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  WHITE WARRIOR’S WOMAN

  Rand swept Kimi off her feet and into his arms. “You are mine and I will have you. I have thought of nothing else since last night.”

  She opened her mouth to say she was not yet ready to leave the dancing, but his lips covered hers, making her tremble.

  He smiled ever so slightly. “You want me, too.” With that, he carried her through the camp and into his lodge.

  “Oh, Hinzi, are you sure?” she asked. “Are you sure you want to stay among the Lakota?”

  “I only know that I want you. I can think no further than that. Tomorrow must take care of itself. Still, I have never known such freedom,” he whispered. “To live as a warrior without the restraints of civilization, wild and free. This is what every white man secretly dreams of.”

  She looked at him, so tall and virile. He was what every woman dreamed of, she thought. To be carried off by him and pleasured without thought of anything but the ecstasy and the passion . . .

  GEORGINA GENTRY

  SIOUX SLAVE

  ZEBRA BOOKS

  KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  WHITE WARRIOR’S WOMAN

  Title Page

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  To My Readers

  Copyright Page

  Prologue

  1864. A year of bloody Indian wars on the Plains. As the Civil War dragged on, even the warriors realized that the bluecoat soldiers were having difficulty defending the wild frontier country. There weren’t enough Union soldiers to send against the South and fight Indians, too.

  Faced with this reality, Northern leaders made a tough choice as they looked at all the Johnny Rebs languishing and dying of disease in army prisons. Were these former enemies desperate enough to volunteer to join the Union army and go West to fight Indians? Six thousand of them said yes. History refers to these Confederates who donned blue uniforms as “Galvanized Yankees.”

  Imprisoned in the grim Union stockade called Point Lookout was a handsome, wealthy Kentuckian named Rand Erikson. Perhaps if the arrogant lieutenant had known what he was in for against the fierce warriors of the Seven Council Fires of the Teton Sioux, he might have chosen to stay in the Yankee prison camp. As it was, to escape the hellhole, he joined up. . . .

  One

  Early Spring, 1865

  Dakota Territory

  Today she was to wed the warrior, Mato, but Kimimila did not love him. No matter: at least now there would be meat in the lodge and her elderly mother would be well cared for.

  In her tipi, Kimi sighed as she brushed her long black hair, holding the porcupine tail comb with her left hand. She listened to the drums and singing drifting through the camp. Her father had accepted the many ponies before he was killed in the last war party against their enemy the Crow. Kimi had voiced no objections, because Mato was a good hunter and her parents were old and had no other children to look after them.

  Kimi reached for the bright ribbon from the trader to twist into her braids and pulled on the soft, beaded doeskin shift. She traced the outline of her spirit animal, the butterfly, in the beadwork. Kimimila. It meant “butterfly” in the Lakota language of the Seven Council Fires of the Teton Sioux.

  Tonight she would be back in this lodge on the soft buffalo robes with the burly warrior called Mato: the Bear. She thought with regret how much older than she Mato was. Other warriors had made offers, but Mato was her father’s friend. And the ironic thing was, all the wealth of her ponies was gone. The hated wasicu, the white soldiers, had run them off months ago.

  She hummed her spirit song absently, wondering what else she could do to delay, even as Wagnuka, (whose name meant “Woodpecker”) stuck her wrinkled face through the tipi flap. “Daughter, why are you so slow? The whole camp has already begun feasting and dancing.”

  Did she dare say she didn’t want to go through with the marriage? No, she shook her head and steeled herself. Her family’s honor was at stake, and besides, she and her mother had no male relatives to hunt for them. Mato’s family had died of the white man’s spotted disease the last time it had swept through the Plains like mounted death. It could be worse; she could be a second wife in some warrior’s lodge.

  “I am ready,” she said dutifully in Lakota and stepped outside. Although Wi, the sun, shone brightly, Tate, the wind, made the early spring day seem cool.

  Across the circle of the camp fire, she saw Mato waiting, his homely face smiling as he saw her. The people surrounded her, teasing her, remarking what a great warrior he was, the women wishing her many children to replace the family Mato had lost. Everywhere in the Sihasapas camp, small children ran about laughing and playing, sniffing the good smells from the big kettles, knowing that today there would be feasting and dancing. There was no formal wedding ceremony among her people, but Mato had decided today would be a good time, since yesterday’s hunt had been successful and there was plenty of food.

  Mato. He looked like a bear, all right. If only he weren’t so paunchy and almost old enough to be her father. She wished now that one of the younger warriors had been rich enough to offer more ponies. Her heart pounding with nervous dread at what she knew would come later today when the two were alone, Kimi forced herself to return his smile. For just a moment she glanced over at her mother and caught an expression that seemed uncertain and troubled. Had Wagnuka guessed her feelings? Was she wishing that there were another man for her only surviving child? Kimi was eighteen winters old, past time to be wed.

  Kimi hardly remembered the festivities except sitting next to Mato and the way he ate huge bowls of food, the grease of the hot meat smearing his hands and broad, ugly face. He also had a bottle of the white man’s firewater that he had gotten from a fur trader. Whiskey. The whites had brought more trouble with them than just the Long Knives with their new forts.

  Time passed. Kimi pretended not to see him glancing sideways at her, hoping to catch her eye so he could signal that they should sneak away to their tipi. He belched loudly and put one greasy hand on her knee.

  Others noticed and nudged each other, the men exchanging knowing looks, the women giggling modestly behind their hands. Kimi felt the blood rush to her face, but she took a deep breath of the scent of burning brush from the big fire and pretended to watch the dancers. She intended to put this off as long as possible.

  Even her mother was beginning to appear slightly embarrassed that her daughter still sat by the fire although drunken Mato had grown more bold with his hints. If they didn’t leave the celebration soon, Kimi would humiliate her mother. As a dutiful daughter, she must make the next step now. Her legs felt almost wooden under her as she rose.

  Her man stumbled to his feet and followed her to the new lodge near her mother’s. Inside the light was dim.

  “Woman, today you will begin making a fine son for me.” Mato belched and rubbed his hand across his greasy mouth before he took off his finely decorated shirt. He smelled of old fat and smoke from a hundred camp fires.

  She stared at his bare chest, thinking how much more brown his skin was than hers. No words of love or tenderness, she thought, her mouth dry,
her heart sinking. To the warrior, she was only a mare to be bred, and he was the stallion. What was it she had yearned for? She wasn’t even sure. Not that the plain, heavy man hadn’t been honest with Kimi. Mato had lost a whole family of children, and he expected her to replace them for him as rapidly as possible.

  Now he hesitated, obviously waiting. She reached up to untie the drawstrings of her fine, soft doeskin, but her hands trembled so much that she couldn’t seem to untie it.

  He smiled. “It is good that a maiden be modest the first time her man sees her body.”

  Was it that? Kimi swallowed hard. There had been troubled nights when she had dreamed of a young man’s muscular, virile body warm against her own, his hot hands on her breasts and thighs, his wet mouth claiming hers.

  Mato made a sound of impatience, reached out, took the strings from her fumbling hands, and untied it. Slowly the dress dropped to the ground, leaving her standing there naked, except for the medicine object hanging between her full breasts.

  His expression changed and his eyes swept over her hungrily. He nodded approvingly. “Your skin is so light and soft,” he whispered, and his hands cupped her bare shoulders. “You are worth any gift a man would give to have you in his blankets, Kimimila.” His breath smelled sour with white man’s whiskey and she drew back.

  “No, you have put me off long enough, even for a shy bride.” His voice sounded tense with lustful wanting, and he dug his fingers into her bare shoulders, pulling her closer. “I have lost all my family, but you are young; you will give me many fine sons. Perhaps instead of my dark skin, they will favor their mother, maybe even with eyes like hers.”

  He pulled her up against him. Kimi felt the hard maleness through his breechcloth against her bare body, and she couldn’t control her trembling.

  Mato laughed and hiccoughed. “Enough of this maidenly modesty. I intend to mount you continually until your ripe body swells with my child. I am not as young as some of the other braves, so I cannot humor you too long. By the time of deep snows, you will give me a son. This, your old father, Ptan, my friend, would expect from you.”

  Yes, of course she must do this because it was as her old father Ptan (“Otter”) wanted. A Sioux woman could divorce her husband, maybe she might have even refused to marry her father’s friend, but she felt her family’s honor was at stake since she couldn’t return the ponies. Besides, at the moment Kimi didn’t see any better alternatives. Mato was a good hunter. She and her mother would be well fed.

  Reminding herself of this, Kimi forced herself to relax against his bare chest as they stood there, his arms going around her roughly. His greasy hands felt hot on her bare back. She closed her eyes, wishing he were young and virile and that this first time was already over. Yet how different would it be with any other man? As a woman, she was not expected to do anything, she thought, except be there as the receptacle for his seed.

  Her breasts felt crushed against his bare, brown chest as he held her against him, his mouth hot on her neck. Relax and let it happen, she reprimanded herself, but deep inside, some little independent part of her resisted.

  “I have been waiting a long time to make you mine, Kimi.” His hands stroked her bare back.

  From outside, there was sudden noise and confusion: the sounds of a horse galloping into camp, a warrior shouting, people yelling questions, dogs barking.

  Mato pulled away from her and turned toward the racket, muttering, “What is happening?”

  Kimi drew a sigh of relief that she had been given a short reprieve before this brave took that to which he was now entitled. “Had you better go see?”

  The shouting outside continued. Mato frowned, listening to the Lakota words. “Something about a bluecoat patrol. Perhaps I had better find out.”

  Turning, he picked up his buckskin shirt and pulled it on even as Kimi crossed her arms over her full breasts.

  He grinned. “Later tonight we will continue and there is not an inch of you that my body and mouth won’t know, so do not be so shy before me.” He reached for his weapons. “For now, I had better see what this trouble with the wasicu is about.”

  Mato strode through the tipi flap as she breathed a little prayer of thanks to Wakan Tanka, and reached for her dress. Trouble with the bluecoats had slowed over the long cold winter as the snow fell across the desolate plains and the sacred Pa Sapa the whites called the Black Hills to the south. A war party might count coup or steal a few horses from the Long Knives patrol, but the main thing was to make sure the soldiers didn’t find the camp.

  Kimi dressed and went outside to stand by her mother. Already in the spring afternoon warriors were painting themselves and their ponies, readying their weapons. Mato galloped up, weaving slightly on the back of his pinto pony.

  An old man protested. “I feel uneasy about this war party. There has not been proper time given to making medicine.”

  Mato smiled and caused his mount to rear, its china eyes rolling as it danced and snorted. Red paint handprints on its white shoulders signified that its owner had killed an enemy in hand-to-hand combat. Mato himself wore a warbonnet with trailing eagle feathers, each one showing a brave deed or coup counted. He had changed into a buckskin shirt decorated with enemy hair.

  Wagnuka’s old face furrowed with worry as she glanced at her daughter. “White soldiers always are looking for young women to steal and carry back to their fort to amuse themselves. Perhaps they come looking for Kimimila.”

  One of the other warriors shook his head. “I think they seek nothing in particular,” he said in Lakota. “Long Knives forever go on patrols. They just wander in circles unable to follow the track of even a big buffalo herd.”

  Mato held up his rifle reassuringly. “My woman need not be afraid; Sioux warriors will not let the soldiers find this camp, rape and burn and kill as they did our Cheyenne brothers at Sand Creek last winter. We will die rather than allow that to happen to our people!”

  The other braves set up a yelp of agreement.

  One Eye, Mato’s friend, frowned. He, too, was a Shirt Wearer. One Eye might have been handsome except that he had lost the sight in his right eye fighting the Crow enemy, and now wore a patch over it made from a scrap of red blanket. “Mato, my friend, since you have just taken a bride, you have no obligation to go on this war party.”

  The Bear laughed in drunken derision. “I should stay and enjoy a woman, safe in my blankets while my friends gain honors and count coup on the wasicu? There will be horses to steal, scalps to take.” He grinned drunkenly at Kimi. “Should I go, woman?”

  Kimi hesitated, dreading that time when he would take her virginity. “Do whatever your heart tells you to do.”

  Mato nodded with pleased approval. “Spoken like a proper wife. There will be many coup to count today and war honors to relate around the fires by our sons.” He wheeled his horse around. “Kimi, I will bring you back some shiny brass buttons, some blue cloth to decorate yourself with.”

  Even then Kimi thought if she begged him not to go, her new husband might change his mind about accompanying the war party. She hesitated. Mato was stubborn. Perhaps he would not listen anyway to a mere woman while his thoughts were on war honors and fresh scalps to show off at a victory celebration. Already they were hearing reports of the coups counted by warriors such as Crazy Horse, Sitting Bull, and Red Cloud among the other clans of the Teton Sioux. Kimi pushed her misgivings from her mind. Countless times she had watched her father ride out with the war parties. The Seven Council Fires of the Teton Sioux had many enemies. They had fought against the Snakes, the ’Rees, the Crow and the Pawnee who raided and killed her people at every opportunity.

  Years ago their enemies had begun to scout for the white wagon trains that crossed the prairies, and finally for the soldiers who seemed to push farther and farther into the sacred hills of the Pa Sapa and the buffalo country that belonged to the mighty Sioux by right of conquest.

  The women and children gathered to watch as the war party
rode out, cheered on by old men too feeble to ride the war trail anymore and young boys who had not yet become men. The women made the trilling sound to encourage the warriors and sent them galloping out of camp.

  “Wakan Tanka nici un,” she whispered in Lakota. Good-bye and may the Great Spirit go with you and guide you. Kimi stared after them a long moment, feeling both proud that her man was one of the bravest of the warriors, even though he was not as young as some of the others. Yet her pride was mixed with relief and then guilt that it would postpone that time before Mato took her virginity and really made her his woman.

  The women broke up into little groups, talking of past war parties and booty that had been theirs. This evening when the warriors returned, there would be much feasting and gathering around the fire while the braves recounted each coup and happening. Old warriors then would tell of past glorious times when the Sioux were the undisputed rulers of the Plains; when they and their allies, the Cheyenne and the Arapaho, the Comanche and Kiowa, controlled the whole prairie from the Land of the Grandmother the whites called Canada to the Rio Grande of the Mexicans. Not so long ago, enemies trembled at the mere mention of their names. Now their enemies rode boldly for the gold of the white soldiers who had invaded Sioux domain and acted as if they might even dare to stay permanently, although the white chiefs denied it.

  Absently humming her spirit song, Kimi reached up to touch the small fetish hanging between her breasts. Her mother had never told her where she had gotten it, but it must possess powerful spirit magic because it was such shiny metal like Wakan Tanka’s own sun, Wi.

  There was always work to do in the camp, and Kimi tried to help women burdened with children or old people too frail to dry meat or scrape a hide. She went about her chores and looked forward to the evening’s victory celebration, even if it must be followed by Mato’s thick body lying on her small one. Perhaps if she closed her eyes when he took her, she could pretend he was the strong, virile warrior of her troubled dreams.