Howdy!
Welcome to another tremendous Tuesday! Hope your day is going well.
Since my new book, SHE PAINTS MY SOUL, is coming out sometime in July, I thought I’d introduce you to the characters. The heroine first appears in book #2 of the Medicine Man series and the hero appears in book #1 in the Medicine Man series.
In book #2, the characters have a few scenes together and I thought I’d post the scene from SHE CAPTURES MY HEART (book #2) that involves these two characters. Strikes Fast fist appears as an antagonist in book #1, but some changes occur with him at the end of that book. And Sharon is accompanying her best friend, Amelia, into the land of the Blackfeet.
Oh, I should mention, also, I will be giving away a mass market paperback book of SOARING EAGLE’S EMBRACE — book #4 in the Legendary Warriors series. (Each book in the series is a stand alone book. The only thing they have in common is they are all based on a legend.)
So, here we go. Hope you’ll enjoy the excerpt.
Excerpt from SHE CAPTURES MY HEART, featuring Strikes Fast and Sharon Wells.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Strikes Fast, the Crow scout, never danced at any of the Pikuni celebrations. He couldn’t. After all, he was not in the Blackfoot camp to become a member of the tribe. Rather, he remained with the Pikuni’s to repay a debt. However, in all these five years, he had been unable to perform a deed brave enough to properly return the favor bestowed upon his family by the Pikuni brothers—Eagle Heart and Chief Chases-the-enemy.
It wasn’t enough that his sister had married Chief Chases-the-enemy, which she was bound to do, for the chief had saved both her and her baby boy’s life. Koottáahile, truly, Strikes Fast was imprisoned here within an enemy camp due to his own inability to perform a deed noble enough to free himself.
He had been twenty-and-one snows old when the medicine man and scout, Eagle Heart, had saved his sister’s life. Even now, he cringed to remember it had been the two brothers, as well as Eagle Heart’s wife, Laylah, who had been unafraid of the creature responsible for the trouble.
It was not with pleasure when Strikes Fast recalled that he had been so shocked at the presence of the beast, he had been unable to act. And so, he was here within the Pikuni camp, sitting and watching the others celebrate their hunt and good fortunes this day. But, he could never, would never, participate in the celebrations of the Pikuni, for the tribe was his traditional enemy…and would always be his traditional enemy. He would not, he could not, forget the murders of his father, his mother, his brothers and one other.
Something new, however, had happened in the Pikuni camp. Two more white women had recently arrived at the white man’s fort but were not staying within the fort. One of them was claimed by the medicine man, Gray Falcon, although he had not yet married the woman.
The other seemed to be the wife of a white man who had accompanied the two women. At least, Strikes Fast believed the man was married to the woman, though the two did not live together.
But, the white man’s ways were strange. Perhaps married people did not live together in white society.
Still, married to the white man or not, only a blind man would have looked away from the woman, for she was not only pretty, her looks were unusual. She, like Strikes Fast, rarely attended or watched the Pikuni dances. Indeed, it appeared to him as if she were afraid of the Blackfoot people, or perhaps she was fearful of Indians in general, which caused him to wonder why she had traveled into this country.
As she sat across the camp circle from him, he watched her, although his gaze was never overt. Rather, as a scout and warrior, his glance at her would have been impossible to detect by any but another alert scout.
Currently, she sat beside her husband, the white man the Blackfeet called Saaáam Isttsikóksspainni, Medicine Paint. She did not look at this man nor at anyone else in the camp circle. Instead, her glance was centered downward, and everything about her demeanor displayed her emotional torment: the woman was frightened.
Still, she was quite pretty. With the sun sitting low in the sky, its effect sent shadows over the young woman’s delicate features. Her hair was a color he had never before witnessed on either a man or a woman, it being an orangey-brown color, similar to that of a newborn fawn. Oddly, her eye color appeared to be a light amber-brown and often matched her hair color.
Looking at her eyes now, he realized their framework was unusual since their structure was not turned slightly down at the outside corners, unlike the framework of many Indian people. Instead, her eyes didn’t turn up or down, and that effect on her was quite attractive.
Her skin color was as pale as the bluffs that surrounded this place, although there was a reddish tint to her cheeks. Her eyebrows were thin and colored the same as her hair, but it was her figure, clearly outlined by her dress, that mostly drew his attention.
Indian women were more discreet in the way they clothed themselves, rarely showing their figures to advantage. But, the white woman’s dress hugged her ample bosom and tiny waist as though to show each off to perfection.
Sighing deeply, Strikes Fast looked away and turned his attention to the matter at hand. A large buffalo herd had been spotted by the Pikuni scouts, and the men were, at present, preparing to go on the buffalo chase.
Their first preparation—the buffalo dance—was currently in progress. Gazing outward, Strikes Fast saw nothing unusual: the men had stripped themselves of all unnecessary clothing and had painted their faces and their bodies with emblems of their dreams. As he looked on at the buffalo dance, he heard the drums begin the cadence that would end this part of the celebration.
Soon each warrior would bring his buffalo pony forward and would paint the animal in a similar manner as the warrior, himself. The camp’s excitement in the chase was compelling, and Strikes Fast found himself becoming excited, also, if only because he would be a part of the hunt this day.
Indeed, he owned the best buffalo pony in all the Indian nations, and it would be unthinkable not to participate. Kalée Lichíile, Runaway Horse, was his very best pony, and Strikes Fast admired the animal almost as much as he might love and care for a treasured son. To show his deep regard for the stallion, he kept the horse always near, even going so far as to tie the pony beside his tepee at night, for Strikes Fast would not be parted from his steed.
Returning his attention to the dancers, he remembered again why he didn’t celebrate with these people and why he never would: he did not make friends amongst the enemy.
Even though he had lived with the Pikuni people for the last five snows, it was never far from his mind that the Blackfeet were an enemy tribe. Always the memories of the Pikuni attack upon his family were lodged within his mind and his heart. He would not forget nor forgive.
The exception to this, however, were the two brothers—Eagle Heart and Chases-the-enemy—as well as Gray Falcon, all to whom he owed his allegiance.
But, as friendly as he was to these three men, he rarely sought out their company, and he preferred to remain apart from all the other Pikuni people. That these Blackfoot people tolerated him, their enemy, amongst them was a fact of honor for them. Still, he was not in this camp to make friends, but, rather, to repay the debt he owed the two brothers and their friend, Gray Falcon.
Strikes Fast brought his attention back to the buffalo-hunting party which, having only finished painting their buffalo ponies, was ready to leave. He looked on as the hunters’ wives fondly touched and doted on their husbands, wishing them a safe and bountiful return.
Watching them hurt. Observing such moments was difficult for him, reminding him of how long he had been away from his own home in Crow country. In all these years, he had purposely taken no Pikuni woman to his sleeping robes. Nor would he do so, because such an act would be an insult to his own people. And so, he looked away from the lovers and married folk, even as he arose to trod toward his fine, spotted buffalo pony.
He set his shoulders back and held his head high, as was befitting a young Crow scout. He looked neither left nor right, but was still aware of several glances from a few Blackfoot maidens, and, though these women were pretty, he rarely allowed himself more than a passing glance at them. Indeed, he was not interested.
His own love, Yellow Swan, was the reason. She was always in his thoughts, even though she had long ago passed on to the spiritual world. In truth, he couldn’t remember a time when he hadn’t loved her, and she had returned his love. He had been nineteen snows, and she had been eighteen, on the day of the Pikuni raid.
He’d lost more than her and most of his family on that day; he had also lost his soul. Because of this one Pikuni raid and the carnage it had left behind, all human compassion, empathy and even understanding had died within him. Truly, all he had known for as long as the two years following the raid was the need to avenge the deaths of his loved ones.
And, he had. He had killed many Pikuni warriors since then. But, it had never been enough to satisfy him.
Indeed, he might have killed more. But, five years ago, Eagle Heart, Eagle Heart’s brother—Chases-the-enemy—and Gray Falcon had saved the last surviving members of his family: his sister, as well as her baby. And, they had performed the heroism in the face of a deadly enemy—an enemy that had so frightened Strikes Fast, he had fallen to his knees, shaking and unable to mount a defense.
And, although the desire for revenge no longer burned deeply within him, he would still never forget. He looked forward to the day he could repay in full the debt he owed these three men. And, once that day arrived and the debt was fully repaid, he would be gone from here.
Looking forward, he saw Eagle Heart, Chases-the-enemy and Gray Falcon had formed a line ahead of him. Strikes Fast joined them. Over these past five snows, he had nurtured an unusual friendship with these three men; he hunted with them, took his meals with them and joined them in sharing the meat from their hunts with all the people. All three men had become his friends in a camp where everyone else was an enemy to him.
Still looking forward, Strikes Fast now couldn’t believe what he was seeing. This couldn’t be possible. Startled, he frowned and looked away. Yet, he could not pretend that he hadn’t seen what was clearly being paraded in front of him: ahead of him and his friends was the pale-faced medicine painter, along with his paints, his boards, his easel and his woman.
His woman. The man was bringing a woman on a buffalo hunt? Was the man insane? Did he not know the danger? Even a man fully accustomed to the hunt could lose his life if he or his pony were not attentive enough to the running of and bringing down the buffalo.
Did the white man not realize the danger he was putting his woman in? This wasn’t right. Strikes Fast had to speak up and share his thoughts with his friends, if only to ensure the safety of the woman.
Before mounting his pony, Strikes Fast turned to his right where Gray Falcon stood holding the reins of his own black-spotted Appaloosa. Strikes Fast asked his friend in sign, “Why are they coming with us?” He pointed at the painter. “Is the man so lacking in good sense that he does not realize the danger he brings to his woman?”
Gray Falcon answered in the same manner of “speaking,” and he signed, “He insists he cannot do his work well unless she is near him. And, he is determined to paint a picture of a buffalo hunt.”
Strikes Fast shook his head, then signed, “And so, he brings her into danger because he must draw a good sketch?”
“Áa,”said Gray Falcon. “He does not believe us when we have told him the buffalo are dangerous, and, since she has agreed to accompany him, I do not interfere between them. But, I have spoken about my fears to him.”
“Then, he is an evildoer, as well as stupid,” signed Strikes Fast.
“This may well be so.”
Strikes Fast set his lips together so firmly, it looked as though his effort had formed his mouth into a straight line. But, he otherwise remained silent. Perhaps the white man was right and no harm would come to his beautiful wife. But, big and awkward though the buffalo might be, a thousand of them could change course quickly and for no reason at all. A man had to know this and be prepared for it. Was he? Was she?
Deciding to keep an eye cocked in their direction, he pushed himself up onto his seat atop his buffalo pony and deliberately took a position toward the rear of their party, following along behind Chief Chases-the-enemy, Eagle Heart and Gray Falcon, as well as the medicine painter and his woman.
He didn’t like this; he didn’t like it at all.
Approaching the buffalo from behind, Strikes Fast singled out the buffalo he wished to kill and, dropping the pony’s halter rope, let his fast running pony bring him in close to the huge beast, separating it from the throng of the rest. Because he and his horse were as one, his well-trained pony knew by instinct which buffalo was being targeted.
Raising his bow with an arrow firmly set against the sinew string, Strikes Fast pulled back and let the arrow go, his aim exact, it going deeply into the heart of the animal. Immediately, his horse veered off, running toward the side and away from danger.
Again Strikes Fast singled out another buffalo, bringing his pony in close for the kill. Another arrow flew from his bow, the strength of his arm sending the arrow into the heart of the beast, and, once again, his pony veered away from the throng. And so it went, on and on, until at last he had shot all five of the arrows he had carried in his hand.
Strikes Fast looked outward, watching the herd disappear in the distance, the Pikuni warriors still in pursuit. All were soon gone from view, leaving behind little more than a cloud of dust. Turning his pony back in the direction from which he’d come, he gazed off into the distance and saw something that so astonished him, he couldn’t move: the white man sat atop his own mount and was circling a huge enraged buffalo bull.
Worse, the man was not trying to kill the bull, but was instead making marks on the white man’s paper, the paper lying atop a wooden slab held with the painter’s hands out in front of him. So engrossed was the white man with the old buffalo bull, he was not alert to the dangerous female cow who had separated herself from the rest of the herd. And, now that animal was quickly approaching the easiest target in sight: the pretty white woman.
The woman herself didn’t seem to notice the beast until, glancing over her shoulder, she at last beheld the animal already in a furious run toward her. At once, she screamed and tried desperately to get out of the way, but it was not to be. She couldn’t easily control her horse, and, as it was not a trained buffalo pony, it was not running away.
Whipping his carefully trained buffalo pony into a fast and desperate run, Strikes Fast tried to come upon the buffalo cow for the kill, but he could not get near the animal. Instinctively, the dangerous buffalo cow knew what he planned, and she ducked out of the way, her path still unerringly plotted toward the white woman.
Leaning forward, he yelled to his pony, “Run to the girl!” Although he disliked having to use his whip on his treasured mount, he did so now. Luckily, his pony knew exactly what to do, and, speeding toward the girl, the horse came in close to her, allowing Strikes Fast to reach out and lift her off her mount.
His own pony was already veering away from the danger when Strikes Fast settled the woman before him. Her horse, aware now of the danger and with a lighter load, picked up its speed, and Strikes Fast saw it run as fast as the wind, outdistancing the infuriated buffalo cow.
Keeping his arm around the shivering woman, who was now seated sidesaddle in front of him, Strikes Fast turned his pony around and sped back in the direction from which he had come. In doing so, he ignored all five of the buffalo kills he’d made this day.
His intention was to take her back to the safety of the Pikuni camp, but the camp was distant and his pony was already showing distress from all its exertion this day. Picking up his pony’s halter, he instead directed the animal toward a grassy hill that rose up close by to them. Quickly, Kalée Lichíie, Runaway Horse, climbed up to the top of the mound, and there he paused.
Strikes Fast dismounted immediately and reached up to help the woman slide to the ground. But, although she dismounted well enough, she collapsed onto the grassy earth and didn’t rise up. Stepping toward her, he picked her up and carried her in his arms as his pony followed him to a patch of luscious grass.
Turning his favorite mount loose for the moment, he set the woman on the ground, squatted down in front of her, and then signed, “Are you hurt?”
She didn’t look at him. Instead, she shook her head and raised her shoulders. She murmured the words, “I don’t understand you.” But, he had no way of knowing what she’d said.
He asked the same question in Blackfeet, but when she indicated she still couldn’t comprehend him, he resorted to using exaggerated hand gestures to communicate what he intended doing: he needed to check over her body to look for injuries, although he thought he had been quick enough to rescue her before any damage had been done to her. He continued to speak in the magnified motions.
At last she appeared to understand what he was trying to communicate, and she nodded her head.
Having obtained her permission, he raised her dress a little so he might run his hands over her calf muscles, as well as her feet. Using again amplified hand movements, he asked if she hurt anywhere he had touched.
She shook her head.
Unwilling to tap her anywhere else on her body, he touched his own chest and asked if there were any pain on her own body in those places he indicated. When she again shook her head, he came up to his feet and indicated she should do the same, but when she seemed unable to do so, he reluctantly offered a hand down to help her rise up. Although it was bad manners to help a woman come to her feet by touching her, he realized he had to bear the insult, since she appeared unable to rise up to her feet on her own.
But, she didn’t take his hand. She was looking downward and didn’t see.
It was necessary, then, to lift her into his arms again, but in doing so, he accidentally brushed a hand over one of her breasts. It was a mistake. It shouldn’t have happened. Yet, it had, and he was momentarily stunned.
Again using exaggerated hand motions, he made the sign for “I’m sorry,” but she still didn’t understand.
He sighed. It had been too long since he’d held a female in his arms, and he found himself enjoying the scent of her and the feel of her soft feminine skin beneath the touch of his hands.
He had best set her down. He did so at once, only to watch as she collapsed again to the ground. What was wrong with her? Couldn’t she walk? He came down to squat again beside her and stared into her eyes, though it was forbidden in his society to look at a young girl so directly.
Her eyes were wide as she gazed back at him, and she said, “You saved my life. If you are asking me if I am injured, I will tell you that I think I am unharmed. I am simply weak, but I think it will pass. Give me a moment, please. I should be all right presently.”
He shook his head, for he didn’t speak the white man’s tongue.
When she said, “Perhaps, sir, you might take me back to my fiancé, for I am certain he is concerned about me,” he shrugged, for her words meant nothing to him, and she obviously didn’t know sign language.
Unsure what he should do with her, he stood up and glanced at his pony, who was enjoying the treat of the fresh and abundant brownish-green grass growing on the hillside.
He supposed all might be well for a while, which would allow him to come down onto his stomach and belly crawl to the edge of the hill where he could look out over the lay of the land. Looking outward, he could see no sign of either the stampeding herd of buffalo nor the hunters. However, he could still see the woman’s man, and the white painter appeared to not notice the plight of his wife, if only because he still sat astride his pony, his paints and his papers still in his hands while he continued to make marks upon the white man’s paper.
What sort of man was this person who didn’t even know his woman had been in a fight for her life? Strikes Fast tried to rein in his contempt of a man who did not properly care for his woman. But, it was useless to even try. Even a wild stallion would die to protect his harem.
However, none of these thoughts helped bring to mind what he should do with the woman. But, he knew he couldn’t take her back to her man when he didn’t even seem to realize she was gone.
Turning onto his back, Strikes Fast gazed upward at the deep blue of the sky, feeling himself relax at the same time. Momentarily, he congratulated himself on rescuing the woman; perhaps it was a deed worthy enough to free himself from his obligation to Eagle Heart, his brother— Chief Chases-the-enemy—and Gray Falcon.
But, what was he to do with her now?
Coming up into a seated position, he spoke to her in the Crow language. “Do you think,” he asked, “that this deed I have accomplished today will grant me the freedom from my obligation to the Pikuni brothers?”
Blankly, she stared back at him.
Watching her closely, he realized, then, her problem. She was in shock. Of course she would be traumatized by what had happened; she could have lost her life this day.
Perhaps he could aid her a little. Rising to his feet, he stepped toward her and sat on the ground in front of her, bringing his legs into a cross-legged position in front of him. He stared at her. He didn’t smile, nor did he say a word. Instead, as his elders had taught him to do, he extended his hand toward her and, with gestures, invited her to put her hand in his.
After she had done so, he pointed to his hand and said, “Isché.” He repeated the word, pointing again toward her hand, then asked her, with overly embellished gestures, what her word for this was.
She understood and said simply, “Hand.”
He repeated the word. Then, still keeping hold of her hand, he pointed to her arm and said, “Áale.”
Again, he asked her for the white man’s word, and when she said, “Arm,” he smiled at her before repeating, “Arm.”
She looked away from him. But, he was determined to try to communicate to her, and he continued in the same manner until they had finished most of a human being’s main body parts. When tears came at last to her eyes, he realized her awareness of what had happened might have lightened…at least a little.
The language lessons continued for a while longer until he had discovered her words for the sky, for grass, for trees and for clouds. And, when she asked, “Why are you being so kind to me? I thought Indians hated all white people,” he shook his head, but smiled at her nonetheless.
She glanced downward and away from him. But, he was persistent, and he changed his position until he was squatting before her, and then, still holding on to her hand, he rose to his feet, bringing her up with him.
He walked slowly toward his horse, ensuring she came with him, and he rejoiced a little when he saw she could walk. Stepping up close to his handsome, spotted buffalo pony, he petted the stallion’s neck, then, with large gestures, invited her to do the same.
Before long, they were both petting his pony, he changing his position until he was on one side of the pony and she on the other. It was an odd manner in which to communicate to one another, yet he could feel the horror of what had happened to her continue to lessen.
When she looked over the back of the pony and smiled at him, he felt himself a little bewitched by her, and it was now he who glanced away from her. They continued to rub down his pony until her hand accidentally touched his, and a powerful jolt that felt as though it could be a strike of lightning coursed through his body.
He grimaced. I have been away from a woman for far too long.
He turned his head to look in a different direction when he said to her in Crow, “We should be getting back to camp.”
Again she smiled at him, and he watched her lips as she said, “Thank you. I will not forget your kindness. I promise you. I will not forget.”
Gazing back at her, he looked into her amber-colored eyes and felt suddenly lost within her gaze. Truly, he admired her beauty so greatly, he suddenly didn’t trust himself to be alone with her.
It was past time to leave. Coming around his prized pony, he indicated her, then the horse, and, with his hand, he patted the place where she would sit.
He would not find his seat behind her. Suddenly, he knew it would be wrong to do so.
Once more she smiled at him, and when he helped her up onto his pony, he could barely force himself to let go of her. It wasn’t right, this sudden passion for the woman. Although he wasn’t certain, it was possible she was married to the white man, which made his own feelings misplaced. Also, she was under the protection of the two brothers, Eagle Heart and Chief Chases-the-enemy, and of Gray Falcon, all to whom he owed his allegiance.
He returned her smile, then stepped firmly away from her, and, picking up his pony’s halter, he calmly but firmly trod down the hill.
That’s all for now. Hope you enjoyed reacquainting yourselves (or getting to know) these two people.
I’ll be giving away a mass market paperback edition of the book, SOARING EAGLE’S EMBRACE to one of the bloggers here today. Please do check out the give-away guidelines at the right side of this page. All one has to do to enter is to leave a comment.
Have a wonderful rest of the day!
Howdy! Howdy!
And so, a few years later and now writing book #5 in the series, I feel I can perhaps write about what I have discovered about these fascinating men.
Not so the medicine man. To the right here is a Kiowa Medicine man and his wife and child. Now, when I first started studying the medicine man, I relied on the observations of George Catlin, who traveled West in the 1830’s and met the medicine men and chiefs and others within the tribe and painted their pictures.
CONDITIONS OF NORTH AMERICAN INDIANS, Mr. Catlin writes: “The Fur Traders in this country, are nearly all French; and in their language, a doctor or physician, is called ‘Medecin.’ The Indian country is full of doctors; and as they are all magicians, and skilled, or profess to be skilled, in many mysteries, the word “medecin” has become habitually applied to every thing mysterious or unaccountable; and the English and Americans….have easily and familiarly adopted the same word, with a slight alteration, conveying the same meaning; and to be a little more explicit, they have denominated these personages “medicine-men,” which means something more than merely a doctor or physician.”
reference I have found, while not a lie, is also not quite true in my opinion. But, let me explain.
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.
When I started writing Mercy in Montana, I knew I wanted to have the sisters and their father together at the Kentucky Derby. I don’t know why I wanted that, but I did. Maybe I was using fiction to imagine being there myself.
morning dress.” Col. Meriweather Lewis Clark Jr. attended the Grand Prix de Paris in 1872 and decided to create a high-profile horse race when he returned to America. The high fashion of the Kentucky Derby added to the allure of the event and drew in crowds wanting to show off their finest apparel.
scarcely put together a nice outfit to save my life. I worked in the office of a country club some 13 years ago, and was required to dress much nicer than at any job I’d previously held. I became quite thankful for the styled mannequins in various stores. I would buy exactly the clothes to make the outfit on the mannequin. I never did master mixing and matching my pieces to make multiple outfits.
Regina Walker, a spirited author with a passion for penning captivating tales, finds her inspiration in the enchanting fusion of Jesus and horses. As she roams the great outdoors, her heart sings in harmony with nature’s melodies, as the Holy Spirit whispers secrets to fuel her vibrant storytelling.
