Page 33 of Red Hawk's Woman

“I will comb your hair.”

“But—”

“Turn around.” He made a circling motion with his finger.

“I’m not asking you to comb my hair.”

“I know. Do you object to me doing it?”

In truth, the idea of this man touching her anywhere caused her stomach to tighten.

And yet, how many times in a person’s life was one offered such a luxury? Though she supposed she shouldn’t let him do it, the opportunity to let another person attend to the tangles in her hair—just this once—seemed too appealing to let slip by unheeded. “No, it’s not that I object to your combing my hair—not really. It’s only that I’m…astonished.”

“Do not be,” he replied, as she scooted around to place her back toward him. Before he launched himself into the task at hand, he said, “Your hair has many twists and waves, and it would be difficult for you to brush it on your own.”

“True. But I am used to doing it.”

“Then sit and enjoy. It is, after all, a man’s job.”

“A man’s job?”

“Aa, it is so with my people. Is it not true with yours?”

“No, not at all.”

“Humph! Your hair is also an unusual color, even amongst the white people, I think.”

“Yes. I have been told that.”

He ran the comb gently through a snarled lock. Pausing, he untangled the delicate curl, his fingers inadvertently skimming over the skin at her neck.

Tingles raced along her spine, and she knew she should stop this. It was intimate, too intimate.

But she didn’t cease it. In truth, it felt much too wonderful to put a stop to.

Slowly, he ran his fingers from the top of her head to the very tips of her hair, the delicate graze awakening every nerve ending in her neck and back. A feeling of serenity settled over her. “You do that well,” she said.

“Aa. I used to comb my grandfather’s hair—every day. And I have often done the same for my adopted grandmother.”

“Oh? I didn’t know you were adopted. Who are your adopted people?”

“The Pikunis.”

She spun back toward him, and he dropped his hands to his lap. “Oh? Then you have been adopted by the Blackfoot and are not a blood member of the tribe?”

“Saa, I am not adopted by the Blackfoot.”

“But…” She frowned. “Didn’t you say that the Pikunis are part of the Blackfoot Confederation? And if that is so…”

He sighed. “’Tis a complicated story.”

“Oh.” She swung around so that once again her back was presented to him. She only hoped he would continue his ministrations.

He did. “Do you wish to hear the story?”

“I believe I would. Otherwise, I must admit I am confused.”

“Soka’pii.”