Awakening the Alpha Book 2: Snatched

Chapter 2-3

People were lined up at the east entrance, a position he knew was significant in Native lore because the brochure that came with his ticket noted the building had been planned to align with the four principal points of the compass. When he saw how many patrons waited for the doors to open, guilt rolled through him that he could bypass them to be let in. To his surprise, the guard directed him to the side yard, where tipis and other Indian dwellings in natural materials were scattered across a meadow of prairie grasses. A spattering of yellow buttercups and other small wildflowers peeped above them.

“Mr. Swift Rider is opening the exhibit with a special song. There are chairs for you and the other special guests. As soon as you’re seated, I’ll escort the people in line there. We don’t have chairs for everyone, but the dance is short and those without a seat will be okay.”

When Blaze noticed the drum standing on the ground, its padded mallets resting on a tan animal skin cover, he said, “Yes!” to himself. He loved the primordial sound of drums. He not only heard them, he felt them in his gut and knew they appealed to his most primitive human self.

As he headed across the green sward for the chairs, the sun highlighted the patterned wings of butterflies flitting around. A ruby-throated hummingbird flew right up to Blaze, who stopped because the little bird did. It hovered like a tiny helicopter, its fragile wings whirring as it turned its little head as if to study him, then it flew up and over him to search for nectar in the flowers and trees.

Blaze laughed. Was that a sign of approval? Mystical people might think it was, but the only thing mysterious about him was what happened to his body when the moon was full. And when he gazed deep into Logan’s eyes, his wolf whirled in joy and he saw straight to his lover’s honest heart.

It seemed odd that Logan’s family wasn’t here. Only one empty chair remained in the VIP section, so he offered it to a frail, older Native woman whom he might have taken for Kenu’s wife had he not known he was a widower. After everyone was ushered in, he stood in the back with those who’d originally been in line behind him, and turned his attention to the Native program director, who had begun to speak of the Riders’ lineage.

“A census in the late twentieth century indicated fewer than fifty-thousand Shoshone across this country. As you view Logan Swift Rider’s work, note his portraits of the two most famous from his nation—Sacagawea and Chief Washakie.

“As a girl, Sacagawea was stolen by another tribe and later purchased from them by Toussaint Charbonneau, a Frenchman, to be his wife. She was nineteen and pregnant during part of their travels with the famous Lewis and Clark Expedition. Because she spoke several native dialects, she interpreted for them and, once, when a canoe capsized, she dived in and rescued important written records of their journey.

“In 1999, she was honored for her courage and assistance to these explorers by an image of a Shoshone woman on the US silver dollar coin. Since there are no known images of her, that of a typical woman of her period was selected for the engraving. I encourage you to see Mr. Rider’s interpretation of her in his exhibit.

“Chief Washakie, a skilled hunter and military strategist, was considered a great warrior in battle against enemy tribes threatening his people. Yet his kindness when Mormon settlers crossed his lands and his negotiations with whites in general are well known. Over time, he became an outspoken critic of what he experienced as the US government’s lies and betrayal of its treaties with American Indians.

“Logan Swift Rider has just returned from a visit to the reservation in Wyoming and the spectacular beauty of Yellowstone National Park, which early Shoshone nomads often visited in their travels. You’ll recognize these influences in his work on display this month.”

In introducing the performers, she referred to the biographies in the pamphlet that came with their entrance fee. “Mr. Rider is also a singer and a dancer for his tribe. I was asked to assure you what you will see now are his composition and do not reveal secret music or dances. He is one of the few who speaks Shoshone, and this is his greeting in that language to the morning. Since this is spiritual to him personally, he asks that you not applaud. Thank you.”

A chant, not a song. That makes more sense.

“And now, the Rider family.”

Blaze grinned. That explained why they’d sneaked away without him. This was a surprise…kept from him by the man who usually shared his bed.

A murmur flowed through the crowd when the Riders appeared from a side door of the museum in full Native attire. They were a colorful group, which surprised Blaze after last night’s formality in white man’s clothing. Once the murmur died down, only the shuffle of moccasins could be heard as they approached.

The speaker introduced each of them as they appeared.

Kenu sat at the drum and picked up the padded mallets. Rosalie, her gaze on the ground, walked with crossed gourd rattles inked with bright artwork at her breast to keep them silent for the moment.

Amused, Blaze smiled as he noticed that her earrings were huge and a wild rainbow of hues compared to those of last night. So was her beaded dress of white deer hide, which caused a soft whoof of appreciation from the women visitors.

Robert held a wooden flute and seemed as stiff as he’d been the previous evening. His shirt and pants were Native style, and a beaded headband crossed his forehead and anchored his dark hair in back.

After they’d taken their positions, he said, “In this place we speak to the spirits of the earth, sky, water, and all living things. We honor who we are, remembering our people were the first on this continent. Many would have driven us out, but we…are…still…here.”

His words rang out forceful and clear. The audience responded with grunts and shouts of approval. The sweet sound of Robert’s flute hushed them. Soft and steady, Kenu’s mallets tapped a slow rhythm to the flute on the drum, then both stilled.

Logan stepped out and waited, arms crossed, head down, as if preparing.

He was beautiful…and people responded with a sharp intake of air at his powerful yet quiet presence. If there was ever a fantasy of the romanticized Native American warrior of old, he was it.

And this man is my lover. Blaze’s breath caught, trapped in his throat, as the hairs on his arms rose as if in salute.

Logan’s long, dark hair hung loose, anchored by a flat band of dark leather that curved across his forehead and down to his temples. From there, several strips of rawhide tipped by soft-gray hatchlings’ feathers hung to his shoulders and ended with a black bead. The top edge of the band crossing his forehead was covered with black ravens’ feathers, which flowed back, touching his head.

Blaze thought it incredibly flattering to Logan’s face without overpowering it. It presented a man with the authority of a Shoshone chief. He’d never seen a headdress like it. It was spectacular in its understated way. He was aware the war bonnets worn by chiefs of some tribes had eagle feathers that stood upright from the forehead band, then extended all the way down in back to the floor and even beyond to make a short train.

The striking beauty of Logan wearing this unusual headdress made Blaze’s entire body come alive with pride and affection.

His love was shirtless, but a breastplate of porcupine quills and black beads covered a large part of his broad, muscular chest. Matching chokers of the same quills and beads encircled his throat and muscled forearms. He also wore a sleeveless vest, heavily beaded and open in front.

A full skirt in brilliant colors, with layer after layer of fringe, began at his waist and ended mid-calf, moved as he walked. A short bit of black pants showed beneath it, met by the high tops of white moccasin boots decorated in even more beads sparkling in the morning light.

As he began to walk toward them, tiny bells jingled at his ankles amid a moving fluff of downy bird feathers and colorful gems below them.

It was the dress of a dancer, but modified and not full-out as Blaze guessed it would be in powwow competition. From photos he’d seen of such contests, you’d be hard pressed to even see Logan’s face for the headgear and layer after layer of fancy dance clothing, everything bright and colorful and, always, beaded in the colors of the rainbow.

Blaze repressed a groan. He couldn’t keep his gaze from focusing on that small amount of exposed skin just below Logan’s belly button and above the apron. For Blaze, that arrow of dark hair directed his view to the delicious pleasure he knew lay south, now hidden by the costume finery.

Was the beading by chance worked by Rosalie? It was her specialty, and the kind of thing a mother would do for a beloved son, especially an adult one who had no wife.

Knowing almost nothing about Native chants, Blaze had no idea what to expect.

Logan had reached them now. He stood again, arms crossed and chin to his chest.

The audience went silent as the drumming began, slow and soft.