He was bone weary; the last time he’d slept was the night before he and Shannon had made love. He didn’t remove clothing or moccasins. He fell instantly into a deep and troubled slumber. In a dream world, he ran through heavy fog…Shannon just ahead of him. He could hear her voice calling out to him, but he couldn’t see her. The mist muffled her voice, confusing him, making it impossible to tell where she was. “I need you,” she cried. “Storm Dancer, where are you?” “Shannon!” “I need you.” A hand shook him. “Son?” Jerked from his dream, disoriented, Storm Dancer leaped up, reaching for his knife. Male laughter assaulted him. “Is this how you greet your father?” Storm Dancer’s eyelids felt gritty. He shook the cobwebs from his thoughts and concentrated on the tall man standing near the fire pit. “I’m sorry, Flint. I didn’t—” “It’s nothing. If I’ve gotten too old to keep out of your reach when I wake you, I deserve what I get.” His father chuckled.
