Sweet Prairie Passion (Savage Destiny) by Rosanne Bittner

wondered what kind of memories he’d sleep with that night, and how long it had been since he’d lost his family. She watched him until she couldn’t see him anymore, and then when she turned to go to the wagon, the preacher was standing there. Her heart jumped with fear at the look in his eyes.
    “You’d best not set your eyes on that heathen, Miss Trent!” the man told her sternly. “If that one gets you alone, you’ll lose your virginity and your honor—and your place in heaven! No matter that he saved you this day. Ask yourself what he saved you for! It’s for himself! And he’ll take your sister and whatever other women he can violate! Mark my words!”
    Abbie glared back at him angrily. “My woman’s intuition tells me you’re the one to watch out for, Preacher Graydon!” she spat back at him. “You sneak up on me like that again and say those dirty things, and I’ll have Cheyenne Zeke split you up the middle! I reckon he’d enjoy it!”
    She stalked off to her wagon, hiding her fear of the cold and stony preacher but feeling his eyes on her. The preacher thought hungrily about the twelve-year-old girl from his former congregation—the one whomhe had seduced and “cleansed” in a moment of weakness. He had barely gotten out of town with his life when the deed had been discovered. But the delicious time he’d had with her had been worth the risk, and he was certain God would forgive him for his one and only weakness. He would just be careful from now on. It would be much easier preaching to the ignorant Indians. He could “cleanse” all the young Indian maidens, and God would not blame him a bit. After all, they were worthless heathens, and of no use to God whatsoever. At least if they bedded with a man of God, they might have a slight chance of being saved.

Three
    Abbie went all out on breakfast, hoping to show Zeke just what a good cook she was. She was secretly proud when he complimented the homemade biscuits and good coffee, mentioning that he didn’t often taste that kind of cooking.
    “Mostly I eat pemmican and jerky, and whatever fresh berries I can find or fresh meat I can kill,” he commented, sipping a third cup of coffee on a full stomach.
    “What’s pemmican?” Abbie asked, taking his empty plate.
    “Oh, it’s a kind of dried food the Cheyenne make. It can be pulverized. Dried meat, sometimes berries, or both mixed together with melted fat and bone marrow. It keeps good, and tastes better than it sounds.”
    “Do you live just like an Indian when you’re with them … I mean, in a tipi and all?” she asked cautiously. Their eyes held a moment, and he knew what the woman-child was thinking.
    “Yes, ma’am,” he replied. “Just like an Indian. It’snot an easy life for one not born to it. I was born to it. Lived away from it for a long time, but got back to it real easy. Guess it’s in my blood. I learned to eat light from living with them. You don’t find too many fat Indians, Miss Abbie. Life is real hard out there. Real hard. And since the white man started coming out, there’s been a lot of disease.”
    She wanted desperately to ask him if he had a woman back with his people, but that would be far too bold. Zeke rose.
    “Thank you again for the meal. It was real good—like being back home eating my stepmother’s cooking in Tennessee.”
    “Don’t you miss Tennessee?” she asked.
    The pain returned to his eyes, and behind that she could see a flash of vengeance. “No, ma’am,” he replied. “You’d best clean up camp now. We have to leave.” He shook hands with Abbie’s father and walked off, followed by little Jeremy, who began peppering him with questions about Indians. Zeke answered them patiently as Abbie watched him walk toward his horse, a tall, dark, provocative man who had left so many unanswered questions in her mind. She liked the way he walked, with long, graceful strides. They accentuated his slim hips and broad shoulders, and the fringe of