Free Sacred Ground by Rita Karnopp Page A

going. He circled the burning stack with rocks, pleased with the results.
    "Not bad for a non-Indian," Willow said, dropping an arm-load of dry wood near the warm fire. "I'll get some more if you want to take care of the horses."
    "That's a deal," he answered. He liked how her hair had worked loose from the tie. It softened her appearance, in spite of her tough lady efforts.
    "What you staring at?" she asked. "Did I grow horns?"
    "Now that you mention it . . ." He left the sentence unfinished and chuckled. Her mouth curved into an unconscious smile. She seemed unaware of the captivating picture she made when she smiled.
    "You're doing it again," she accused.
    "Doing what?"
    "Looking at me as though I were naked!"
    "Wish you were," he blurted, before thinking. "I mean, I wouldn't mind if you . . . hell, you have no idea how beautiful you are, do you?" He hated word games.
    She shrugged her shoulders, as though dismissing his words. "For an Indian, I suppose you mean." She turned away, not waiting for an answer.
    Brett felt the sting of her words, knowing full well he deserved them. How often had he impressed how lowly he thought her because of her Native American blood? He’d taken his humiliation of being part-Indian out on her. Why hadn't he seen it before? Maybe he didn't care who his hateful words hurt before, now he did.
    Did he care about Willow Howling Moon or were his feelings created by a man's need for a woman? It had been years since he held a woman’s shapely, warm, sensual body. Damn! She had a way of confusing his life, more than it already was.
    The loud sound of wood dropping caused him to glance up. He met Willow ’s warm, dark gaze. She kept her features deceptively composed. He wondered what she had on her mind.
    "In the old days, an Indian woman got the wood, cooked the meals, and even unpacked the horses. Times have changed, Mr. Turner. Pitch in with the work or expect to sleep out in the cold tonight." Her mouth twitched with amusement.
    "I apologize for failing to unpack the horses, but I slew a bear and fought off a Crow war party. You'll forgive me, won't you, little woman?"
    "First, I am far from a little woman. Secondly, I think you lie, napi-kwan' ."
    "What's that?" Somehow it impressed him that she spoke the ancient language of her People.
    " Napi-kwan' means white man or white trader."
    "Why do you try to keep the old ways alive? I mean, wouldn't the Indian be better off if they forgot the past and concentrated on the future? Blacks had to put it all behind them in order to survive, why not the Indian? When you think about it, war and conquering lands have changed things from the beginning of time. Why should the Indian be any different?"
    The softness in her face vanished, replaced by an expression of pained tolerance. "Would you be happy to forget your heritage, never to know any of your ancestors or anything about them? Don't you care where you came from? Were they German settlers, Polish immigrants, or descendant of Daniel Boone or Wild Bill Hickok? Does any of it matter to you?" She asked, her tone cold, unemotional.
    He did care. "I told you before; I don't know where I came from. Why should it matter? I have a son to take care of and protect . . ." He glanced in the direction of the mine opening. "Not doing too great a job of that right now, am I?"
    "The boys are going to be just fine, I feel it," she said, adding a piece of wood to the fire. "Don't question a mother's instinct"
    He accepted the forgiving smile she offered. He should apologize, but didn't want to return to the subject of his heritage. "I'll take care of the horses," he said, leaving before she had more to say.
    He took a left turn and followed the narrow tunnel that led outside. The blast of cold air that greeted him took Brett by surprise. The temperature had dropped considerably in the past hour. A fine flurry of snow already created a haze, making it difficult to see across the valley. The temp would drop in the low