shoulder-length blonde hair and peaceful blue eyes.
Melinda. He knew part of the reason she was so enamored of him was because of his Cheyenne blood. His ancestry fascinated her, and she often teasingly referred to him as her handsome savage, especially when they were alone in his apartment, curled up on the rug in front of the fireplace. There was no derision in her voice when she called him a hot-blooded heathen, only a kind of curious excitement, stirred, perhaps, by the distant memory that, in another time and place, he would have been forbidden to her.
He chuckled softly, wondering what Melinda would think of him if she could see him clad in fringed buckskin leggings and moccasins instead of a sharp three-piece suit and hundred-dollar boots. Would she still find him fascinating? He knew instinctively that she would be repelled, and the thought made him angry.
At dusk he made his way into the timber, walking deep into the shadowy forest until he could no longer hear the sounds of the village. There, alone, he lifted his arms toward heaven. He had prayed himself into this mess, he mused with a wry grin, perhaps he could pray himself out.
Head thrown back, eyes closed, he prayed to Heammawihio, asking the Great Spirit to send him back where he belonged. He prayed fervently, heedless of the cool wind that blew down out of the north, unmindful of the growing ache in his wounded shoulder.
The moon rose high in the sky, and still he prayed, but no vision appeared to him, no spoken words broke the stillness of the night. Instead, a gentle peace dropped over him, like the touch of loving arms, and a quiet voice whispered in the back of his mind, assuring him that he was where he was meant to be.
With a low groan, he lowered his arms and sank down on the ground.
And again he heard that faint inner voice.
You are where you were meant to be.
Chapter Nine
That evening after dinner Michael asked Winter Song if Mo’ohta-vo’nehe was a member of the tribe.
The girl’s mouth dropped open and she clapped her hand over it as her eyes widened. “Yellow Spotted Wolf!” she exclaimed. “That is who you remind me of. Are you related? You look much like him.”
“He is my…my cousin.”
Winter Song jumped to her feet. “I will get him for you,” she said, and ran out of the lodge.
She returned minutes later, followed by four Indians. Michael recognized Yellow Spotted Wolf immediately. They did, indeed, look very much alike. At sixteen, Yellow Spotted Wolf was tall and broad-shouldered. He wore his long black hair in two thin braids in front and loose down his back. A single white eagle feather adorned his hair, a necklace of shells and turquoise circled his throat, a wide copper band hugged his right biceps.
“I am Mo’ohta-vo’nehe,” said the tall warrior standing beside Yellow Spotted Wolf. “Winter Song tells me that you and I are related.”
“We are distant relatives,” Michael said. “I have come a long way to find you.”
Mo’ohta-vo’nehe lifted one thick black brow. “How are we related? Who are your people?”
“It is difficult to explain,” Michael replied, wishing he dared tell them the truth. “My name is Wolf, and I am related to your family by blood. More than that I cannot tell you.”
Mo’ohta-vo’nehe pondered that for a moment. He had no doubt that the man called Wolf was related to him. The resemblance between the stranger and Yellow Spotted Wolf was too remarkable to be coincidence.
“If what you say is true, what do you want of me?” Mo’ohta-vo’nehe asked.
“I need shelter until I can build a lodge of my own. I was raised a long way from here, and it is my desire to return to my people, to learn their ways.”
“You are welcome here, Wolf,” Mo’ohta-vo’nehe decided. “You will stay with us as long as you wish.” He nodded to the woman standing on his right. “This is my wife, Hemene, and these are my sons, Yellow Spotted Wolf and Badger.”
Michael
Melinda. He knew part of the reason she was so enamored of him was because of his Cheyenne blood. His ancestry fascinated her, and she often teasingly referred to him as her handsome savage, especially when they were alone in his apartment, curled up on the rug in front of the fireplace. There was no derision in her voice when she called him a hot-blooded heathen, only a kind of curious excitement, stirred, perhaps, by the distant memory that, in another time and place, he would have been forbidden to her.
He chuckled softly, wondering what Melinda would think of him if she could see him clad in fringed buckskin leggings and moccasins instead of a sharp three-piece suit and hundred-dollar boots. Would she still find him fascinating? He knew instinctively that she would be repelled, and the thought made him angry.
At dusk he made his way into the timber, walking deep into the shadowy forest until he could no longer hear the sounds of the village. There, alone, he lifted his arms toward heaven. He had prayed himself into this mess, he mused with a wry grin, perhaps he could pray himself out.
Head thrown back, eyes closed, he prayed to Heammawihio, asking the Great Spirit to send him back where he belonged. He prayed fervently, heedless of the cool wind that blew down out of the north, unmindful of the growing ache in his wounded shoulder.
The moon rose high in the sky, and still he prayed, but no vision appeared to him, no spoken words broke the stillness of the night. Instead, a gentle peace dropped over him, like the touch of loving arms, and a quiet voice whispered in the back of his mind, assuring him that he was where he was meant to be.
With a low groan, he lowered his arms and sank down on the ground.
And again he heard that faint inner voice.
You are where you were meant to be.
Chapter Nine
That evening after dinner Michael asked Winter Song if Mo’ohta-vo’nehe was a member of the tribe.
The girl’s mouth dropped open and she clapped her hand over it as her eyes widened. “Yellow Spotted Wolf!” she exclaimed. “That is who you remind me of. Are you related? You look much like him.”
“He is my…my cousin.”
Winter Song jumped to her feet. “I will get him for you,” she said, and ran out of the lodge.
She returned minutes later, followed by four Indians. Michael recognized Yellow Spotted Wolf immediately. They did, indeed, look very much alike. At sixteen, Yellow Spotted Wolf was tall and broad-shouldered. He wore his long black hair in two thin braids in front and loose down his back. A single white eagle feather adorned his hair, a necklace of shells and turquoise circled his throat, a wide copper band hugged his right biceps.
“I am Mo’ohta-vo’nehe,” said the tall warrior standing beside Yellow Spotted Wolf. “Winter Song tells me that you and I are related.”
“We are distant relatives,” Michael said. “I have come a long way to find you.”
Mo’ohta-vo’nehe lifted one thick black brow. “How are we related? Who are your people?”
“It is difficult to explain,” Michael replied, wishing he dared tell them the truth. “My name is Wolf, and I am related to your family by blood. More than that I cannot tell you.”
Mo’ohta-vo’nehe pondered that for a moment. He had no doubt that the man called Wolf was related to him. The resemblance between the stranger and Yellow Spotted Wolf was too remarkable to be coincidence.
“If what you say is true, what do you want of me?” Mo’ohta-vo’nehe asked.
“I need shelter until I can build a lodge of my own. I was raised a long way from here, and it is my desire to return to my people, to learn their ways.”
“You are welcome here, Wolf,” Mo’ohta-vo’nehe decided. “You will stay with us as long as you wish.” He nodded to the woman standing on his right. “This is my wife, Hemene, and these are my sons, Yellow Spotted Wolf and Badger.”
Michael
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