Reckless embrace, p.1
Reckless Embrace, page 1
Reckless Embrace
Madeline Baker
Copyright © Madeline Baker 2015
Published by Butterfly Kisses Press
Dedication
To Mary
My best friend, now and always.
Chapter One
Bear Valley
Summer, 1908
I sat in the shade of the front porch watching my seven-year-old son, Daniel Blue Hawk, put a pretty little black and white Appaloosa filly through its paces while my husband looked on. He was a handsome boy, my Daniel, with his father’s thick black hair and my gray eyes. He had inherited the same natural affinity for horses that was so strong in his father and older brothers, and seemed to be inherent in all Cheyenne males. Like his two older brothers, Blue Hawk had a strong sense of pride in his Indian heritage and because of that, he preferred we call him by his Indian name.
Shadow had promised the filly to Blue Hawk and my son spent most of his waking hours working with the little mare. He had named her Patches and she followed him around like a puppy. Blue Hawk could hardly wait for the day when the filly would be old enough for him to ride for more than a few minutes at a time. Surprisingly, Blue Hawk liked writing almost as much as riding, and when he wasn’t outside with the filly, he was usually in his room making up stories about brave knights and fire-breathing dragons.
As much as I enjoyed watching my son, my gaze kept straying toward his father. Two Hawks Flying, known as Shadow to his loved ones, was easily the most handsome man I had ever known. Though Shadow was no longer a young warrior, he was still tall and straight, and strong enough to out-wrestle our two grown sons. Though he had long ago traded his breechclout and feathers for Levi’s and a Stetson, he steadfastly refused to wear shoes or boots. His feet were encased in a pair of moccasins I had recently made for him.
Shadow. My whole life was filled with memories of Shadow. I remembered the first time I had seen him. I had been nine years old; he had been twelve, handsome and arrogant even then. In time, we had become friends. He taught me how to hunt and fish and how to skin a deer. They were not pursuits I had cared for, but Shadow thought that girl things were foolish and a waste of time and he refused to do anything he considered silly or undignified, which was just about everything I wanted to do.
I recalled the day of my sixteenth birthday. It was a turning point in our lives and our relationship. I had not seen Shadow for three years or so, not since he had gone away to concentrate on becoming a warrior, which was the goal of all Cheyenne males.
We met by the river that day and Shadow was been even more handsome than I recalled. He wore only moccasins and the briefest of deerskin clouts, and I had not been able to take my eyes off him. His legs were long and well muscled from years of riding bareback; his belly was as hard and flat as it was today, ridged with muscle. Two livid scars marred his chest, proof that he had participated in the sacred Medicine Lodge ceremony of his people. A third scar zigzagged down his right shoulder. Like a bird hypnotized by a snake, I was unable to tear my gaze away. I could only stare at him, awed by his proud carriage, completely mesmerized by his appearance. He had truly become a warrior. There was no doubt of that.
We had not said much that day, nor had we spent a great deal of time together, yet I had known that our lives would be intertwined from that day forward. And I had never regretted a day of it. In spite of all the hardship and turmoil we had faced during the early part of our lives together, I would have done it all again. I had a wonderful husband and four children who loved me, and I counted myself a lucky woman.
From time to time I glanced down the road leading up to the house. Our second son, Samuel Black Owl, was due home from the East any day now. We had only seen Blackie once since he’d gone away to college to study veterinary medicine just over three years ago. It had been many years since I had been to the East. It was a place that held few happy memories for me. But we had enjoyed our stay with Blackie, though it had been shorter than I would have liked.
I had been counting the days ever since then until Blackie would be home once more. I was glad that the rest of my family lived nearby. Our oldest son, True Hawk, and his wife, Victoria, had four sons and two daughters. Hawk had been elected sheriff two years ago when Bill Lancaster retired. Considering that there was still a lot of prejudice in the area against Indians, I considered Hawk’s election, if you’ll excuse the expression, quite a coup. He had hired Joe Finch as his deputy.
Mary was our second child and our only daughter. She lived with her husband, Cloud Walker, on a horse ranch with their six sons. Mary and Victoria were both pregnant again. After six sons, Mary was hoping for a daughter.
Blue Hawk was our youngest, and spoiled by one and all.
I smiled, thinking of my children and grandchildren. They were all healthy, all beautiful, and all bore the unmistakable stamp of Shadow’s Cheyenne blood.
Blue Hawk rode the mare around the corral one last time, then dismounted. He spoke to his father, nodded solemnly as he listened to his father’s reply, and then led the filly out of the corral toward the barn.
Shadow stared after Blue Hawk for a few moments, then turned and walked toward me. Once again, every other thought fled my mind as I watched him. He moved effortlessly, like a cougar stalking its prey, the habits of a lifetime ingrained too deeply to change now.
The sunlight moved over him like a lover’s caress, casting blue highlights in his waist-length hair, which was still thick, and as black as a raven’s wing. On this day, he was shirtless. His skin was the color of warm copper. The scars on his chest and shoulder had faded to faint silvery lines that were barely visible now.
“Hannah.” He lifted one brow, a half-smile playing over his lips as he climbed the stairs, his movements slow and sensual.
I stood and moved into his embrace, my fingertips moving over the powerful muscles in his arms, sliding up to measure the width of his shoulders.
“Do you like what you see, woman?” he asked, a faint note of supremely male arrogance evident in his voice.
“I always have,” I replied tartly. And he knew it.
Going up on my tiptoes, I kissed him, then rested my head on his shoulder, happy to spend a few quiet moments in his arms.
And that was how Blackie found us when he rode up a few minutes later.
“I guess some things never change,” he drawled.
Startled, I looked up at the sound of the familiar deep male voice. “Blackie!” I exclaimed, and fairly flew down the steps. “You’re early. We were supposed to meet you tomorrow morning.”
“I know. I got lucky and caught an earlier train.”
Dismounting, he wrapped his arms around me. For a moment, I stood there, blinking back my tears, marveling at how much he had filled out since I’d seen him last. Giving him a squeeze, I backed up a little so I could get a good look at him.
He was tall, Blackie was, taller, even, than his father. And just as handsome. His hair, still worn long, was tied back at the nape of his neck. His skin was a shade lighter than Shadow’s, his eyes were a brown so dark as to be almost black. He had broad shoulders, a trim waist, and long, long legs.
I felt the tears trickle down my cheeks as my son turned to embrace his father. They were so alike, it was hard to believe I had once agonized over whether or not Shadow was Blackie’s father. I recalled the day Blackie was born.
I had been alone in the house when my labor began. After several hours had passed, I knew something was wrong. No matter how hard I pushed, I could not expel him from my womb. Lying there, I imagined Death all around me. I saw Him watching me through the window, lurking in the corners, waiting, and I was certain I was going to die. And then Shadow came home. Shadow, the other half of my heart, the other half of my soul. His voice stilled my fears and he delivered our son as competently as any doctor could have done. Our eyes met as Shadow held our son in his arms. Unspoken between us hung the question of who was the father, Shadow, or Joshua Berdeen. At the time, there had been no way to be certain. But seeing Blackie and Shadow together now, there could be no doubt that Shadow was indeed Blackie’s father. Joshua Berdeen could never have sired this son of mine.
I met Shadow’s gaze. Was he was also remembering the day Blackie had been born? Did he also remember the words he had spoken? I heard them now as clearly as I had heard them that day twenty-three years ago. It does not matter who fathered the child, Shadow had said as he placed the infant in my arms. From this day forward, he will be my son, and I will be his father.
Other images flashed through my mind, Blackie learning how to ride a horse, his little legs clinging to the sides of one of our old mares, his chubby little hands grasping the reins as Shadow led the mare around the corral, Shadow teaching our son to hunt, to fish, to read the signs of the seasons, to speak Cheyenne. Blackie had been two years old the day he brought home the first in a long line of injured birds and animals. He had brought a sparrow home that day. Together, we had splinted its broken wing. Blackie had fed it and cared for it and been overjoyed when the bird was able to fly away.
I remembered when Blackie had had diphtheria and how close we had come to losing him. I had prayed as never before, begging the Lord to spare my child. Shadow had added his prayers to mine. Even now, I could see him clearly in my mind’s eye, standing outside our house, naked save for a loincloth and moccasins. A single white eagle feather had been tied in his hair. There had been streaks of black paint on his face and chest. His arms, bronze and thick with muscle, had been lifted toward the sky in supplication. A small fire had burned at his feet and as I watched, he had sprinkled a handful of sacred yellow pollen into the flames, and then raised his arms over his head once again. I knew he was praying to Man Above in the old and ancient way, and I had felt a shiver run down my spine as he called upon the gods of the Cheyenne. His voice, deep and filled with pleading, had drifted through the half-open window.
Hear me, Man Above, accept my offering and heal my son. He had sprinkled another handful of pollen into the fire and this time the flames exploded upward like many colored tongues licking at the sky. And then with great deliberation, Shadow had taken a knife and raked the blade across his chest. A thin ribbon of red had oozed from the shallow gash in his flesh.
Hear me, Man Above, he had cried again. Accept my pain and heal my son.
A wordless cry had erupted from Shadow’s lips as he again raised his arms toward heaven, and at that moment, the sun had climbed over the distant mountains, splashing the clear skies with all the colors of the rainbow.
Blackie’s fever began to drop that very day and by the following afternoon, it was almost normal.
And now our son was home again, a man grown.
Blue Hawk came running out of the barn, yelling his brother’s name at the top of his lungs.
“Blackie! Blackie!”
“There you are, little brother,” Blackie said, and lifting Blue Hawk off his feet, he swung him around in a circle.
Blue Hawk’s laughter mingled with Blackie’s, bringing joy to my heart.
Closing my eyes, I offered a quick prayer of thanks to all the gods, both red and white, for bringing my son safely home.
Chapter Two
Blackie stood with his arms folded across the top rail of the corral. He let out a deep sigh as he gazed into the darkness. It seemed strange to be home again after so long, strange to see so much empty land. The sky seemed bigger here than in the city, the stars brighter, the night quieter.
There had been some changes at home while he’d been away. There was a new ice box in the kitchen, a new bread toaster, even a fancy new stove. A grandfather clock stood in the entry, chiming the hour, the half, and the quarter. His mother had a new Singer sewing machine, there were new curtains in the parlor.
One thing hadn’t changed, and that was his parents’ obvious affection for one another. He grinned, thinking how right it seemed to come home and find them in each other’s arms. As a kid, the affection they had expressed so openly and so often had embarrassed him, but he realized now that the love his parents shared was a rare and wonderful thing, found by only a lucky few. Theirs was a love story that had lasted more than forty years, a devotion so strong it had endured war, separation, and heartache.
Blackie’s smile faded. His folks looked older. His mother’s hair, always a dark red, had strands of gray in it now. There was no gray in his father’s hair, but the years were beginning to show in other ways. Blackie turned his thoughts away, not wanting to think of his parents growing older, of a time when they wouldn’t be there. They had always been so vital and full of life. He could not imagine them any other way. Growing up, he had listened in awe to the stories they told. His father had fought at the Little Big Horn and later, when other chiefs surrendered, he had continued to fight, riding the war trail as a renegade. And his mother had ridden at her husband’s side. They had known Crazy Horse and Gall and even ridden the war trail with Geronimo. His brother, Hawk, had visited with Sitting Bull. If only he, himself, had been born sooner, Blackie mused. To be a warrior, to ride into battle, to seek a vision, these were things he had coveted his whole life.
He wondered how Hawk and Mary were doing. His brother and sister had both written to him while he was away, as had Cloud Walker and Victoria. His parents had written too, of course. From time to time he had received mail from his nieces and nephews—a few hastily scribbled lines from the ones old enough to write, colorful pictures from the younger ones, usually with a note of explanation written by Victoria or Mary so he would know that the picture drawn by Cole was a horse, and the red blob drawn by Jared was a picture of his new puppy. He was anxious to see them all, adults and children alike.
Blackie sighed again, wondering if he would ever find a woman to settle down with. Back East, he had met a number of attractive young women. Many had been attracted to him because he was different. They had been fascinated by his dark skin and waist-length hair, by the fact that he was a half-breed and therefore forbidden. And even more fascinated that his father had once been a warrior of some renown. Yes, he had met a lot of women—young, old, pretty, not so pretty, but none had held his interest. And once the novelty of his being an Indian had worn off, he hadn’t held their interest either, especially when they learned he was planning to go back home, to a little town none of them had ever heard of. City girls, born and raised, they were horrified at the idea of leaving the comforts and society of the East for the Wild West, and while the Wild West wasn’t nearly as wild as it had once been, it was still untamed and primitive by Eastern standards.
One of the horses left the others to come and stand at the fence. The colt had been born shortly before Blackie left for the East. “Hi, fella.” Blackie scratched the young stallion between the ears. “The old man break you to ride yet?”
“Not yet.”
Blackie shook his head as his father materialized out of the darkness. Even after all these years, his father moved soundlessly through the night.
His father tugged on a lock of his hair. “If you were a white man, I would have had your scalp.”
Blackie nodded ruefully. If there was one thing he regretted, it was that he had never known what it was like to live in the old way, that he had never had the opportunity to seek a vision.
“It is good to have you home again,” Shadow said, moving up beside him.
“It’s good to be back.”
“Your mother was afraid you might like the city and decide to stay.”
“She should know me better than that,” Blackie said. “I couldn’t stay there. It was too big, too crowded, all those buildings, and people everywhere.” He shook his head. “And I would have missed you and nahkoa. And the rest of the family.”
Shadow grunted softly. “What will you do now?”
“I thought I’d go into town Monday morning and look for a place to set up my office.” Blackie shrugged. “I know what you’re thinking. You’re wondering if any of the valley people will trust me with their animals, but I don’t think it will be a problem. I helped Chester Cole and no one seemed to mind.” He turned around, leaning his back against the corral. “How is Chester?”
“He retired three months ago and went back East.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Blackie said. He had often accompanied the old doctor on his rounds, eager to learn everything he could.
“The townspeople may be slow to accept you on your own,” Shadow said. “But perhaps not. They trust Hawk to keep the peace, to protect their lives and their property.”
“So maybe they’ll trust me to look after their horses and cattle?”
“Maybe.” Shadow gave his son an affectionate slap on the shoulder. “Only time will tell.”
Chapter Three
Sunday afternoon the family gathered together to welcome Blackie home. Sitting at the foot of the dinner table with Mary’s two-year-old son, Jared, on my lap, I let my gaze settle briefly on each face.
Shadow sat at the head of the table. Our oldest son, Hawk, sat to his father’s right, his badge of office winking in the candlelight. Victoria sat at the other end of the table. She was a lovely young woman, with auburn hair and sky blue eyes. Five of their six children sat between them. The ten year-old twins, Jacob and Jason, were as alike as two peas in a pod. They sat closest to their father. Amanda Marie, age eight, Aaron, age six, and Cole, age four, sat with their heads close together, undoubtedly planning mischief. Victoria held her year-old daughter, Samantha, on her lap.
Blackie sat at Shadow’s left. My gaze lingered on my son’s face. How handsome he was, and how I had missed him.
