Witch Dance by Peggy Webb

tell.
     o0o
    The scream that ripped the air was pure rage.
    Eagle’s head came up as the sound tore through the morning once more. It was a woman’s voice . . . coming from the direction of the clinic.
    With water dripping from his face and shoulders, Eagle rose from the river’s edge and raced toward his campsite, whistling for his stallion. His mount thundered toward him, and Eagle vaulted onto his back while the horse was still in motion.
    Wind dried the river water from his skin and ruffled his hair as he tore across the plains toward the clinic. He came upon it suddenly—the wanton devastation. What had once been a wall was now a heap of junk lumber, splintered and broken, with the sharp ends of nails glinting in the sun.
    Kate Malone stood in the midst of the rubble, slinging broken boards with the force of a woman twice her size. Spots of anger rouged her cheeks.
    “No . . . dammit . . . no! I won’t quit!”
    “Kate. What happened?” Eagle bolted from his horse.
    “Look at this. The cowards!” She prowled through the debris like an angry lioness, kicking at everything in her path. Her hair was loose and disheveled, as if she’d just arisen from bed. “They came in the night and did this.”
    She hefted a board, and a nail tore her tender skin from wrist to elbow. She was so mad, she didn’t even notice.
    Anger seared through Eagle. Not only had his people reduced Kate’s dreams to a pile of rubble, but they had caused her harm. He reached for the board, but Kate pulled away.
    “I want to help,”
    “I can do this myself. I don’t need you.”
    “You’re in shock. Let me see about your wound.”
    “I don’t need you or any of your people.”
    With the swiftness of his namesake, Eagle captured her wrists and moved in on her, moved so close, their thighs touched, touched and retreated, then touched once more, trembling.
    Long-held codes crumbled and resolve went spinning away like a tumbleweed before the wind. The temptation he’d avoided for twelve years was standing before him . . . and he had no place to run.
    Nor did he want to. Kate was like new wine in his blood: He was drunk with her.
    In one easy movement he wrested the board from her hand and cupped her face.
    “You need me, Kate.”
    “No,” she whispered. “I don’t need you.”
    “Yes . . .” He tangled his hands in her hair and with great deliberation pulled her close, so close he could see the tiny bursts of gold in the center of her eyes. Green eyes. Green eyes and clear skin that would burn easily in the sun, pale skin that would never have the rich copper tint of the Chickasaw.
    None of it mattered now. Fate had sent her to him, and fate would not be denied.
    He leaned down so that their lips were almost touching.
    “You need me as much as I need you,” he said.
    And Kate knew he spoke the truth.
    How much longer could she be brave with her dreams in rubble and this magnificent man seducing her in a voice that would make angels abandon their halos? He shone, golden and delicious, with the sun caught in droplets of moisture clinging to his bare chest.
    Kate longed to lick them away one by one. She knew how his skin would taste, warm and musky as sin.
    Her bones melted, and she leaned toward him, her vision forgotten in her quest to merge with the mighty Eagle, to be folded under him, to soar with him in swift splendor toward the heavens. A small sigh escaped her lips, and she breathed deeply.
    Even the air was sweeter because he was a part of it.
    “No,” she said again, but she knew her protest was weak.
    His laughter was pure seduction, wicked and knowing.
    “Another time, another place, Wictonaye , and all your denials will vanish like wisps of smoke in a firestorm.” He took her hand and led her to a clearing. “Come. I will tend your wounds.”
    She would have followed him to the gates of hell. No, through the very gates and into the inferno itself.
    Even the suggestion that he tend her wounds was somehow