Deathly still. Her fair, beautiful face was chalky white against the dark buffalo robes. The once gleaming golden hair lay lank and lifeless around her slender shoulders. The lush cupid’s-bow lips were cracked and burned from the fever that had raged for days. And the eyes, those expressive emerald eyes that telegraphed her every turbulent emotion, remained closed most of the time. When they did intermittently flutter open, they held no fire; neither hatred nor fear nor puzzlement. “What have I done,” murmured the dark tortured man seated cross-legged beside Martay’s bed of soft buffalo furs. It had been three days since Night Sun had moved Martay from Windwalker’s lodge to his own tipi. In those three days he had not left her side, shaking his head no to offers of help from the women of the camp, even ignoring his beloved grandmother’s suggestion that it didn’t appear proper for a maiden to dwell in the tipi of an unmarried warrior. Night Sun didn’t give a damn how it appeared.
