Free Elaine Barbieri by Miranda the Warrior Page B

but despite her exhaustion, Miranda had no inclination to sleep. Partially responsible, she was certain, was the mouth-watering aroma rising from the prairie chicken that Shadow Walker had brought back from the hunt earlier, and the responsive gurgling of her stomach.
    Uncertain whether she had simply been hesitant to walk on the sandy soil after her painful efforts to remove every particle of dirt from her badly cut feet, or whether she had not yet been ready to face the confrontation that another night around the campfire would bring, she had still been sitting at the edge of the stream when Shadow Walker returned. Realizing she might have dozed, she could recall only looking up suddenly to see Shadow Walker standing over her. Before she could say a word, he had swung her up into his arms and deposited her on a blanket beside a campfire that was already blazing. On the blanket lay a large piece of jerky.
    She had eaten the jerky without a word of inquiry or thanks while watching Shadow Walker work silently around the camp—preparing the fowl for cooking, settlingthe horses for the night, replenishing the water sacks, all with a soundless step that seemed somehow unnatural for a man of his powerful size.
    But Shadow Walker had finished his chores, and the remote, safe distance that had been established during the silence disappeared when Shadow Walker started directly toward her.
    Miranda’s heart was pounding when Shadow Walker crouched beside her. His sober face was level with hers, allowing her a rare moment to study the clear, pure symmetry of features that were sharp and strong before he removed a pouch from his belt, then took one of her bruised feet into his hands.
    Miranda attempted to jerk back her foot, but Shadow Walker held it fast as she demanded, “What are you doing?”
    Shadow Walker looked up at her briefly, his dark eyes void of anger. Maintaining his silence, he examined her foot before dipping his finger into the pouch to spread a clear salve on the lacerated skin.
    Relief was instantaneous.
    In response to her silent question, Shadow Walker responded, “This medicine was prepared by Running Elk, whose knowledge of healing is well known.”
    Miranda made no attempt to keep the anger from her tone when she replied, “First you cause the injury, then you try to heal it. That doesn’t make sense to me.”
    “You are mistaken. I did not cause these wounds.”
    “Didn’t you? It wasn’t my idea to walk for miles in the wilderness with bare feet.”
    “You were warned.”
    “I was
threatened,
not warned.”
    “You were asked to contribute to the camp, just as you were expected to contribute to the lodge of Rattling Blanket, a woman who shared equally with you although you would not respond in kind.”
    “I told you, I’m a prisoner, not a guest!”
    “You are a captive, one taken in honest conquest.”
    “You have no right to take me or anyone else captive.”
    “As your soldiers have no right to take our people captive.”
    “Our soldiers don’t—” Miranda halted abruptly. She had heard the stories about the imprisonment of a Cheyenne warrior at Fort Lyon—an important war chief who had entered the fort under a flag of truce—but she had dismissed it as untrue.
    “Your silence betrays you.”
    Miranda raised her chin and snatched back her foot. “The Cheyenne have raided and slaughtered—and taken scalps.”
    “As have your soldiers.”
    “Our soldiers don’t take—”
    Unable to complete that statement with honesty, Miranda saw the acknowledgment in Shadow Walker’sgaze as he reached out, took a lock of her hair in his hand, and said, “This color is bright, the texture fine. It would adorn a scalp pole well.” Releasing the curl before she could draw back, he grasped a lock of his own hair, his expression darkening as he continued, “This hair is not as bright in color or as fine in texture, but it is valued far more by the soldiers who wager for it.”
    “No, that isn’t