Spirit's Song Read Free Page A

lived with the Cheyenne for the rest of her life, she would never truly understand them. And yet, for the first time since her captivity, she felt herself wanting to know more. What did the dancers hope to gain by submitting themselves to such torture? What did Yellow Thunder hope to gain?
    She noticed that his hands and feet had been painted red and blue; stripes were painted across his broad shoulders. He wore a long red kilt. There were bands of rabbit fur on his arms and ankles.
    The drumming engulfed her like a living thing. The sound made the hair rise along her arms. She felt its power surround her, felt it go deep into the heart of the earth, felt the beat of it in the soles of her feet.
    The sun rose higher. Oblivious to the perspiration trickling down her back, oblivious to everything and everyone but the scar-faced man, she watched him dance. Body sheened with sweat, muscles taut with pain, he moved forward and back with unconscious grace as he tugged against the rawhide thong that bound him like an umbilical cord to the sacred tree. It was barbaric. It was beautiful.
    Once, his gaze found hers, and she felt again that surge of recognition. The drumming faded. The light of the sun bathed him in a golden glow, making him look otherworldly somehow. He was a lonely man, she thought. A dangerous man. With a shiver, she turned away.
    She gathered wood for the evening fire, she walked down to the river for water, but no matter where she went, the drumming followed her, as did the image of the scar-faced man, until she was again drawn back to the sacred circle.
    Night had fallen by the time all the dancers freed themselves. One of the men needed assistance from his relatives before he could tear himself free; another fainted so that a friend had to come forward and remove the skewers from his chest.
    The scar-faced man required no help. Head high, chest bloodied, body sheened with sweat, he gave one final pull against the thongs and freed himself from the Sun Dance pole. He stood there for a moment, his expression victorious, and then, head hanging, he dropped to his knees.
    Kaylynn stared at him, overcome by a sudden inexplicable urge to go to him, to wipe the perspiration from his brow, to gather him into her arms and ease his pain.
    As though feeling her gaze, he looked up, his dark eyes filled with pain and triumph.
    She smiled uncertainly, and turned away, conscious of his gaze on her back.
     

 
    Chapter Three
     
    Alan Summers sat at his desk, fingertips drumming impatiently on the arm of his chair as he regarded the detective standing in front of him.
    “What do you mean you can’t find her, McCarthy? It’s been eight months! She can’t have vanished without a trace.”
    “I’m sorry, sir.”
    “You’re keeping an eye on the house?”
    “Yes sir, round the clock, just as you ordered.”
    “You’re certain she’s not there?”
    “Yes sir, quite certain.”
    “And she hasn’t contacted them?” Neither had he. He couldn’t bring himself to write her parents, asking if his wife, his wife, dammit , had shown up on their doorstep crying for her mother.
    “No sir. I have someone inside the house checking the mail, both incoming and outgoing.”
    “And you feel you can trust this person?”
    “Yes sir. It’s one of the maids. I offered her a rather large sum. She assures me there has been no letter from Mrs. Summers.”
    “Very well. Keep looking. Tell your men there will be a bonus for the one who finds her.”
    “Yes sir.” With a bow, Amos McCarthy turned and left the office.
    Alan stared after him, his eyes narrowed. Eight months, and no trace of her. He had expected her to run home to New York, but if McCarthy was to be believed, and there was no reason to doubt the man, she wasn’t there. So, where had she gone?
    “Why don’t you just forget about her?”
    “Forget?” Alan whirled around, his gaze resting on the woman sitting in the chair in the corner. “Forget?”
    “You don’t