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  Her brother glanced from her to Black Bear. “Mother sent me to help you carry the water. She told me to see what’s keeping you.” His brow arched in silent accusation.

  As he stood, Black Bear lifted his bag. “Here, bring these for our guests.”

  Running Wolf’s eyes widened at the sight of the fish. “You caught all those?” He slid down the bank.

  With a grin, Black Bear nodded and handed him the pouch. “Go. I’ll help your sister carry the water.”

  Grunting, Running Wolf took the bag, and struggled up the bank and out of sight.

  Quiet Thunder reached for the bucket Black Bear held. “I need no help.”

  “I know.” He moved it beyond her grasp. “I want to.”

  The sparkle in his black eyes made her skin prickle. She grabbed for the skin bucket, spilling half her own.

  He gulped back a laugh. “Maybe you should let me carry both.”

  Her ears burned. She’d made a fool of herself. Maybe the Great Thunderbird meant to humble her for thinking Black Bear too full of himself. She bent to refill the skin bucket. “My mother will think me useless.”

  “Impossible.” His soft voice soothed her, yet excited her—like cool and warm water rushing over her at once. He knelt to refresh his own bucket, his presence as warm as the sun beside her.

  “She’s already upset, and now will punish me.” She’d lingered too long, but time alone with Black Bear always seemed too short.

  “Upset about what?” His gaze searched hers.

  Her heart swelled, aching to unburden its troubles. “Never mind.” If she told him about her parents’ argument, he would agree with her father. He had already made plain his feelings about whites—he wanted to fight their rules, drive them away.

  With an exasperated sigh, she held out her hand. “Just give me my bucket.” Her mother’s anger would double if she knew Black Bear caused the delay.

  He glided it to his side, out of her reach. “At least let me carry it up the bank.”

  “Why are you so stubborn?” She huffed up the bank. Now was not the time for such dalliances, not with guests waiting.

  “Me?” He laughed. “Your father named you wrong. Instead of Quiet Thunder, he should call you Loud Thunder. Or Lightning Tongue.” Like a deer, he bounded ahead and stood in front of her, shoulders slanted, poised to leap in any direction.

  She halted. “And you should be called Coyote Child.” She stepped around him, but he jumped in her path.

  “I am no child. And no trickster.” His voice softened. “Unless you want me to be.” His gaze fell to her mouth as his lips curled into a smile.

  A shiver came over her as she struggled to remember her errand. She wanted no trickster, but a strong man who would treat her as an equal. “It takes more than a ceremony to turn a boy into a man.” Her insult, she knew, held no weight. He already wore an eagle feather in his braid, a symbol of his bravery for riding his pony into a herd of wild horses to pull his friend Yellow Bird to safety. His chest bore the scars of the bones that pierced him, tore his flesh when his legs could no longer hold him after three days of dancing. Of the four boys performing that Sun Dance to become men, he was the last to fall. The fourth—a number sacred to her people.

  He stepped toward her slowly, like a snake readying to curl around her, his length overshadowing her. “I shed the skin of boyhood more than two winters ago. But you’re right—I need more than a dance to make me a man.” Grabbing the bucket from her hand, he set it beside the one he carried.

  “What are you…” She forgot the rest when he ran his finger along her hair and bent his head toward hers, his mouth parted.

  The strange sensation that came over her during the ceremony returned—as if their spirits danced together, lifted into the clouds and flew to the stars. She inclined her head to meet his kiss. The brush of his mouth against hers wiped her thoughts clean as a cloudless summer sky, and her spirit soared over the plains. Even when he lifted his lips, her heart glided like a hawk. Shuddering, she dared not move for fear of falling over. The earth beneath her seemed unstable, though he felt steady in her arms so she held tight.

  A dog’s bark snapped her attention to the village. “I must go back now, or risk punishment.” As much as she wanted to taste his mouth again, she did not want to feel her mother’s anger. Forcing herself away, she bent for the bucket.

  He reached for the other. “Meet me tonight. When the moon rises.”

  His urgent whisper made her pause to meet his gaze. Black Bear teased too often, but he searched her face with yearning, and her heart melted. “If I can.”

  ****

  Three little words. Barely a promise, but those three words swelled Black Bear’s chest with hope. If he could have, he’d have whooped for joy. Run through the fields like a colt in spring. To do so would risk calling attention to them, so he set off for Quiet Thunder’s tipi. Releasing his pent-up energy in his long strides, he crossed the field carrying the skin buckets in a short time.

  When he set the skin buckets by the fire, Pretty Eagle’s eyes flashed as she looked up from pounding chokecherries for wojapi, berry soup.

  Her face softened when she met Black Bear’s gaze. “Thank you for helping my daughter.”

  To disguise his joy, he gave a solemn nod. “I’m sorry for delaying her. We had much to discuss.”

  “Oh?” Her mother brightened, her glance bouncing between them.

  Quiet Thunder’s cheeks reddened, and she glared at him. “The Sun Dance. We discussed the ceremony.”

  To keep from grinning, Black Bear furrowed his brow and agreed.

  “Oh.” Disappointment weighted Pretty Eagle’s tone. “You should not have made our guests wait.”

  “I’m sorry.” Quiet Thunder settled beside her. “Here, I will do that.” She took the smooth stone from her mother and crushed the chokeberries.

  Pretty Eagle gave a frustrated sigh. She carried a skin bucket to a group of men and offered to fill their pouches for their journey.

  Black Bear stood watching Quiet Thunder. Even in small tasks such as this, she moved with the same grace as during ceremonies. Each stroke of her hand caused her to lean forward, the muscles in her thin arms flexing, her hair falling across her shoulders. Seeing her prepare a meal made him nearly burst with anticipation for the day she would do the same for him.

  When she glanced up, her eyes widened and her lips parted, then spread in a smile. “Go, before you get me in more trouble.” She glanced in her mother’s direction, then back.

  Her gaze struck him like lightning, the white-hot flash travelling through every inch, getting under his skin like the bone at the Sun Dance, always pulling him in her direction. If his friend hadn’t called his name, he’d have gone to her now.

  “Tonight,” he whispered, backing away slowly, and then turned and strode toward Yellow Bird.

  ****

  The sun slid behind the hills, and stars blanketed the wide sky. Quiet Thunder sat by the fire, thankful the day had ended and the other tribes set out for their homes. Maybe now her parents would forget about the Ghost Dance. They sat quietly, side by side, their eyes heavy with weariness, their knees touching.

  Hopefully, her mother wouldn’t question her further about this morning. Quiet Thunder did not want to encourage her hopes. By Quiet Thunder’s eighteen winters, Pretty Eagle had married and borne her. Quiet Thunder would marry only when she felt certain she could depend on Black Bear.

  Today, she’d felt them growing closer. Especially when he gazed at her with the spark of fire in his eyes. She’d seen that look before, on her father’s face as he watched her mother. Seeing it on Black Bear’s face warmed her.

  For now, she contented herself with listening to her grandfather’s stories. Standing Horse recounted the tale of White Buffalo Woman, the holy ancient who taught the Sioux how to use the sacred buffalo calf pipe to speak to the Great Spirit—Wakan Tanka—in ceremonies. Through the pipe, he said the tribe became a living prayer, co
nnecting the earth to the sky.

  Like the other Sun Dances, a grandmother from one of the tribes was chosen to represent White Buffalo Woman. Chief Red Horse announced Two Moons from their own village would have the honor at the next dance. Tribal elders praised the Four Great Leaders for the honor, and children clamored to hear the old story again. They sat, wide-eyed and quiet, as her grandfather spoke, his soft voice full of passion.

  Quiet Thunder loved these stories—the stories of her people. How the maiden swallowed a stone to ease her hunger, and gave birth to a boy with magical powers. How the mysterious power of Takuskanskan lived in everything set into motion: a creature, the leaves, or the wind. How the Great Spirit created animals as their brothers and sisters, and why each prayer ended with the words mitakuye oyasin—all my relations—as a reminder to honor their relation.

  When Standing Horse ended his tale, he uncrossed his legs and groaned as he stood. The children asked for more stories, and he looked into each face. “Not tonight. I am tired.” He shuffled to his tipi, which sat near her parents’.

  Her father followed. Pretty Eagle nodded to Quiet Thunder and Running Wolf.

  Quiet Thunder followed them to the tipi, her head lowered so no one would see her looking for Black Bear. No sign anywhere. He and Yellow Bird rode with the departing guests to see them off, and she hadn’t seen him since.

  Her parents lay on their buffalo skin opposite the tipi entrance, and her brother to the left. Soon all their breaths deepened, and her father snored. The excitement of the last four days left her tired, but she thought of Black Bear, waiting for her. Remembering the touch of his lips left her restless. Sleep would not come until she’d seen him again. She would wait a little while to be sure her family slept, and then slip outside.

  A mournful sound echoed through the night. She crept to the tipi flap and peered out. All the village slept beneath the wide blanket of bright stars, too many to count. A half-moon peeked over the treetops, almost as bright as a full moon. Enough light to walk by, so she slid on her moccasins and crept through the flap like a shadow.

  Running Wolf’s bow and arrows sat next to the tipi entrance. She shouldered the bag of arrows and carried the bow. Days ago, a hunter found a rabbit’s head beyond the stream—either a wolf or coyote’s work. She had no wish to meet either, but would be prepared.

  The lilting cry sounded from the stream. Her heart pounded as she followed it across the field and through the trees, creeping as quietly as she could. Elks made such a noise when calling their mates, if Grandfather’s tales were correct.

  Her moccasin brushed against a twig and before she could stop herself from putting too much weight on it, the bark cracked. The strange cry stopped, and only the burble of the stream lent music to the darkness. She crept behind a tree and peered out. The bright moonlight had lit her way to the edge of the tree stand, but dappled shadows made the familiar scene appear strange.

  A brief note came from upstream, near where Black Bear had stood this morning. The moonlight through the trees showed the figure of a man. He lifted a short branch to his lips and the sad noise echoed through the hollow.

  The figure, too, appeared familiar and yet not. Changed from the boyish Lakota she’d known all her life. Black Bear sat cross-legged, back straight as a tree. He held something to his lips, making the strange song. He truly was a man now, handsome and strong. She yearned to be near him, but something held her back. Fear had gnawed at her for many moons. Fear of what would come to be, what the future held. Part of her wanted to run back to her tipi, fall into a deep sleep to stop herself from thinking. Stop the Great Circle from rolling forward, if only for a little while.

  “Black Bear,” she said softly, and moved closer. The sound he made was sad, yet hopeful too. The sound of a lover’s lonely cry.

  ****

  Though mixed with night’s music of the cicadas, the song echoed clear. Practice had paid off, and Black Bear now knew how to press and lift his fingers over each opening to get the right notes. Such a lot of work for a small instrument, but hopefully his labors would prove worthwhile.

  A movement in the trees caught his eye, the slightest shift in the shadows. He lowered the stick and sat still as a tree atop his buffalo skin. An animal would have revealed itself, so he suspected a person hid there. His heart tightened with hope. After waiting a moment, he called, “Hello?”

  The moonlight alighted her doeskin dress no matter as she stepped from the shadows into the clearing.

  He scrambled to his feet. “Quiet Thunder. You’re here.” His thick voice caught in his throat and his self-confidence abandoned him. Long he’d waited for this moment, but now felt unsure what to do.

  Her words rushed out in a strangled breath. “Yes. I heard the cry.”

  He held the twig with both hands and twisted it. “I played all afternoon trying to get it right.”

  Her eyes widened as she recognized the siyotanka. He’d made the flute hoping to enchant her with its magic. His song must be working—she walked to him as if drawn by it.

  “I thought it an elk’s cry.”

  The high praise made his breath tangle in his ribs. Grandfather told tales of Lakota who cut cedarwood branches to craft a flute shaped like the long neck and head of a bird with an open beak. The instrument’s sound resembled the call of an elk, powerful medicine supposed to make a man irresistible to the woman he loved.

  He lowered his head. “I hoped it would bring you here.” Shyness overcame him, and he could not meet her gaze, only stare at the siyotanka.

  “You brought me here.”

  Her words were bold with truth. Tonight, he wanted to speak only truth. To hear only truth.

  His gaze leaped to hers. Glancing at the bow she carried, he grinned. “You came to shoot me?”

  Ducking her head, she said softly, “No.”

  When he reached for the bow, his hand grazed hers, and he struggled against the urge to pull her close. “I’ll set them down. Nearby, in case you need them.” Gently, he slid the strap from her shoulder and put both next to the buffalo skin, then extended his hand for her to sit. Nervousness twisted through him, made every action stiff and formal as if performing a ritual. Since childhood, he’d run with Quiet Thunder, shot arrows with her, rode horses with her. Two summers ago when a sticker branch cut her leg, he’d carried her to a stream. Holding her in his arms had awakened new feelings, and since then, his fingers itched to feel her skin every night.

  She knelt, and then sat atop her legs. “Are you all right?”

  He crossed his legs and sat. “I am now that you’re here.” Biting his lip, he cast his gaze away. Happiness surged through his spirit, filled his skin so full it threatened to burst open.

  “Play me your song.” Like the stars twinkling above them, her eyes sparkled, like laughing spirits clustered in crowds along the white carpet of the Milky Way.

  He lifted the flute to his lips and gently blew. His song seemed to enchant everything around them. Fireflies glittered like falling embers. The music of the stream mixed with the flute. His heart skipped and danced with the lilting tune, the tune he made for her alone.

  When she closed her eyes, he painted her beauty in his memory.

  She opened her eyes. “Why did you stop?”

  Black Bear stared at her, the fullness in her gaze made his breath flutter like the fireflies. “The moonlight lit your face. You’re more beautiful than ever.” Warmth coursed through his face. He must have enchanted himself with the song. Though he’d thought it many times, he’d never before called her beautiful.

  Unable to hold back any longer, he knelt in front of her, and she lifted up to kneel before him. Entwining his fingers through hers, he held them against the scar on his chest where the bone tore through two summers ago. With a voice soft as a trickling stream, he spoke. “I welcomed the pain of becoming a man. Do you know why?”

  “Because you wanted to be a great warrior?”

  His thumbs caressed the back of her h
ands. “No. The time of great Sioux warriors is ending. I must learn to be a better hunter. To provide for my family.” A family he wished with all his heart to have with her. His insides lurched when she glanced down.

  “Black Bear—”

  She tried to slide her hand away, but he held it fast.

  “Please let me speak.”

  His seriousness silenced her. With a nod, she lifted her gaze to his scar, the mark of his love for her. It spoke of his hopes for their future. From now on, he wanted it to be a reminder of this night.

  Soft urgency gave fire to his words, and the fire sparked in his blood. “I know now why you are called Quiet Thunder. I didn’t know I could feel such thunder inside. It overtakes me every night while I try to sleep. In everything I do, I feel your spirit with me. I need to know if you feel the same.” He pressed her hand against his scar so she might feel his heart thudding through his skin. It pulsed with his life’s blood as if to mingle with her own.

  When she raised her chin, moonlight illuminated her face, her dark eyes ablaze. “Yes.”

  He exhaled a ragged breath and leaned in to touch his lips to hers. When she slid her arms around his neck and pressed close to him, he felt in danger of floating into the laughing stars. With slow purpose, he slid his mouth against hers, fueling desires he’d never before experienced. The effort of holding himself back caused him to tremble. Slowly he lifted his lips and whispered her name fervent as a prayer, his breath stirring her hair.

  She clung to him, her arms wrapped tight around his waist like a vine clinging to a tree.

  The crack of a branch made him stiffen, and he held her waist. Furrowing his brow, he shook his head slightly in warning, and shifted his gaze from side to side to mark where the bow lay.

  Footfalls padded across the earth. In the moonlight, a low shadow slid through the trees, and Black Bear’s determined gaze gauged its distance. He reached for the bow, slid an arrow from the bag and fit it against the bow. Without a sound, he glided back and aimed toward the figure. Moonlight glinted off its fur. The creature watched as Black Bear moved smooth as water to pull back the bow.