Somewhere to Dream (Berkley Sensation) by Genevieve Graham Read Free Book Online Page A

of English, having visited trading posts and listened in on other people’s conversations, but the prisoner spoke quickly. Dustu couldn’t have understood what had been said, but he had to be completely aware of the tone being used. He jumped nimbly to his feet and charged, but the prisoner stepped to the side, sticking out his boot at the last moment so Dustu fell face-first into the dirt. The rest of the Cherokee roared with laughter, approving of the move, and Dustu got to his hands and knees, spitting mud. When he stood, his face was an angry purple, and I watched the white man narrow his distinctive, almost beautiful eyes.
    Light-coloured, almost gold. I’d seen those eyes so often in my dreams, but in those dreams I’d run from them. Now they stared at Dustu, willing him to come. Answering the challenge, Dustu went for the man’s face, catching him on the jaw. Blood spattered from the captive’s torn face, but he snapped back and caught Dustu once, twice, hard in the gut. Dustu folded, groaning and drawing into a ball, despite his friends’ heckling. The white man stood beside him, looking down his nose and waiting. He wiped an arm across his bleeding face, then looked around at the circle of jeering men.
    “Who’s next?” he demanded.
    In the moment when the man looked away, Dustu reached into his holster and unsheathed his hunting knife. With all his strength, he slammed the handle into the prisoner’s thigh wound, and I grabbed Soquili’s arm.
    “Make him stop!” I demanded. “Dustu is fighting unfairly.”
    “
Shh
, Ad-layd. My brother will take care of that.”
    I didn’t see how. All the blood had drained from the man’s dirt-encrusted face and seemed to be spilling from his thigh. Dustu, grinning madly, had gotten to his feet and now slammed his fist into the captive’s stomach, catching his face when he curled reflexively in half. The prisoner staggered sideways before his injured leg finally gave in, and he fell.
    “Soquili,” I hissed, watching Dustu’s determined expression as he circled the injured man. I had seen wolves surround an injured stag, tearing it to bits while the beast twisted and thrust uselessly with his antlers. I had seen cats play with mice, tossing them from paw to paw until the little creatures lay listlessly, wishing for the end. I had no desire to witness this. I stepped forward, wanting to put a stop to the violence, but Soquili grabbed my arm and jerked me back.
    Dustu kicked the man’s open thigh wound, then lifted his hands over his head, grinning and nodding at his tribe.
See? See who is the man here?
Dustu’s enthusiasm was contagious. He returned to kick again, and the prisoner made a gurgling sound through clenched teeth. Before long, the others were cheering along with Dustu.
    Soquili shifted beside me, the only indication of his concern a subtle clenching of his jaw. Dustu went back a third time, but before he could connect again, the prisoner grabbed Dustu’s foot and yanked it in a savage twist. I heard the bone crack, Dustu shriek, and Soquili hoot with laughter, his voice rich with approval.
    The man was forgotten as the others gathered around Dustu. The warrior rolled and howled, clutching at his broken leg. As I approached Dustu, keen on my duty as healer, I glanced down at the white man. He lay curled off to the side, much paler than before, with one hand pressed to his bleeding thigh. He blinked up at me through his swollen face, seeming confused at the sight of my blond hair. I met his golden eyes, those eyes I knew from my dreams, and my breath stopped for an instant. What did I see in them beside hatred? Violence, unquestionably. Intelligence was there as well, calculating all the time. And deeper within, even beyond the wounds of his body, I sensed pain. So much bitter pain, but not the kind that could be healed with salves or stitches. I fought the urge to drop to my knees beside him. I had to tend to the Cherokee first.
    It was difficult to