Savage Illusions Read online

  The air was cle­ar, the sun­s­hi­ne bur­ning.

  A spot­ted eag­le so­aring ma­j­es­ti­cal­ly over­he­ad sent shi­vers down her spi­ne be­ca­use of its lo­ve­li­ness.

  She had wit­nes­sed many mar­vels of na­tu­re on this long and ti­ring three-month jo­ur­ney from Sa­int Lo­u­is, a dis­tan­ce of two tho­usand mi­les. From Sa­int Lo­u­is they had pas­sed one con­ti­nu­o­us pra­irie, with the ex­cep­ti­on of a few of the lu­xu­ri­ant fo­rests along the banks of the ri­ver and the stre­ams fal­ling in­to it. The­re she had se­en de­er, an­te­lo­pe, bi­son, and va­ri­o­us types of birds who­se mag­ni­fi­cent co­lors had sto­len her bre­ath away.

  Now and then she had gas­ped when she saw a but­terfly swe­eping over­he­ad, so­on blown by the in­ces­sant wind away from her.

  This had al­ways re­min­ded her of why she was ta­king this trek to the Mon­ta­na Ter­ri­tory, yet de­ep down in­si­de her­self, whe­re her dre­ams and de­si­res we­re for­med, she knew that the true re­ason was to fol­low the cal­ling of her dre­ams.

  She co­uld not help but ho­pe to find her des­tiny.

  Soon the ri­ver­bo­at was doc­ked and its lar­ge wal­king plank swung aro­und and po­si­ti­oned se­cu­rely on­to the rocky be­ach that was only a few fe­et from the to­we­ring pa­li­sa­de that pro­tec­ted Fort Chan­ce, a very sub­s­tan­ti­al fort three hun­d­red fe­et squ­are which ho­used an Ame­ri­can Fur Com­pany post.

  Very qu­ickly, al­most be­fo­re she co­uld catch her bre­ath, Jole­na was ca­ta­pul­ted in­to the hub­bub of un­lo­ading from the ri­ver­bo­at, the se­ve­ral ot­her sci­en­tists in her party scram­b­ling to get to sho­re with her and le­ave the­ir "sea legs" be­hind them.

  Jolena, her arms pi­led high with va­li­ses stuf­fed with her re­se­arch ma­te­ri­als and jo­ur­nals, clum­sily ma­de her way thro­ugh the throng of pe­op­le.

  Their hor­ses left be­hind in­si­de the fort walls, Spot­ted Eag­le and Two Rid­ges sto­od a few fe­et from the ri­ver­bank, cu­ri­o­usly wat­c­hing the pe­op­le un­lo­ad the bo­at. Spot­ted Eag­le's at­ten­ti­on was drawn to one lady in par­ti­cu­lar, who­se wa­ist-length, flo­wing black ha­ir ma­de his eyeb­rows lift, thin­king that such ha­ir did not se­em ap­prop­ri­ate for a whi­te wo­man. Swe­et Do­ve's ha­ir had be­en as long and as blac­k­b­lac­ker than char­co­al. He did not see how a whi­te wo­man co­uld ha­ve the ha­ir of a Blac­k­fo­ot wo­man! He con­ti­nu­ed wat­c­hing her, his eyes nar­ro­wing when a whi­te man step­ped to her si­de and be­gan re­li­eving her of her bur­den. He tho­ught this man must be her brot­her, for he lo­oked too yo­ung to be an­yo­ne's hus­band.

  Yet this yo­ung man had ha­ir the co­lor of whe­at, not­hing li­ke the wo­man's.

  Spotted Eag­le's in­te­rest pe­aking, so­met­hing com­pel­led him to con­ti­nue wat­c­hing the wo­man un­til fi­nal­ly her fa­ce was re­ve­aled to him and he saw that she was not a whi­te wo­man at all, but had the co­lo­ring and fe­atu­res of an In­di­an.

  And that was not all!

  A cho­king sen­sa­ti­on grab­bed at his in­si­des, and he sto­od in le­at­her-fa­ced si­len­ce, struck numb by the re­sem­b­lan­ce bet­we­en this wo­man and Swe­et Do­ve!

  Memories rus­hed over him, re­mem­be­ring anew when he was a boy ob­ses­sed with an ol­der wo­man.

  It was as tho­ugh he was a yo­ung boy aga­in, ta­ken by the sa­me lo­vely fa­ceS­we­et Do­ve's!

  It was stran­ge to see such an In­di­an wo­man min­g­ling with the whi­te pe­op­le, dres­sed li­ke them, as tho­ugh one of them!

  He co­uld not help but con­ti­nue to sta­re at her, his he­art po­un­ding in his ears as the ex­ci­te­ment bu­ilt wit­hin him.

  This wo­man ra­di­ated such a na­tu­ral, en­c­han­ting be­a­uty. The­re was a lo­ok of ke­en in­tel­li­gen­ce in her dark eyes. Her fa­ce was ex­p­res­si­ve of strong pas­si­ons lying just be­ne­ath the sur­fa­ce. Aga­in he co­uld not help but ma­ke the com­pa­ri­son with Swe­et Do­ve­her eyes brow­ner than the bark of the tal­lest fir tre­es, her long and flo­wing ha­ir down her slim back blac­ker than char­co­al, her ex­qu­isi­te, per­fect fa­ci­al fe­atu­res on a cop­per skin such as his own.

  His palms we­re swe­aty. His thro­at was dry, as he ca­me to the only pos­sib­le con­c­lu­si­on.

  This must be the long-lost child of his be­lo­ved Swe­et Do­ve!

  It had to be!

  Her every fe­atu­re spo­ke to him of Swe­et Do­ve!

  Sighing with re­li­ef that the bur­den had be­en re­mo­ved from her ac­hing arms, Jole­na smi­led up at Kirk. "Thank you so much for res­cu­ing me," she sa­id, la­ug­hing softly. "I'm not su­re I co­uld ha­ve mo­ved anot­her inch. I su­rely wo­uld ha­ve drop­ped the va­li­ses for ever­yo­ne el­se to trip over."

  "I've co­me on this ex­pe­di­ti­on to lo­ok af­ter you, sis," Kirk sa­id, "and by damn, I will. Just let so­me man lo­ok at you cros­swi­se and he'll ha­ve me to an­s­wer to."

  Jolena glan­ced down at his hol­s­te­red pis­tol, ho­ping that didn't gi­ve him too much con­fi­den­ce. He was not a man of ac­ti­on. He had be­en a man of bo­oks too long to be ab­le to chan­ge in­to so­me­one who was that skil­led in guns to spe­ak out when per­haps he sho­uld be lis­te­ning.

  She fe­ared for her brot­her mo­re than for her­self in this stran­ge, even for­bid­ding land.

  As she was wal­king at a fast clip to­ward the fort, trying to ke­ep up with Kirk, Jole­na's fo­ot- steps fal­te­red. She felt al­most cer­ta­in she was be­ing wat­c­hed. She co­uld fe­el the he­at of so­me­one's eyes bran­ding her.

  Pausing for a mo­ment as Kirk kept wal­king ahe­ad of her, Jole­na slowly tur­ned aro­und. Gro­wing pa­le, her eyes wi­de­ned and her kne­es grew we­ak when her se­ar­c­hing ga­ze stop­ped on the In­di­an war­ri­or who was sta­ring back at her from the dar­kest eyes ima­gi­nab­le.

  She co­ve­red her mo­uth with a hand, gas­ping. The mo­re she sta­red back at him, the mo­re she was awa­re that this was not just any In­di­an.

  This was the Blac­k­fo­ot war­ri­or of her mid­night dre­ams!

  This In­di­an was as tall and stra­ight. His fe­atu­res we­re as re­gu­lar, his eyes mid­night dark, lar­ge, and well set. His no­se was mo­de­ra­te in si­ze, stra­ight and thin, his chest splen­didly de­ve­lo­ped. His long black ha­ir hung free of bra­ids and or­na­ments. His che­eks we­re well-pro­no­un­ced, and he was we­aring a ne­at su­it of buc­k­s­kin with frin­ges on the sle­eves, ac­ross the sho­ul­ders, and down his tro­user legs.

  The front of his shirt was de­co­ra­ted be­a­uti­ful­ly with the em­b­ro­idery of por­cu­pi­ne qu­il­ls, mat­c­hing the band at his he­ad that held his ha­ir in pla­ce.

  Jolena's he­art ra­ced, now un­der­s­tan­ding why so­me cal­led the nob­le In­di­ans knights of the pra­irie, mo­un­ta­ins and fo­rests. Ne­ver wo­uld she find an­yo­ne el­se as han­d­so­me and as in­t­ri­gu­ing as this In­di­an.

  She blin­ked her eyes and swal­lo­wed hard. How co­uld she ha­ve pos­sibly dre­amed of this man whom she had ne­ver se­en be­fo­re?

  As in her dre­am, this war­ri­or was we­aring a nec­k­la­ce of dis­tin­c­ti­on. Co­uld he be the son of a po­wer­ful chi­ef?

  Jolena was stun­ned and une­asy by the way he was sta­ring at her, as tho­ugh he was se­e­ing a ghost!

  Her he­ad re­eled with the fe­eling that she too was se­e­ing a ghos­ta fan­tasy that had fre­qu­en­ted her mid­night dre­ams. She was glad when Kirk stop­ped and tur­ned, dis­co­ve­ring that she was no lon­ger wal­king with him, and ca­me back to her, whis­king her away with him with just the com­mand in his eyes.

  ''Why we­re you lo­oking at that In­di­an li­ke that?" Kirk sa­id ac�
�cu­singly, le­aning clo­se to Jole­na so that no one el­se wo­uld he­ar. "It's pla­ying a dan­ge­ro­us ga­me, Jole­na, al­lo­wing yo­ur­self to get ca­ught up in ma­ke-be­li­eve abo­ut In­di­ans."

  Jolena scar­cely he­ard what Kirk was sa­ying and scar­cely no­ti­ced that he was ac­tu­al­ly scol­ding her. "Kirk, do you know if that In­di­an is Blac­k­fo­ot?" she as­ked, aga­in gi­ving the han­d­so­me war­ri­or a lo­ok ac­ross her sho­ul­der, her he­art throb­bing aga­in when she dis­co­ve­red that he was still wat­c­hing her.

  "Never you mind abo­ut that," Kirk sa­id, his vo­ice drawn. "I sus­pect you'll find out so­on eno­ugh, tho­ugh. If I'm right, he's one of the In­di­an gu­ides that will be tra­ve­ling with our ex­pe­di­ti­on."

  When Kirk tur­ned his eyes back to the In­di­an, Jole­na fol­lo­wed his ga­ze and then felt so­mew­hat fa­int at a new dis­co­very! This In­di­an was we­aring black moc­ca­sins! He was Blac­k­fo­ot! The man of her dre­ams! How co­uld this be? How?

  When she felt anot­her set of eyes on her, Jole­na shif­ted her ga­ze and sta­red back at the slig­h­ter, yo­un­ger In­di­an who was stan­ding next to the han­d­so­me one. A shi­ver ran thro­ugh her when he con­ti­nu­ed to sta­re at her, a stran­ge sort of glint in his eyes.

  "Kirk, is that ot­her In­di­an one of the gu­ides, al­so?" she as­ked, wren­c­hing her eyes aro­und.

  "I'm su­re of it," Kirk sa­id, then pur­sed his lips tightly to­get­her, re­ali­zing exactly why he was ne­eded in de­fen­se of his sis­ter.

  Her skin co­lo­ring. Her dark ha­ir and eyes. All of tho­se things we­re dra­wing too much at­ten­ti­on her way from the In­di­ans. They we­re su­rely se­e­ing that she was most cer­ta­inly not of the whi­te com­mu­nity, ex­cept in her dress and re­la­ti­on­s­hips.

  If they knew that she was of this re­gi­on, the­re­in lay the true dan­ger!

  Two Rid­ges co­uld not ke­ep his eyes from wat­c­hing Jole­na as she wal­ked hur­ri­edly to­ward the en­t­ran­ce of the fort. He had be­en qu­ickly ta­ken by her lo­ve­li­ness and knew that Spot­ted Eag­le was as ta­ken as he.

  And why wo­uldn't he be?

  This wo­man with the skin of an In­di­an and the clot­hes of whi­te pe­op­le was a wo­man of mystery! Two Rid­ges wo­uld know mo­re of her, so­on! For­got­ten was the yo­ung ma­iden of his vil­la­ge whom he'd be­en co­ur­ting. Mo­on Flo­wer co­uld not com­pa­re to this myste­ri­o­us be­a­uty.

  Suddenly his mind was ma­de up.

  He wo­uld ta­ke this wo­man as his wi­fe be­fo­re Spot­ted Eag­le had the chan­ce.

  And he most de­fi­ni­tely wo­uld not let Spot­ted Eag­le know of his sud­den in­fa­tu­ati­on with the cop­per prin­cess. The dan­ger in that was that fri­ends co­uld easily be­co­me ene­mi­es over a wo­man. And Two Rid­ges me­ant to ha­ve this wo­man, no mat­ter the cost.

  Chapter Five

  As Kirk and Jole­na wal­ked thro­ugh the wi­de, ope­ned ga­te of the fort, a he­avy-set man with a lo­ud, thro­aty vo­ice ca­me lum­be­ring to­ward them. "Wel­co­me to Fort Chan­ce," Ralph McMil­lan sa­id as he stop­ped and ex­ten­ded a hand to­ward Kirk, than la­ug­hed and drop­ped his hand to his si­de when he re­ali­zed that Kirk was too bur­de­ned for gre­etings. "He­re. Let my clerks, Ste­ven and John, gi­ve you a hand."

  "Gladly," Kirk sa­id, la­ug­hing softly as the two yo­ung men dres­sed in su­its of black fus­ti­an with brass but­tons be­gan ta­king the va­li­ses from him. "Thank you. Yo­ur as­sis­tan­ce is gre­atly ap­pre­ci­ated."

  Now that Kirk's hands we­re free, Ralph McMil­lan ex­ten­ded his hand on­ce aga­in to­ward him. "One of yo­ur sci­en­ti­fic fri­ends, who ar­ri­ved at the fort from the ri­ver­bo­at be­fo­re you, po­in­ted you out as the ma­in re­ason this vo­ya­ge has be­en ma­de to Mon­ta­na Ter­ri­tory," he sa­id, sha­king Kirk's hand eagerly as he lo­oked from Kirk to Jole­na, then back aga­in at Kirk. "Yo­ur fat­her was he­re many ye­ars ago. I he­ard abo­ut his at­tempts to find the elu­si­ve but­terfly. You've co­me to cap­tu­re it to ta­ke back to him for his col­lec­ti­on, I as­su­me?"

  "And for his me­mo­irs," Jole­na in­te­rj­ec­ted softly, her ga­ze ta­king in this short, com­pact man with bo­wed legs, who­se age ap­pe­ared to be per­haps forty. He was dres­sed well in a su­it of blue bro­ad­c­loth with brass but­tons, and his long brown ha­ir was ne­atly com­bed and han­ging down to his sho­ul­ders. She had be­en told that he was a kind-he­ar­ted and high-min­ded Scot­s­man, in char­ge of all of the fur com­pany bu­si­ness in this re­gi­on, cle­ar to the Rocky Mo­un­ta­ins.

  "He is pre­sently wri­ting a bo­ok," she qu­ickly ad­ded. "I wo­uld li­ke the en­ding to say that he has the Eup­ha­ed­ra among his col­lec­ti­on. My brot­her and I ho­pe to ma­ke this pos­sib­le. Our fat­her is not well. A stran­ge sort of pa­ral­y­sis has cla­imed not only his dig­nity, but al­so the use of his legs, or he wo­uld be on this jo­ur­ney in­s­te­ad of his chil­d­ren."

  Ralph drop­ped his hands to his si­des, then clas­ped them be­hind him. "That is a fi­ne thing you do for yo­ur fat­her," he sa­id, his eyes ro­aming over Jole­na, re­ali­zing that she was, in­de­ed, In­di­an in­s­te­ad of whi­te, yet, he was too po­li­te to qu­es­ti­on her or her brot­her abo­ut it.

  Ralph's ga­ze was drawn to Spot­ted Eag­le and Two Rid­ges as they strol­led to­ward the wi­de ga­te of the fort, then ra­ised a hand and sho­uted at them. " Ok-yi, co­me!" he sa­id. "I will in­t­ro­du­ce you to tho­se who are in char­ge of the ex­pe­di­ti­on!"

  Jolena's eyeb­rows ro­se, won­de­ring who he was ad­dres­sing, then her in­si­des trem­b­led kno­wing that it must be the han­d­so­me In­di­an, for he and his com­pa­ni­on we­re the only two In­di­ans pre­sent to­day at the fort.

  Her pul­se ra­cing, her che­eks hot with an ex­ci­ted, an­xi­o­us flush, she tur­ned and fo­und her­self lo­oking squ­arely up in­to the most be­a­uti­ful eyes she had ever se­en, which qu­ickly mes­me­ri­zed her, as the han­d­so­me In­di­an stop­ped only an arm's length from her.

  "Let me ma­ke in­t­ro­duc­ti­ons," Ralph sa­id, step­ping in front of Jole­na, mo­men­ta­rily bloc­king her vi­ew of the In­di­an, then mo­ving to the In­di­an's si­de, pla­cing a fond arm aro­und his sho­ul­ders. "This, my fri­ends, is one of the most skil­led gu­ides of the re­gi­on. You are in the pro­ud com­pany of Spot­ted Eag­le, who­se fat­her is Chi­ef Gray Be­ar. His com­pa­ni­on is Two Rid­ges, the son of Brown Elk. They will gu­ide you thro­ugh the wil­der­ness and al­so pro­tect you from the ma­ra­uding Cree."

  Ralph tur­ned to Spot­ted Eag­le and Two Rid­ges. "My spe­ci­al fri­ends, my I in­t­ro­du­ce you to Jole­na and Kirk Ed­monds, who ma­ke the­ir re­si­den­ce in Sa­int Lo­u­is, Mis­so­uri," he sa­id, ges­tu­ring to­ward Jole­na and Kirk. "They are on a mis­si­on of the he­art," he ex­p­la­ined. "They ha­ve co­me to se­arch for and find the elu­si­ve but­terfly that you, Spot­ted Eag­le, ha­ve spot­ted. They wish to ta­ke the­ir know­led­ge of it and spe­ci­mens back to the­ir ailing fat­her."

  Spotted Eag­le had not ta­ken his eyes off Jole­na, un­ner­ving her. It was as tho­ugh he was lo­oking de­eply wit­hin her so­ul, per­haps trying to pull from wit­hin her the an­s­wers to the qu­es­ti­ons that his eyes we­re as­king.

  She had to won­der why. Did she re­sem­b­le so­me­one he knew?

  Or was it be­ca­use he was in­s­tantly at­trac­ted to her, as she was to him?

  If he only knew that she had met him be­fo­re, in her mid­night dre­ams, then he wo­uld ha­ve ca­use to sta­re at her!

  She co­uld not wrench her own eyes away, ha­ving lo­ved him be­fo­re ever ha­ving met him fa­ce to fa­ce!

  This was con­fu­sing to her, the­se fe­elings for a man who was, in tr
uth, a com­p­le­te stran­ger to her.

  And he was not just any man. He was an In­di­an.

  In Sa­int Lo­u­is she had se­en few In­di­ans. They had mostly kept to the ri­ver­f­ront, whe­re they tra­ded with pe­op­le of the city. She had ne­ver ven­tu­red the­re her­self, her fat­her ha­ving for­bid­den it.

  "You co­me to this land for yo­ur fat­her's be­ne­fit?" Spot­ted Eag­le sa­id, fi­nal­ly bre­aking the si­len­ce bet­we­en them, which had be­gun to be stra­ined. "His na­me is?"

  "Bryce," Jole­na sa­id, her vo­ice slight and fil­led with awe. "Bryce Ed­monds."

  "He is In­di­an in co­lo­ring?" Spot­ted Eag­le co­uld not help but ask. "He is In­di­an, yet has ta­ken on a whi­te man's na­me, the sa­me as you?"

  Kirk's eyes wi­de­ned and he swal­lo­wed hard, not li­king whe­re this con­ver­sa­ti­on was le­ading. " Our fat­her is qu­ite whi­te, thank you," he sa­id stiffly. He pla­ced a hand to Jole­na's el­bow and whis­ked her away, wal­king her briskly away from the qu­es­ti­ons and in­t­ro­duc­ti­ons.