Heart of the Storm

Tea…she needed some sage tea. Yes, that would help soothe her raw, nervous state. She knew Chase would come down soon enough. Dana didn’t want to be standing here like an idiot when he arrived. Nervously, she went through the motions of taking the teakettle off the stove. There was kindling in a cardboard box, and she quickly rolled up some pieces of newspaper. After putting them into the stove, Dona located a box of matches. The fire lit quickly, the dry kindling snapping to life. Dana added several larger sticks and then shut the door.

As she looked around the quiet hogan, the peace of the place infiltrated her tense state. Everything was simple. The floor was hard-packed red dirt, swept clean and then covered by several colorful, handwoven rugs. On the southern walls were pine board shelves holding mason jars filled with various herbs. On another shelf were weaving items—a spindle, herbs for dying purposes and some gathered wool wrapped around spindles, waiting to be used this coming winter. On the western walls were several shelves containing what Dana recognized as medicine tools Agnes used in her healing ceremonies. There was a yellow gourd rattle with a redtail feather tied by a leather thong to the end of the highly polished wooden handle. A fan made of golden eagle tail feathers lay next to it. Dana didn’t go over to look at them. Medicine objects were never to be touched except by the owner.

Turning, she set the beat-up old copper kettle back on the stove, after making sure there was enough water in it. The fire spat and crackled. Dana found a mason jar filled with dried white sage leaves. She took a small handful and dropped it into the kettle before replacing the dented lid. It felt good to be doing something rather than waiting for Chase to enter that open door.

Dana could feel him approaching. It was like sensing the invisible pressure of a storm front moving through the area. Steeling herself, she listened carefully, but couldn’t hear him. The man was more cougar than human. No one ever heard the approach of a mountain lion, either. Until it was too late.

She took a deep, ragged breath and waited. When he finally entered, like a silent shadow, her heart twinged with fear. Chase was so tall that he had to duck his head at the doorway. Dana guessed the lintel was six feet high, and he was a good three or four inches taller. She tried to ignore the beautiful play of glistening muscles as he straightened and focused those golden eyes on her.

Though her pulse accelerated, Dana compressed her lips and glared at him. She wasn’t going to let him scare her again. Or catch her off guard. Yet, as Chase moved on into the hogan, Dana couldn’t help gazing at his male body, naked from the waist up. The scars on his chest told her he’d participated in several sun dances up on a Lakota reservation. For that ceremony, wooden pins were pushed through vertical slits in the skin of a man’s chest or shoulder. Leather thongs were attached to the pins, and the sun dancer dragged buffalo skulls behind him as he danced for days on end around the sacred cottonwood pole in the center. The sun dance wasn’t for sissies, and Dana’s admiration for Chase rose whether she wanted it to or not. Any man who had completed a sun dance bore deep scars on his chest or shoulder blades. They were a reminder that he had the strength of spirit and the physical endurance to show his faith to the Great Spirit.

Her own scars, Dana thought, might be invisible, but they were just as deep and as hard earned. All people were wounded, she knew. But some scars couldn’t be seen. Staring at Chase’s broad, scarred chest, she wondered what other wounds he had endured.

Chase sat down on a rug, legs crossed, his powerful hands resting on his knees. “Sage tea?” he asked.

“Of course.” Dana tried not to sound tense and threatened. She couldn’t read this man as she could others; it was as if he had a wall up between them. When her back was turned, she could feel his eyes like two hot poker points. Hands trembling, Dana took a wooden spoon, pulled off the lid of the kettle and stirred the bubbling tea. The pungent fragrance of sage drifted upward and she inhaled, absorbing its healing and calming nature.

Dana tried to ignore Chase, but that was impossible. She went to the small sink near the door and found two chipped white mugs. After setting them on the drain board, she retrieved the kettle and poured tea into them. There was sagebrush honey on a shelf above the sink and she reached for it. Desert honey was delicious, and her mouth watered in anticipation as she spooned a thick dollop into each cup. Once she finished stirring them, Dana picked up the mugs and turned around.

Chase took his steaming tea. The moment their hands met, he felt her pull away. If he hadn’t wrapped his fingers around the mug, she would have dropped it in his lap. He saw her nervously lick her full lower lip.

“Sit here,” he told her, pointing to a place opposite him on the earth-toned rug.

Stung by his curt voice and blunt order, Dana hesitated, staring at the spot. It was much too close to him. She chose another spot a good six feet away and slowly eased into a cross-legged position.

After a few sips, Chase asked, “Did you bring the Nighthawk Pipe?”

“Of course. As a pipe carrier, I go nowhere without it.”

“Did your mother leave behind any ceremonial tools for you?”

The mention of her mother sent a sharp ache through Dana. She gripped the warm mug more tightly and gazed at him.

Lowering his eyes, Chase stared down at the red earth floor between the rugs. Ceremonial objects were powerful instruments of their healing trade. He moved his gaze to Dana once more.

“She surely had certain feathers, rattles and sacred stones she worked with,” he pressed. Dana looked fetching in her simple clothes, her hair mussed from the breeze, the black braids eloquent testimony to the blood that ran richly through her veins.

Frustrated with his abrupt statements and questions, she snapped, “Of course she did.”

Meeting her blazing eyes, Chase stated, “For someone who has such old and powerful tools, you don’t use them very well or very often.” Pointing toward the canyon wall they’d just descended, he added, “You didn’t even have an ally protecting you from my attack. You’re giving away power, woman.”

Stung, Dana growled, “Just who in the hell do you think you are? First, you attack me up there.” She gestured toward her puffy cheek, which had been held against the sandstone. “You’re the one who should be apologizing for hurting me! For scaring me to death! And you can wipe that disgusted look off your face while you’re at it. I’m not into judgmental people, so back off.”

“A warrioress never complains. She does not show her pain, no matter how much she suffers. And she should know the value of silence, of listening. You know none of these things.”

“What are you talking about?” Dana began to hate the man. He sat there nearly naked, dangerous to her female senses, and yet supposedly her teacher. A terrible combination. “Who are you to question how I walk the Red Road or utilize the sacred objects passed on to me by my mother?” Hot indignation welled up in Dana, something she hadn’t felt in two years. She wanted to run from the hogan, down the canyon to Grandma Agnes and tell her that she refused to work with this Neanderthal who called her “woman” of all things. The stormy look in his eyes scared Dana and at the same time fascinated her. His mouth was a thin line and the hard planes of his copper face gave no inkling of what he was really feeling. Disgust at her, most likely.

Sipping his tea, Chase allowed her husky words to reverberate through the hogan. When Dana got her feathers ruffled, she struck back. There was backbone beneath that golden, dusky skin of hers. That pleased him.

The tea and honey were a good combination on his tongue. Lowering the mug, Chase noted how she glared at him. Her hands were wrapped around her own mug, tightly enough to crush it.

“You are the only hope for the Blue Heron Society. Your grandmother already told you that. You are young, strong and possess the genes of your mother, who carried the Storm Pipe.” Chase lowered his voice. “I will work with you to prepare you on all levels for the tasks set before you by Grandmother Agnes. That is, if you are brave enough to take on this mission.”

Shaken, Dana dragged in a deep breath. The silence between them became oppressive. She stared down at the mug she gripped, her tea barely touched. Her hands were soft and without calluses, unlike his.

“I’ll do my best,” she finally rasped. Looking up, she met his narrowed golden eyes. For a moment, Dana allowed herself to drown in their darkening depths. Mesmerized by Chase’s blunt, powerful energy, she felt an invisible shift within her.

Blinking, she disengaged from his stare.

“Rogan lives up in a fortress in the Sierras,” Chase began. “He has a compound near Carson City, Nevada. The twelve women who work with him are true warriors. They are fanatical about keeping that ceremonial pipe for themselves. These women have placed their lives on the line to protect it and Rogan.”

“I’m not a killer.”

“No, but Rogan is. And his women will kill you if you don’t know how to be stealthy and protect yourself. This is no game, woman.”

“Dammit, stop calling me ‘woman’! My name is Dana Thunder Eagle.”

She felt stung by Chase’s humorless smile. Now, he was laughing at her, as a coyote would a hapless rabbit.

“Better to be called ‘woman’ than ‘child.’”

Drawing herself erect, spine taut, shoulders back, she said, “My name is Dana.”