Wind Warrior (Historical Romance) Read Online Free PDF Page A

sorrymy husband had to go out on patrol and couldn’t attend the picnic. Now I’m happy he wasn’t there or he’d…probably be dead.”
    Marianna saw blood was dripping into Susan’s eyes and fumbled with her one good arm to tear a strip from her petticoat. “Let me help you.” She dabbed at the blood. “I could do this better if I had water.”
    Susan looked at Marianna with gratitude and with pity. “I can see that your arm’s broken. You’re the one who needs help.” Susan ripped a wide strip from the bottom of her own petticoat and fashioned a sling, quickly helping Marianna slip her arm into it and tying it about her neck. “Try to keep your arm close to your body. It’ll hurt less that way.”
    Lillian was shaking so badly, she could hardly speak. Clutching Susan’s hand, she started weeping. “We’re as good as dead.” Her sobs rose to a high-pitched wail. “I want my ma and pa. But Ma’s dead and maybe Pa is too.”
    “Stop it!” Marianna warned Lillian, noticing she was drawing the attention of several of the Indians. “They’ll hurt you if you carry on like this.”
    There was no time to say anything more because the Indians were beginning to mount their horses. The one who’d captured Marianna mounted his horse and reached down, pulling her on behind him.
    Riding behind the man made Marianna shiver with revulsion, especially since she had to slide her good arm around his waist to keep from falling. The jostling of the horse made her head ache more, and her arm throbbed so much she could hardly standthe pain. Marianna dared not complain—she had learned that her captor retaliated swiftly and mercilessly.
    She saw Lillian just ahead of her, and Susan was riding behind another Indian a few horses back. If only they could rest for a while, maybe her arm would stop throbbing.
    But the Indians rode on, rarely pausing to rest the horses. Marianna finally reached the point where she could no longer hold her head up. Despite her dislike for the Indian, she was forced to lean her head against his shoulder.
    Dull Knife was pleased that the raid had gone so well. There was no chance that the white soldiers would be able to catch up to them; still, he issued the order for Wild Feather to backtrack to make certain they’d left no trail.
    He nudged his horse forward. Glancing at the now overcast sky, Dull Knife smiled. Everything had gone in his favor—it would rain before the day was over, washing away any tracks they might leave behind.
    Looking down at the small grimy hand clutching his side, he knew the white girl hated touching him, and he found satisfaction that she was forced to bend to his will. If a man did not mind her strange yellow hair, or her odd green eyes, she looked well enough. The important thing was that she was about the age of the chief’s dead daughter. If Broken Lance chose to take this child, he might feel indebted to Dull Knife, and that was just what Dull Knife intended.
    The hand that clutched his side trembled and he heard the young girl sigh. She was in pain; he knew that. But so far she had not given him much trouble. If she did, he would see that she regretted it.
    Charging Bull rode beside Dull Knife, respect in his gaze. Most of the warriors admired Dull Knife for his bravery, though several of them had voiced their disapproval of how harshly he had treated his young captive. But what did he care what they thought, as long as they followed his orders?
    After a moment Charging Bull spoke. “What will you do with the yellow hair?”
    Turning his dark gaze on the warrior, Dull Knife glared at him. “I have not yet decided. But why should you care?”
    “I would buy her from you.”
    Dull Knife’s eyes narrowed. “No. I will offer her to the chief and his woman.”
    Charging Bull tightened the reins to control his spirited mount. “What about the older one?” He nodded at Susan. “What of her?”
    Dull Knife turned to glance back at his second captive. “She is