

  She ran a hand across her forehead.

  The truth was that she was trapped.

  Well and truly ensnared: caught on one side by a lack of funds; blocked on another by the unthinking acts of an absent uncle.

  Her uncle. She narrowed her glance. Were he and Satan one and the same?

  It must be so, she decided. For her uncle must surely know of her financial predicament.

  There was one thing, however, that her uncle did not know about her; one thing he must never learn, she determined. He must never discover how hurt, how utterly devastated he had left her all those years ago…the pain still with her today.

  She had proved herself to be a survivor time and again. She would endure this setback in her life, if only because he was making it almost impossible for her to do so.

  No, what was hers was hers, her inheritance, her dowry, her very life. Her uncle might hold the strings now, manipulating her as one might a puppet, but it wouldn’t be long before she would take back control of her life, no matter what she had to face to do so.

  She pledged this to herself.

  Chapter Four

  June 25, 1833

  Midmorning

  “I say, what vision of loveliness descends upon us now? Is she a princess, a queen? Do you think I should bow? Or is she a mere fleeting whiff of my fancy? Oh, dear, I don’t think I can rhyme fancy…can you see?” The Marquess of Leicester chuckled before he put a finger over one nostril, taking a sniff of the powder which he held in a box in his hand. “What do you say, my friends? Am I poetic?”

  The marquess’s two friends murmured polite words of agreement at all the appropriate places, while the marquess, pocketing his snuffbox, paced forward to take hold of Katrina’s hand. “Ah, my dear, you look stunning, simply ravishing rather.”