Howdy!
Welcome to a marvelous Monday! Yes, that’s right, Winnie is usually here on this day, but she has some deadlines coming up and so … here I am!
Okay, NIGHT THUNDER’S BRIDE. This is the third book in the Blackfoot Warrior series and it was wonderful to revisit the story. It reacquainted me with many Blackfoot traditions I’d forgotten — including a bird’s eye look at an old time Sun Dance.
Oh, and before I go any farther, let me tell you I’ll be giving away a free e-book of NIGHT THUNDER’S BRIDE. A person enters into the drawing simply by responding to the blog with a comment. We do have a few rules you can read over to the right here, so it might be a good idea to read over them — they aren’t too terribly long-winded.
Okay, so I will leave you here with a short blurb for the book and then an excerpt. I’ll also try to include all three covers of the book. The newest cover, the cover done by Samhain Publishing and the original cover done by AVON/HarperCollins Books.
This is the most recent cover for the book. And, I do love this cover.
NIGHT THUNDER’S BRIDE
Short blurb:
Night Thunder has vowed to protect Rebecca. When she is stolen by an enemy, he goes after her. But he can’t simply ride into the enemy camp and kill the guilty. The thieves are malcontents from his own tribe. There is only one way to save her.
He must claim her as his bride.
Hope you’ll enjoy this excerpt!
Night Thunder’s Bride by Karen Kay
Montana Territory
July 1834
During the moon when the flowers blossom, Strikes The Bear’s wife had been raped, abused and killed by the white men. Soon after, his sister had been taken to a white man’s sleeping robes, supposedly in marriage, only to be discarded shortly thereafter.
It had to be these events, and these events alone, which accounted for Strikes The Bear’s present behavior. No true warrior would treat a woman so badly. Not without direct provocation.
Night Thunder, hidden by many trees and bushes, sat considering, with the age-old logic which had been passed down to him since “time before mind,” that Strikes The Bear had some cause for his anger. Still, this particular white woman had not caused the tragedy to Strikes The Bear’s family. And Night Thunder had pledged to protect her; she was his responsibility. His to defend.
Night Thunder inspected the warriors’ temporary camp, knowing with a sickening sensation what was to come.
The men stood in a circle around the fire, which burned ominously, its crackle and smoky, pine-scented odor offensive rather than pleasant. A drum beat steadily, slowly—a throbbing portent of what was to come. The woman had been placed in the center of the circle—fire to her back, Strikes The Bear in front. And in his hand, Strikes The Bear wielded a knife.
Voices were raised in song and in quiet murmurings, occasionally interrupted with a bellow from Strikes The Bear and a whimper from the woman.
Night Thunder observed an oddity: there were no guards posted to watch over the encampment. Either Strikes The Bear was overly certain of his safety, or the warriors, too aroused over the spectacle taking place before them, no longer cared.
Night Thunder suspected the latter and despaired.
How could he save her?
If these men had been of an enemy tribe, Night Thunder wouldn’t have hesitated to act, despite the fact that they were fifteen and he was one. He would have already seized the opportunity for glory, rushing into the enemy camp and killing or being killed.
But such was not to be. These warriors were his own people, many of them his friends. True, they were Kainah, of the Blood tribe, while he was Pikuni—or as the white man called his people, the Piegan. Still, this made no difference. These warriors were Blackfeet, his relatives, his brothers. He could not fight them. Not and remain honorable to himself.
Yet he must save the woman.
How?
As custom dictated, the man who had stolen a woman held all rights to her. At present this particular man was Strikes The Bear. It was not a law Night Thunder was willing or prepared to break.
Still, he had to do something.
He glanced at the woman now, noting in a single look that her golden-brown hair, usually as bright and shiny as a full autumn moon, lay lackluster and disheveled around her face. Her eyes, which he knew to be as amber as those of a panther, mirrored her fear, though pride and perhaps resignation kept her silent. Her hands shook where they were tied together in front of her; her knees trembled, making her flimsy dress flutter as though it waved in a breeze.
Yet she had jutted her chin forward, had thrown back her head and had a look upon her face which could only be called defiant. And if those were tears which fell over her cheeks, she at least pretended to have no knowledge of them.
She had courage, this one. She might be young, perhaps no more than twenty winters, but Night Thunder knew very few women who would remain so stouthearted in similar circumstances. He added one more quality to his long, growing list of her attributes: her courageous spirit. Someday, he thought, she would make a man a fine wife.
Night Thunder drew his brows together in silent realization.
Wife? Was this a possible solution? If Night Thunder claimed her as his bride…?
No, he couldn’t.
But if he could make the others believe he had married this woman, it would give him first rights to her. He could then save her without raising his hand against his brothers.
Could he do it? To do so would be the height of dishonesty. Surely Sun and the Winds would carry the tale of his treachery into the Sand Hills, reaching the ears of his ancestors, bringing those who had gone before him great shame.
Yet the consequences if he did not act…
Strikes The Bear suddenly let out a growl and, gripping his knife as though prepared to use it, approached the woman.
Her scream split the air with a terrifying intensity as the knife tore through her dress, and in that instant Night Thunder ceased to wonder if and when he should act.
He would rescue her.
Now.
****
The Indian growled at her, striking out at her with his knife, the action plummeting Rebecca instantly and horribly into the present. As though in a dream, she’d been lost in the past. She wished she could have remained there; the present held too much pain, too much fear.
She wasn’t certain how she had lived through the first few hours after her capture by these Indians, so strong had been her fear. Still, live she had.
She stared into her enemy’s black-painted face, trying to remember if she had ever seen a human being look more frightening. Nothing came to her. Nor did she register much else about the man, not even his nearly nude body. All she could focus on was his face and the knife he waved in front of her. Her stomach dropped and the scent of her own fear engulfed her. She needed no wise man to tell her what her future held.
Was this all she had left, then? Was she to join, at last, her dearly departed fiancé? Would she never see the shores of her parents’ beloved homeland, Ireland? Would she die here never to have realized her dream? Would she never dance? This last thought, strangely enough, was more depressing than all the rest, even the idea of dying.
Odd, she considered, that here, before her imminent demise, she found herself bemoaning a ball she would never have, a party she would never attend. How her parents would have moaned her loss, had they been living—that their American-born daughter would not come to know her Irish heritage.
Her heart sank.
Perhaps in the hereafter, please God.
Well, if this were all she had of her life, then let the Indian get on with it. Taking what she speculated might be her last breath, she threw back her head, raised her chin, and voiced, “Is that the best you can do to frighten me, now?”
She knew her words were hollow, however, her bravery for naught. She would break down soon enough, more’s the pity. But perhaps the Lord would let her keep her dignity, at least for a little while longer.
Propelling himself forward out of the shadows, Night Thunder leapt into the Kainah encampment, making as much noise as he could, in order to draw attention to himself.
“Night Thunder!”
He heard the woman scream out his name in the white man’s tongue. Odd, he thought fleetingly, that her voice would sound so pleasant, even under such duress.
“Go back,” she shouted at him. “There’s naught you can do for me here. There are too many of them.”
Night Thunder paid her little attention. He took note of Strikes The Bear, saw the man turn his head slightly. Night Thunder drew his arms together over his chest, preparing to meet the other Indian in silent battle. But all the other Indian did by way of greeting was grunt before he turned back toward the woman. He shouted, “Omaopii! Be quiet!” and at the same time, reached out toward her as though he might strike her.
“The devil bless you,” she spat out, defiance coloring her voice, her composure, her bearing. And Night Thunder realized that though the white woman might not have understood Strikes The Bear’s words, she had clearly grasped his actions.
Strikes The Bear shrieked all at once and sprang forward, slashing out at her again with his knife. Another piece of her dress fell to the ground. But the white woman held onto her pride, this time not uttering even a sound.
Night Thunder congratulated her silently for her fortitude. He cautioned himself, however, to show nothing: not admiration, not pride, not even his anger. “Oki, nitakkaawa, hello, my friends,” he said at last to the warriors at large. Then, with what he hoped was a tinge of humor, he added, “Do we intend to start treating the white women as these new Americans do to ours?”
“Miistapoot, go away, my cousin.” It was Strikes The Bear who spoke. “We do not wish to hear your talk if it is to say bad words about what we do.”
“You think that I would say bad words about this?”
Strikes The Bear groaned slightly before he continued, “We all know how you cater to the white man, spending so much time in his forts and lodges. Many are the times when we have likened you to a dog seeking the white man’s scraps. But you are alone in your regard for this woman. Most of us hate the white man for what he has done to us, to those dear to us. Look around you. Do you not see this for yourself? Has not each warrior here suffered from the white man’s crimes? We do not wish to hear your honeyed words about him.”
Night Thunder listened patiently, as was the way of his people, and he paused only slightly before responding, “I come here before you with no pleasant talk for the white man on my tongue. But this woman, she is different.”
“Go away. I will do as duty requires me. Can you deny that I have the right and the obligation to do to this white woman those acts of violence which were done to my wife? Is it not true that only in this way can my spirit, and my woman’s, at last find peace?”
Night Thunder again paused, long enough to show respect for what Strikes The Bear had said. But after a few moments, Night Thunder began, “Aa, yes, my cousin has cause to speak and to do as he does, I think, and all our people weep with him in his grief.” Night Thunder shifted his weight, the action giving emphasis to his next words. “But even as he scolds the white man for his ways and scorns his path, I see my cousin also adopting his customs. For, is it not the sweet scent of the trader’s nectar that I smell here in your camp? Is it not the stench of whisky on your breath that I inhale as you speak to me? I cannot help but wonder how a man can curse one part of a society while holding another dear.”
Strikes The Bear howled and turned away from the woman. He took a few menacing steps toward Night Thunder before, motioning with his arms, he snarled, “Miistapoot! Go away!”
Night Thunder didn’t flinch, nor did he raise an arm against his cousin. “I think you have had too much of the whisky, my cousin,” he said. “It would be best if you slept through the night before you decided what to do with this woman.”
“Miistapoot! I will hear none of what you say. No man can tell another man what to do.”
Night Thunder nodded. “So the old men of our tribe tell us. But if you value your life and your few possessions, you will take great heed of my words.”
Strikes The Bear hesitated. “You speak in riddles. Say what you mean.”
“I mean this: you must leave this woman alone.”
These words seemed to cause Strikes The Bear great humor, for he began to laugh, though there was little amusement in the sound of it. At last, though, Strikes The Bear said, “My cousin has taken leave of his senses, I think.”
Night Thunder grinned. “Perhaps I have,” he said, “or perhaps you should ensure you learn all you can about a woman before you decide to use her for your own purposes.”
“A white woman? What value is a white woman to me? There seem to be so few of them that maybe if we kill them all, the white man will go away, since he will have no one in which to plant his seed.”
This statement appeared to amuse the crowd, and Night Thunder smiled along with them. Shortly, however, he held up a hand, silencing all present as he said, “You speak with the foresight of a child, my cousin. Must I remind you of the teachings of the elders in the value of life?”
“Not a white man’s life.”
“Who said I speak of a white man’s life?”
Strikes The Bear smirked. “Are your eyes so weak, my cousin, that you cannot see the color of this captive’s skin?”
“Is your mind so cluttered,” Night Thunder countered, “that you have failed to discover who she really belongs to. I say this to you: she is not only white, she is Siksika. She is Blackfeet.”
Well that’s all for today. Here’s hoping you enjoyed the excerpt. Be sure to leave a message — oh, also, let me know what you think of the three different covers for this book
Here’s a link to the book and the book is also on KU.
tinyurl.com/y634cs87
In GRAY HAWK’S LADY, I was treated to a hero, who, despite his anger at what heroine had done to him, did not sink to treating her in a bad way. In fact, he went on to give her respect, even protected her from others’ gossip. It was also this book I was writing when I met my husband, and Gray Hawk was quite willing to re-enact our first kiss, which is written in the pages of that book. Because of his care for this heroine who had, at first, treated him in a bad way, both she and I fell in love with his character.
The first was, of course, Bullseye Bride. That is my Pink Pistol Sisterhood book. I hope you all had a chance to read it and enjoyed Kitty and Thad’s turn with the pistol. It’s getting some wonderful reviews, so that is exciting. That story is an “across the tracks” romance where Thad is an influential member of the community but Kitty has struggled her entire life, buried under the weight of her father’s poor choices. But Kitty is no damsel in distress, she’s ready to do whatever it takes to pull her family out of poverty. Honestly, so many people emailed and told me that they want the brother’s stories, I’ve already planned those for sometime next year.
Because of this and that I write at a certain well known chain coffee shop, Nathan sent me a post he’d seen. It’s from @byalexcrespo and reads, “writing at coffee shops is great bc every time I need to add in a minor side character I just steal the name and essence of whoever is picking up their order from the barista in that moment. Enjoy your cappuccino Isaac you are about to die to advance the plot.” My son then asked if I did that. While I have killed off people before the story opens, like Cassie’s sister and brother-in-law in To Love a Texas Cowboy, I don’t do that in the stories. However, I told my son I would definitely use that technique to name characters from now on.
