They’ve left me to die…. Serena barely lifted her head from the coarse bulrushes that crowded the banks of the shallow river. It hurt to breathe, but she took in a deep, quivering breath, pushing herself upward on unsteady arms. Dawn was peeling back the inky coverlet of the September night. A shiver wound up her spine. It was a night she’d never forget. Blackjack Kingston’s narrow, mustached face leered through the fog of her pain.

Shaking her head as if to banish thought of the rich gold miner, Serena forced herself to think beyond the open wounds on her breasts. Green eyes narrowed with agony, she stared groggily at the peaceful river that flowed through the Black Hills of South Dakota. Steam rose in wavering fingers off the surface, creating fog across the river and surrounding marsh. Her home, Wexford, Ireland, was so far away. She was halfway around the world, abused by a depraved man and then thrown away to die.

“No,” she muttered, gritting her teeth. She looked down at her thin blue calico dress. The bodice was stained with blood and seepage from the wounds Kingston had inflicted upon her, and the material stuck to her flesh. His last words haunted her: “I’ll make damn sure no man wants to lay a hand on you again, you redheaded witch.”

Lifting her fingers to her bodice, Serena closed her eyes, her emotional pain overwhelming her physical pain. It was impossible to erase the memory of Kingston stalking across the polished wooden floor from the fireplace with the red-hot poker in his hand. A sob escaped from her constricted throat. There was no way to halt the forthcoming terror as she replayed the scene in her mind. Because she refused to submit to the miner’s demands, he’d repeatedly raped her, taking her virginity, and with it her dignity.

Serena hung her head, gently placing her fingers against her aching right breast. She came from a poor family of Catholic farmers in Ireland. Perhaps her flaming red hair, which now hung matted and unkempt, was a banner heralding her unbreakable spirit, and Kingston had sought to break her because of it. Her spirit was all she had left, Serena thought, dazed by the sudden turn of events. Last night she had tried to escape, not eating the drugged food. The fight to elude Blackjack had turned into a violent confrontation. She had almost made it past the door to freedom, but he had wrapped his hand into her waist-length red hair and yanked her off her feet.

Serena reached out, sliding her fingers into the clear, quiet water. Serena longed to wash away the terror she tasted in her bloodied mouth. Slowly she crawled into a kneeling position, the dress hampering her efforts. The water was so clear and inviting in comparison to how she felt inwardly. Dirty. Filthy.

Scooping up a handful of water, Serena allowed the cooling liquid to sluice across her face. Blackjack had always talked of how pretty she was: the tilt of her forest-green eyes, her generous lips and her thick, red hair. Instead of using the hot poker to scar her face, he’d scarred her breasts.

She knelt on the bank, hands in her lap, watching the red ribbon across the horizon. Around her, the world was awakening, birds heralding the arrival of the dawn with their melodic chorus. I’m alive. I can make it. Somehow, I can make it. The water was clearing her senses. Serena leaned down, scooping one handful after another onto her mouth drinking deeply of the life-giving water. After ripping a piece of the calico material from the hem of the dress, she dipped it into the water. She tried to scrub away from her face, neck and hands the odor of Blackjack and of the last terrible months of imprisonment.

As she sat there, hidden among the tall reeds and rushes, Serena watched the red dawn turn gold, and then a fragile pink color. The world around her was pristine, untouched and heart-stoppingly beautiful—all the things she would never be again. Kingston had robbed her of her virginity, the only thing she had left to give the man who might be her husband. Worse, he’d claimed her selfhood, leaving her stripped and humiliated. Tears squeezed into Serena’s eyes, but she froze them in place, refusing to cry, to give in to them.

Throughout the months that she’d been a prisoner of Kingston, Serena had never shown fear or cried. Blackjack had taken her bravery as his personal challenge to break her spirit, to make her cry out in pain, or at least to bring her to a state of tears. He’d accused her of being a witch, of having no heart or feelings because he hadn’t accomplished his goal. Serena hung her head, staring at the young grass shoots. Gently, she touched them with her muddied fingers. Once she’d been like them—vulnerable to the ever-changing world around her.

“Never again…” she whispered hoarsely. Men meant nothing but pain, degradation and humility. Her spirit, her ability to fight back for what she felt was rightfully hers, had been a beacon to men who disagreed with her. They tried to break or kill her. The hatred that welled up in Serena took her by surprise. It was murderous, and she had never contemplated hurting anyone in her eighteen years of life. But that was before she had tapped the rage suppressed deep within her heart.

Men. She closed her eyes, wincing. Men scared her now. Kingston didn’t have to worry about her wanting a husband. She wanted no man! Serena slowly opened her eyes, staring at the unsullied water. If God would answer her prayers and help her survive this latest twist in her life, she swore she would never marry. Better to eke out an existence alone than to bow to a man and become his slave again. Men meant nothing but pain and agony, capable only of hurting, maiming and raping a woman.

The braying of a mule jerked Serena out of the hatred in which she was wallowing. She flattened out among the bulrushes, remaining well hidden. Within minutes, six burly miners with mules loaded down with gold-mining tools moved past her on the bank above. They were looking for gold, no doubt, trying to strike and claim another mother lode. Heart beating wildly in her throat, Serena pressed her face to the cooling, abrasive texture of the reeds. Don’t let them see me…. God, please don’t let them discover me….

Just the nearness of the hulking, bearded men made her tremble with fear. They passed her, unaware of her presence. Barely breathing, Serena closed her eyes and dug her fingers into the mud. Blackjack had dumped her somewhere west of the town of Kingston. How far she was from the outpost that served as a gold-mining camp for miners such as these, she had no idea. For two months, he’d had her cuffed and chained to a bed. That one room of his large, two-story cabin had been her cage, her only existence.

If these men discovered her, they would capture and rape her—just as Blackjack had done. They had greedy faces and hard eyes. From the maid, Lucinda, a black slave from the south who would sometimes keep her company when Blackjack was out of town, Serena had heard that the miners often ruthlessly slaughtered the Sioux Indians who lived on these gold-strewn Black Hills of the Dakota Territory. In her heart, she felt sorry for the Sioux.

Serena had learned that Blackjack hated anyone who wasn’t male and white. Often, he’d whipped Lucinda for the slightest infraction of the strict rules he’d laid down. And too many times Serena had heard of Blackjack’s notorious gang of miners, who rode into Sioux villages killing men, women and children just to get a new gold claim. Children…Her stomach rolled and she swallowed hard, fighting the urge to vomit. Children, no matter what their color or religion, were helpless. In her eyes they were precious, and deserved protection. But Blackjack called the Sioux little more than animals that deserved to be trapped and slaughtered, just like foxes or wolves. They didn’t have hide like animals, but their scalps were worth upward of ten dollars apiece at his trading post, he’d boast.

The last of the miners disappeared around the curve of the river. Serena dragged in a shaky breath, lifting her head. Looking down at herself, she realized her dress was not only in dire need of a washing, but damp and muddied. So were the thick, twisted strands of her red hair that hung against her aching breasts.

After waiting another five minutes, Serena was convinced the miners were gone. She tested her legs, finding them rubbery but willing to sustain her weight. Getting up, she planted her bare feet apart to steady herself. A cutting smile crossed her lips. Blackjack had forced her to wear shoes, but every time, she would get rid of them. All her life she’d gone barefoot, the thick calluses on the bottoms of her feet tougher than any shoe leather. Digging her toes into the mud reminded her that there was life despite the feelings of numbness within her.

I’m free. Blackjack thinks I’ll die. But I won’t. Somehow, I’ll survive. Just like I did before. Serena picked up the folds of her skirt and lifted her head. In front of her was a small knoll with several large oaks upon the crown. If the miners were heading north, she’d go south, following the river. In Ireland, she’d eaten roots, grubs and anything else in order to survive. Standing at the river’s edge, she could see mussels in the shallows, and a fish peeking out between rocks. There was food to survive upon.

Just as Serena turned to begin her trek south, she heard a woman’s piercing scream slice open the dawn. Jerking around, she nearly fell, dizzy from the sudden movement. Another scream, this time from a different woman, split the air. Children began to shriek in alarm. She heard a baby crying. Then, a gun went off, shattering the calm for miles around.

The cries of the women triggered something primal within Serena. Gripping her skirts, she moved clumsily up the riverbank. The bulrushes slowed her momentum, but after she reached the halfway point, the land smoothed out into velvet-green grass. Panting from the sudden exertion, Serena staggered to a halt at the top of the bank, leaning heavily against one of the rough-barked oak trees.

Her eyes widened. First terror struck her, and then revulsion. Below, the six gold miners had discovered a group of unarmed Indian women, with their babies lying in cradleboards nearby. Roots that had been gathered from the river’s bank lay scattered around the area as the miners attacked the women. Mules brayed and danced nervously. Gasping for breath, Serena gave a low cry of anguish. The miners had chased down the women and were in the process of raping them. One child, barely four years old, lay dead. Serena saw another woman holding her baby to her breast as a black-bearded miner ran after her, hunting her as if she were little more than a game animal. The children!

Hatred spurred Serena into action. For two months she’d been tortured by a white man. She’d endured rape and incredible pain from the constant beatings. And now these filthily clad miners were going to rape these innocent, unarmed women. Without thinking, Serena grabbed a long oak limb. Her hands were small but her fingers were long, and she wrapped them around the huge club.

“No!” she shrieked, flying down the bank, her hair streaming like a red banner behind her. “You won’t hurt them! You won’t!” Lifting the club above her head, Serena allowed the momentum of the slope to carry her into the fray, surprising the miners, who had dropped their guns to rape the Indian women.

Evening Star, mother of a two-month-old baby boy, gripped the cradleboard to her breast. Her eyes widened enormously as she saw a white woman with red hair flying down the hill, screeching at the top of her lungs. The miner who had been chasing her jerked to a halt, equally surprised. He had no time to yell a warning to his busy comrades. Evening Star saw the wildness in the white woman’s green eyes as she brought the oak branch down hard on the miner’s head. The black-bearded one fell with a grunt, unconscious.

Before Evening Star could say anything, she saw the white woman whirl around, leaping toward another miner who had taken down her older sister, Redwing. Sobbing, she gripped her baby, realizing that Redwing was dead. Satisfaction soared through her as the red-haired woman brought down the club on the murderer’s neck. A crack split the air. The second miner toppled like a felled ox, his back broken. Just reward for killing her sister!

Placing her baby beneath the protection of a clump of willows, Evening Star ran back to help defend the women of her village. She, too, picked up a dead tree limb. Then, noticing the red-haired woman was in danger, Evening Star cried out a warning.

Serena saw a brown-bearded miner hesitate, his pants down. An Indian woman lay unconscious beneath him. Mules were braying and stampeding in all directions, mud being kicked up everywhere. The miner fumbled toward his holster, but it lay too far away from him to retrieve before Serena got to him. At the last second before she charged him, a crazed mule began kicking out viciously with his rear feet. The second kick caught the miner in the head just as he stretched across the muddy earth to reach the gun. In seconds, he was dead.

“Bitch!” a blond-bearded miner roared at Serena. “You’re gonna die!” And he jerked up his trousers.

Serena saw the miner lunge for the closest weapon—a limb of a tree that was twice as long and thick as the one she carried. A baby, no more than three months old, lay in a cradleboard on the ground between the miner and herself. The baby was in danger if she charged the miner.

The blonde scooped up the limb, his blue eyes gleaming with hatred as he whirled back upon the red-haired woman. “You’re dead, bitch!” he roared.

Unleashing further rage, Serena threw her weapon as hard as she could at the miner, and ran forward to pick up the child. Escape! We have to escape! The miner ducked her poorly aimed tree limb and scrambled after her. Her legs rubbery from fatigue, Serena tripped over the hem of her long skirt. Holding the baby to her breast, she fell forward. At the last moment, she twisted to her side. Her shoulder and hip took most of the impact, absorbing the shock of the fall instead of the baby.

“No!” Evening Star shrieked, running toward the miner who stalked the red-haired one and Redwing’s infant daughter. She lifted the branch, hoping to frighten away the half-dressed miner. It was no use! Despair filled Evening Star. She increased her forward speed, hoping to protect the white woman and her sister’s daughter. Too late! Too late! Evening Star saw the miner raise the limb like a mighty sledgehammer above his head as he loomed over the crouching white woman. As she struggled closer, Evening Star could see the defiance and hatred in the white woman’s eyes as she faced her enemy, unafraid. To her bosom she clutched the cradleboard, protecting Redwing’s daughter.

Serena stared up into the blond miner’s angry blue eyes. Her hatred of him as a man knew no bounds. His arms were thick and hairy, looking more like oak than human appendages. He was built like a bull. As he raised the limb that would strike and probably kill her, Serena no longer cared. What mattered was the tiny baby clinging to her breast. It was a good trade, she thought in those seconds that slowed to a crawl as she saw him lift the club to kill her. Her life wasn’t worth living. But the baby had a chance, undefiled and untouched by whites.

Something commanded Serena to look beyond the miner who would take her life. An eerie calm filled her as she lifted her eyes to a hill not far away from where she knelt. An Indian warrior on a black horse appeared at the top, his bow drawn back, the arrow pointed down at her. At that moment, the sun brimmed the horizon, sending blinding shafts of light across the land, illuminating the warrior in blinding radiance. Serena had expected herself to feel revulsion and hatred for the Sioux warrior because he was a man. She felt anything but that. There was a calmness about him, an energy that radiated from him just as the sun’s rays enveloped him and his horse. He was dressed in buckskin, his thick black hair in two braids, with brown and white golden eagle feathers attached to his head.

Serena watched the limb coming down to strike her. She saw the warrior draw back the bow to release the arrow. Who would kill her first? Suddenly, she felt acceptance of her death. Her eyes never left the warrior’s grim, chiseled features. His face was as hard and rugged as the cliffs along the Irish Sea. There was no forgiveness in the lines around his broad, generous mouth or in the narrowness of his sable eyes that glittered like those of a barely tamed wild animal. The look in those eyes, in that split second, when they made direct contact with her, changed. No longer were they hard. Instead she not only saw, but felt his concern and anguish over her predicament. A shaft of warmth, of hope, shot through her. Why would he care? I’m a stranger. A white woman. Confused, Serena’s last conscious thoughts revolved around that feeling that gave her hope and courage when she had none left herself.

Black Wolf released the arrow. With a grunt of satisfaction, he saw it strike the miner in the back of the neck. But not before the miner had struck the white woman who protected Redwing’s child. Angry that he’d not arrived moments sooner, Black Wolf sank his heels into his mount and galloped down the hill, while loading another arrow into his bow. In twenty-five years of hunting, Black Wolf had never missed a target from the back of his favorite buffalo runner, Wiyaka. Squeezing his long, curved thighs against the ebony mare, he guided her with astonishing precision between the women and children, his targets the last two miners.

Satisfaction soared through Wolf as his arrows struck their targets cleanly and with deadly accuracy. He pulled on the rawhide jaw cord of the mare, whirling her around. What greeted his eyes broke his pounding heart. His oldest sister, Redwing, lay unmoving, a red stain eating up the front of her buckskin dress. The miner who lay dead at her side had a broken neck.

As he dismounted, Black Wolf heard another cry. He saw his sister Evening Star drop a tree limb and race toward him, arms outstretched.

“Wolf! They attacked us out of nowhere!” she sobbed, throwing her arms around him. “We never heard them coming.”

Wolf held his youngest sister of seventeen. They were surrounded by carnage. Six women and four children had gone out to hunt roots along the river. Something they did once a week to help feed the village. His eyes grew stormy as he swept his gaze across the inert bodies of the miners. “Why did they do this?“ he croaked.

“It’s always the same,” Evening Star wept. “Why can’t the wasicun, the white man, leave us in peace? Redwing!” she wailed. “They killed her!”

Bile crawled up into Wolf’s mouth. His lips thinned. Redwing’s throat had been slit and she had been raped. Squeezing Evening Star gently, he whispered hoarsely, “Come, we must get help. You must mount Wiyaka, and ride to the village. Get five warriors and extra horses.”

Wiping tears from her round face, Evening Star pointed to the left. “She saved us, Wolf. The white woman charged the miners like ten warriors. She was swinging that oak limb as if it were a war club. If not for her, Redwing’s baby would have been killed. I don’t know if she was a member of their party or not. She struck like a thunder being, surprising all of them.”

Wolf stood there looking at the white woman, who lay unmoving, the cradleboard beneath her body. “Ride for help, Evening Star,” he commanded. “I will do what I can until they arrive.“ Boosting her onto the black mare, he took his medicine parfleche from the rear of his cottonwood saddle. “Hurry!” he ordered, slapping the horse on the rump.

As soon as Evening Star disappeared over the hill, Wolf turned to those who needed him. As medicine man, his life revolved around the well-being of his people. Little Swallow, his twenty-six-year-old sister, limped toward him, her face etched in pain. She too, had been raped.

“Wolf,” she pleaded, “see to Redwing first.”

“She’s dead.”

Little Swallow winced as if struck. At her side was her daughter of three. “Then take care of the others first. I will be fine.”

Wolf reached out. “Your daughter?”

Little Swallow knelt down, examining her distraught daughter. “She is all right. She ran and hid in that bank of willows when the miners attacked us. All she has are some scrapes and bruises.”

Nodding, Wolf turned his attention to the other two Indian women. One had a broken arm, the other suffered a broken jaw. Swallowing his hatred of the wasicun, Wolf couldn’t erase his curiosity about the woman with the red hair. She was a warrioress, challenging her own kind. Why? Weren’t all whites like these miners?

He placed the broken arm between willow bark and then wrapped it with rawhide thongs to keep the bone in place. For the woman with the broken jaw, there was little he could do but give her herb to hold between her teeth to minimize the pain. And there was even less he could do for Little Swallow, who suffered without tears or complaining.

“Cleanse yourself down at the river,” Wolf told her in a voice strangled with emotion.

“What about the red-haired one? She bleeds heavily from the head.“ Little Swallow’s brown eyes narrowed. “She saved us from sure death, Wolf. Does she not deserve our help?”

He scowled.

“You are a wapiya, a healer,” Little Swallow began in a pleading tone, “and you’re bound by vows to save another’s life. Do that much for her. She saved Redwing’s baby, your niece.”

Moved by Little Swallow’s impassioned words, Wolf nodded. The healer in him wanted to go to the white woman. But part of him, the part that had had so many of his family members murdered by the wasicun, wanted to leave her to die. Another part of him was afraid of her. Afraid! Why should he be afraid of a mere white woman? As he approached her, Wolf realized that she was anything but “mere.“ Her red hair lay about her face like a blazing halo of light from Father Sun. Crouching, he moved her arm aside to see if Redwing’s baby was unharmed. Relief fled across his hardened features as the baby, who had been named Dawn Sky, slowly opened her eyes, staring up at him.

“Little one,” he soothed, setting aside the parfleche and carefully removing the cradleboard from the white woman’s arms. To his surprise and relief, Dawn Sky was uninjured. And like all good Lakota children, the baby hadn’t whimpered one cry during the battle. Straightening up, Wolf took the child in the cradleboard to the bank of willows, placing her with Little Swallow’s daughter. Making sure both children were well, Wolf walked back to the white woman.

As he placed her on her back, he admitted in some small part of himself that she had been braver than any five warriors he’d ever known. Attacking six armed miners with nothing more than a tree limb was a great coup. For that, he would name her Cante Tinza, Brave Heart, even if it went against his beliefs.

Hesitating in his examination of her, Wolf had never seen red hair before. It was thick like a horse’s mane and heavily matted with mud. His thoughts shifted to the women who sat wearily nearby. If they saw him vacillate in attending to her injuries, they would surely laugh at his unexplained cowardice. Picking up a thick strand of red hair, Wolf removed it from the region of her breasts. Blood had congealed across her bosom as well as on her right temple. Where to begin? The scowl on his broad brow deepened as he unbuttoned the front of her dress. His fingers trembled as he lifted away the thin material. An ivory chemise crossed her breasts, and that too was soaked with fluids from the injury. With an oath under his breath, Wolf pulled the knife from the scabbard at his side. Placing the point in the material, he slit it upward.

A grunt of surprise escaped him as he pulled the chemise aside. The woman’s breasts bore deep, fresh burns. He hunched over, perplexed by the unusual wounds. She had small, firm breasts, their ivory roundness crowned with pink-tipped nipples. The urge to touch them, to see if they were as velvety soft as they appeared, moved through Wolf. Disgusted with his physical reaction to Cante Tinza, he turned his thoughts back to healing. He took a special powder ground from comfrey root and sprinkled it across the terrible scars on her breasts.

“Who has done this to her?“ Little Swallow demanded, leaning over his shoulder. She jabbed her finger downward. “This woman has been hurt by wasicuns.”

Wolf gave her a bare glance. “It could be the Crow who did this, too. They are known to burn great scars on the bodies of their enemies.”

“Perhaps,” Little Swallow muttered, coming around to kneel at the woman’s head. Taking a cloth wet from the river, she pressed it against the head wound. “Has someone whipped her, also?”

Glancing up from his work, he saw that Little Swallow was pointing to some fresh, pink scars that lay like ribbons across the white woman’s small, proud shoulders. “Let me dress these wounds first, and then we will find out,” he muttered.

“She saved us, Wolf. Do not be bitter about trying to save her.”

Compressing his lips, he held on to his anger. Little Swallow had been raped, and she was unraveling emotionally before him, her hands shaking as she daubed the blood away from Cante Tinza’s head wound. “I will do what I can,” he promised quietly.

“I saw the hatred in her eyes,” Little Swallow whispered, tears beginning to stream down her cheeks. “She hated these miners. Perhaps they tortured or abused her—like they abused us….”

“If that is so, then she has an even braver heart than I first thought,” he admitted as he carefully closed her chemise and rebuttoned her dress.

“I have never seen someone fight with such fury, such anger,” Little Swallow continued.

Wolf reached over, placing his hand on Little Swallow’s slumped shoulder. “Tanksi, sister, go and sit down. You are shaking like a young leaf in a storm.”

Managing a wobbly smile, Little Swallow nodded. “You are right, tiblo, brother.“ Patting the woman’s shoulder, she whispered, “This one is special. I do not care if she has white skin—her heart is Lakota.”

“You have always had an eye on those who are good and kind,” Wolf agreed. “Now, go. Sit and rest. The warriors will be here shortly to take everyone back to the village.“ It felt as if a hand were squeezing his heart. Wolf acknowledged his younger sister’s words of wisdom. No longer did he try to hold his hatred as a barrier toward Cante Tinza as he moved to dress her head wound. If not for her courage, he could have lost the last of his once large family. He owed her much.

His mind moved forward. Many things would have to be done. Once the bodies of the miners were found, the Lakota would be held responsible for their deaths by the wasicun whether they deserved it or not. Chief Badger Mouth would have to move the village; otherwise fort soldiers would kill all of them, swooping down upon them like hawks from the sky. Right now, there was an unstable peace between all Lakota and the wasicun.

There were Lakotas who wouldn’t like the fact that he was going to take the red-haired woman into his tepee, Black Wolf thought. Badger Mouth would oppose it. Every family in the village of one hundred people had lost someone to the guns of the wasicun. They bore hatred toward the miners, who continued to steal their ancestral lands. With a sigh, Wolf gently ran his hand across her dirty forehead. She needed to be bathed, and her hair needed to be unknotted, washed and combed. Despite the torture Cante Tinza had undergone, there was still beauty in her face. As Wolf heard the sound of hoofbeats reverberating through the foggy dawn air that told the warriors were approaching, he wondered what color Cante Tinza’s eyes were.

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