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  Bryant smiled at the woman. “My dear.”

  “Eduardo, I am sorry I am late. The dressmaker…” She made a vague gesture with her hand.

  “Mr. McCloud, this is my wife, Rosalia. Rosalia, this is Mr. McCloud.”

  She graciously offered Chance her hand. “I am pleased to meet you, Signore McCloud.”

  “Ma’am.” She had a thick accent. Italian, perhaps.

  Rosalia Bryant sat down, spreading her skirts around her. Edward Bryant sat beside his wife, and Chance took the chair vacated by Bryant.

  “I was just telling Mr. McCloud about our problem,” Bryant told his wife. He took her hand in his and held it tight.

  Mrs. Bryant turned dark luminous eyes toward Chance. “Will you help us?”

  “Does your daughter look like you, Mrs. Bryant?”

  “She did as a child, yes, very much, except for her eyes. Teressa has Eduardo’s eyes. Of course, I do not know how she looks now…if the resemblance is still there.” She took a deep breath, her free hand worrying a fold in her skirt. “You will help us, will you not? Please, signore, you must help us.”

  Chance stared at the woman. Was it possible? Could he be that lucky? Damn, if he was right, the rest of that fifteen grand was as good as his. “I can’t promise you anything, ma’am,” he said. “But I’ll scout around some and see what I can find out.”

  Hope flared in Rosalia Bryant’s eyes, spilling over in a sprinkling of tears. “Grazie! Grazie! Dio Di Elogio.”

  “I will draw a bank draft for you in the morning,” Bryant said. “Five thousand dollars now, and another ten thousand when you return with our daughter. Is that acceptable?”

  Chance nodded. “Just deposit the money to my account over at the bank.” Five grand would go a long way to keeping that weasel, Harry Conreid, off his back, at least for a little while. He held up the flyer. “Can I keep this?”

  “Of course.”

  Chance folded the paper and slid it into his back pocket. “Where should I get in touch with you?”

  “Right here. My wife and I will be staying in your town until we hear from you.”

  “As long as you don’t expect to hear from me right away.”

  “I understand, but…do you have any idea how long it might take? We are understandably anxious.”

  “I don’t know. Could be a couple of weeks. Could be a couple of months. Depends on how long it takes me to find the Lakota.”

  “Excuse me,” Rosalia interrupted, “but who are the Lakota?”

  “Sioux is a white man’s term. The Indians call themselves the Lakota. Now, as I was saying, it depends on how long it takes me to find the Indians who’ve got your daughter and whether or not she’s willing to leave.”

  “Why should she not want to leave?” Rosalia glanced from her husband to Chance and back again. “Surely she is as anxious to return to us as we are to have her with us once again.”

  Bryant patted his wife’s hand. “Mr. McCloud seems to think that Teressa might not want to leave the Indians.”

  “Not wish to leave?” Her eyes widened in disbelief. “But that is, how do you say…ridicolo!”

  Bryant smiled soothingly at his wife. “Of course it is. I fear we have taken up enough of Mr. McCloud’s time, my dear. No doubt he has business elsewhere.”

  Bryant stood up and Chance rose with him.

  “We shall expect to hear from you as soon as possible,” Bryant said as he walked Chance to the door. “Godspeed.”

  The two men shook hands and Chance left the hotel. Outside, he stretched the kinks out of his back and shoulders. For a moment, he considered returning to the game over at the saloon and then decided against it. He’d be leaving for the Lakota’s summer camp first thing in the morning. Best to turn in early and enjoy sleeping in a real bed while he could.

  Stepping off the boardwalk, he headed for the livery to check on his horse.

  The stable was dark save for the lantern burning out front.

  Chance rapped on one of the big double doors.

  A moment later, Burt Sorenson, the owner of the stable, opened the door. “Oh,” he said, scratching under his armpit. “It’s you.”

  Chance didn’t reply as he walked past the man toward a stall in the back. His horse, a bay Quarter-Morgan mix, made a soft snuffling sound at his approach.

  Reaching over the stall door, he scratched the mare’s neck. “Hey, girl. They takin’ good care of you in here?”

  The mare rubbed her head against his shoulder, then nosed his coat pocket.

  Grinning, Chance reached into his pocket and withdrew an apple. The mare gobbled it down, her head bobbing in approval. Smoke wasn’t the prettiest horse he had ever owned, but she was far and away the best. She was fast and quick, with enough staying power and heart to keep going long after another horse would have folded up and quit. That extra speed and bottom had saved his life on more than one occasion.

  Chance gave the mare a final pat, nodded at Sorenson, and left the stable.

  Pulling the flyer from his pocket, he read the description again; then, whistling softly, he turned down the street toward the hotel. Bryant’s fifteen thousand dollars would not only pay off the mortgage on the ranch, but also allow him to buy a section of land adjoining the east pasture, repair the roof on the barn, and buy that new bull he had his eye on.

  He glanced up and down the darkened street. Bryant’s offer had come at just the right time. Chance ran a hand over his jaw. He’d been filled with an old restlessness lately. Spending some time with his mother’s people might be just what he needed. And if what he suspected was true, it would be time well spent.

  Chapter Two

  Winter Rain sat outside her mother’s lodge, tanning a deer hide her father had brought her that afternoon. As she scraped the flesher over the hide, her thoughts wandered to a certain young warrior. Strong Elk.

  She had met him that morning when she went walking through the forest to gather firewood. She had paused now and then to admire the beauty around her. The summer camp of the People was one of her favorite places. Tall mountains thick with spruce and pine rose in the distance. The lodges of the people were spread along the grassy banks of a wide, slow-moving river. Scattered stands of timber provided ample wood for the fire. Game was plentiful in the hills.

  When she had gathered an armful of wood, she turned back toward the village. She was almost there when she heard the soft call of a dove. She had felt a thrill of excitement as she glanced to her right and then to her left, smiled when Strong Elk stepped out from behind a tree. He was a handsome young man, held in high esteem by the elders of the tribe. The maidens in the village spoke of him often, for he was a daring hunter and a brave warrior, one who had counted many coups. One who had not yet taken a wife.

  “Good morning,” he said.

  Winter Rain had smiled shyly. A maiden was not to be alone in the company of an unmarried warrior, but it was acceptable to meet “by accident”.

  “I was just gathering wood.” Such a foolish comment, she thought, when he could easily see that that was what she had been doing.

  Strong Elk had nodded, then glanced up and down the trail, making sure they were still alone. “I might be walking by your lodge this evening,” he remarked.

  She had felt a rush of color sweep into her cheeks. “I might be outside this evening,” she had replied and then, hugging the firewood to her chest, she had hurried up the path to her mother’s lodge.

  Now, she felt her cheeks warm at the thought of seeing him again.

  Wiping a wisp of hair from her brow, she sat back on her heels and stretched her arms over her head. It was then that she saw the stranger ride into camp. He wore black trousers, a dark gray shirt, and a long black duster that was pushed back behind the gun he wore on his hip.

  At first, she thought he was a wasichu, and she felt a quick surge of fear. Dawn Song’s older brother had been killed in battle by the Long Knives. Almost everyone Winter Rain knew had lost a loved one
at the hands of the wasichu. She stood there, her heart beating wildly. Should she raise an alarm? Was the village in danger of attack? And then she noticed his long black hair, his dark skin, the way he rode boldly into the camp, as though assured of a welcome, and she realized that although he was a stranger to her, he must be one of the People, to have made it this far into the village unchallenged.

  Her gaze moved over him again, more closely this time. He had broad shoulders, high cheekbones, a nose that was slightly crooked, a strong jaw, a generous mouth. There were fine lines at his eyes, lines that were caused by squinting into the sun, she thought, and not from smiling, though she couldn’t say why she thought that. Perhaps it was his expression, which seemed closed and bitter. There was an air of danger about him that wasn’t entirely due to the pistol riding on his hip.

  He turned, as though aware of her perusal. Their gazes met and she saw that his eyes were a cool gray under straight black brows. An odd flutter erupted in the pit of her stomach when his gaze met hers. Flustered, she dropped her fleshing tool on the ground and ducked into her mother’s lodge.

  * * * * *

  Chance stared after the girl. Unless he missed his guess, she was the Bryant’s long lost daughter. He had seen her a time or two when he had come to visit his cousin in years past, but he had never paid her any mind. She had been too young to spark his interest before, but she had done some growing up since he had last seen her. She had been a girl before, but she was a young woman now. And quite a looker at that.

  He glanced around the village as he rode toward his cousin’s lodge, nodding to men he recognized. As always, when he returned here, he felt a sense of coming home and he sat there a moment, watching the activity around him.

  As usual, there were dogs everywhere. Large dogs for working, small dogs for eating. Most were black or brown, with pointed faces and sharp ears that resembled those of a coyote. Chance remembered a large dog his mother had had when he’d been a young boy. She had hooked the dog up to a travois whenever she went to pick fruit. As she filled bags with berries, or plums or cherries, she had piled them on the travois.

  Giving Smoke a pat on the shoulder, Chance handed the mare’s reins to Kills-Like-a-Hawk’s nine year-old son, Bear Chaser.

  “Take good care of her for me,” he said, ruffling the boy’s hair.

  With a nod, Bear Chaser took the reins. “Ai, leksi,” he replied.

  “Is your father inside?”

  “Ai. Go on in,” Bear Chaser said, smiling. “He will be happy to see you.”

  “Pilamaya.”

  Removing his hat, Chance ran a hand through his hair, then ducked into his cousin’s lodge. Kills-Like-a-Hawk was the tribal medicine man. Their mothers had been sisters. Kills-Like-a-Hawk’s mother, Laughing Dove, lived in the village. Chance was still looking for the last of the four men who had killed his own mother.

  Kills-Like-a-Hawk was sitting cross-legged on a robe, wrapping layers of rawhide around the handle of a skinning knife, when Chance entered the lodge.

  It was a large tipi, made from seventeen or eighteen buffalo hides. The beds were folded near the rear. The place of honor was located opposite the door at the back of the lodge. There were backrests made of willow poles. Parfleches containing food and clothing were stacked out of the way. A water bag hung from a forked pole near the door. Kills-Like-a-Hawk’s shield hung from another pole at the rear of the lodge. A small altar was located behind the fire pit. Buffalo robes, hair side up, covered the floor. As always, the lodge was clean and neat.

  Kills-Like-a-Hawk was almost ten years older than Chance, and wise beyond his years. He was a tall man, with a strong blade of a nose, prominent cheekbones, and piercing black eyes. It was said he could foretell the future, that he could command the wind and harness the whirlwind. There were times when Chance believed it.

  Kills-Like-a-Hawk looked up, a smile of welcome lighting his face when he saw Chance. His wife, Dancing Crane, covered her mouth with her hand to hide her surprise. She was a pretty woman, a little on the plump side, with black eyes and a ready smile.

  “Hau, ciye, welcome to my lodge.” Kills-Like-a-Hawk rose lithely to his feet and embraced his cousin. “It has been too long since we saw you here. Come, sit.”

  Dancing Crane gave him a shy smile. “Will you eat?”

  Chance nodded. “Sounds good. Pilamaya.”

  Dancing Crane went outside. Like many of the women, she did most of her cooking outside during the warm summer months.

  Kills-Like-a-Hawk resumed his seat and Chance dropped down across from him.

  “So, my brother,” Kills-Like-a-Hawk said. “Have you come home to stay?”

  Chance shook his head. “No.”

  Kills-Like-a-Hawk regarded his cousin through knowing eyes. “You are still looking for the one who wronged you.”

  Chance nodded.

  “You will never find the peace you are seeking until you put your hatred behind you.”

  Chance met his cousin’s gaze. “There can be no peace for me while he lives.”

  “He is not here,” Kills-Like-a-Hawk said. “Why have you come?”

  “I’m looking for a woman.”

  A slow smile spread over Kills-Like-a-Hawk’s face. “You seek a wife here, among our people?”

  “I told you before, I’m not the marryin’ kind. This woman was captured by the People when she was a child.”

  Comprehension dawned in Kills-Like-a-Hawk’s eyes. “You speak of Winter Rain.”

  “I think so. She’s the right age, and she fits the description.”

  “Mountain Sage and Eagle Lance will not let her go. She is their daughter now.”

  “She has other parents who are anxious to see her. They have been looking for her for ten years.”

  Kills-Like-a-Hawk laid his weapon aside. “She is one of us. You will not take Winter Rain away from the People unless she is willing to go.”

  Chance nodded. He had known he wouldn’t be able to just ride in, grab the girl, and make a run for it. Not if he wanted to be welcomed in the village again. Not if he wanted to keep his cousin’s respect. So. He would just have to convince the girl to go with him, bribe her somehow if necessary, maybe promise that he would bring her back here if she didn’t want to stay with the Bryants. Hell, there was ten thousand dollars at stake, and he needed that money.

  Later that night, lying on his back on a pile of furs, Chance stared up at the slice of sky visible through the smoke hole of his lodge. Before leaving town, he had sent word to Dave Dreesen, foreman of the Double C, that he would be gone for awhile.

  He blew out a deep breath. It was good to be among his mother’s people again. He loved the ranch and what he had accomplished there, but this was home. His best memories, and his worst, were tied to this place, this land.

  He smiled faintly as the lilting notes of siyotanka, the courting flute, were carried to him on the night wind. Somewhere in the dark, a warrior sat near the lodge of his beloved, pouring out his heart through a Lakota courting flute. And somewhere in a dark lodge, a maiden smiled.

  Lakota courtship was, of necessity, carried out within the confines of the village, though couples often managed to meet “by accident” when the girl was gathering wood or water. Still, it was not safe for a couple to venture far from the protection of the tribe, nor did most mothers allow their daughters to wander away without a chaperone. To that end, when a young man went courting, he took a big blanket with him. Standing beside the girl of his choice, he lifted the blanket over their heads, cocooning them in a cloth world away from prying eyes. If a girl were very popular, there might be as many as a dozen young men waiting to spend a few minutes alone with her.

  He wondered if anyone was courting the Bryants’ daughter. He closed his eyes and her image came quickly to mind—a body as slender as a willow, brown hair so dark it was almost black, eyes as blue as a robin’s egg beneath delicately arched brows, a fine straight nose, lips that were pink and…

  A sha
rp stab of desire twisted through him. Muttering an oath, he shoved her image aside. Pretty or ugly, it didn’t matter. He had ten thousand good reasons to get her back home as soon as possible. Her father’s offer couldn’t have come at a better time.

  * * * * *

  Winter Rain smiled into the darkness as the notes of Strong Elk’s flute wafted through the night air. She had met him earlier that evening in front of her mother’s lodge and they had stood together under a big red courting blanket. Huddled together, the blanket had given them a measure of privacy, though Winter Rain was well aware that her mother was nearby.

  Now, lying in her bed, she felt a little thrill of excitement. He had been courting her openly for several months. In time, he would bring her father many horses. If she fed them, it would mean she agreed to be his wife. She found it odd that the thought of being courted was more exciting than the idea of being married to Strong Elk and wondered if all maidens felt that way. She thought of the stranger she had seen ride into the village that afternoon. Hi stark image swept all thought of Strong Elk from her mind. There was something about the stranger, something that called to her. She had never spoken to him, did not know his name, yet just thinking about him made her heart beat faster, made her wonder what it would be like to be held in his arms…

  She frowned, confused by her chaotic emotions. She was fond of Strong Elk. She had imagined herself falling in love with him, but he did not stir any deep feelings within her.

  She rolled over onto her stomach and closed her eyes. Unbidden, the stranger’s image again sprang to the forefront of her mind. He was a tall man, perhaps even taller even than her father. And more handsome than Strong Elk. He moved with a fluid grace that made her think of a mountain lion hunting its prey. She didn’t remember seeing him before and she wondered who he was and why he was here. He had gone to visit Kills-Like-a-Hawk. Were they friends? Relatives, perhaps? How long would he be here? Perhaps Strong Elk or her father would know who the stranger was and where he came from.