Once winter arrived he couldn’t spend all day outside in the freezing cold, like he did now. Anything to stop from being close to her.
Pancho’s older brother, Manuel and his wife, had turned up one day looking for work and a place to stay. Manuel told him that all the rustlers had been killed in a shootout not far from where Pancho’s family once lived.
He had helped Manuel fix up an old cabin that had fallen into disrepair at the farther most section of the ranch. He couldn’t pay the man much of a wage, he just didn’t have the money. It would take a couple of years of hard work to recoup his losses from the stolen cattle.
A few dollars a month, plenty of food and a roof over their heads, fortunately, Manuel and his family were happy with that. He was a good worker, so once he was able to afford it, he would pay him a decent wage.
Two boys from a neighboring ranch also helped out from time to time. He didn’t have to pay them, as he let their Pa’s cattle graze in some of his unused paddocks in return. It wasn’t much of a solution, but better than nothing.
Tomorrow he planned to check in the wooded gullies for the wild cattle Manuel swore he had seen. If they were unbranded he would round them up and keep them. It would be a long and busy day, so he needed to sleep.
An ear splitting scream nearly frightened the wits out of him.
“Hannah!”
He leapt out of bed and wearing only his drawers, dashed into her room. The lamp had been turned down low and cast shadows on the walls. Hannah was standing on the bed screaming.
“What’s wrong?” he asked frantically. Was she losing the baby? His gut clenched.
“Over there, over there,” she shrieked.
“What is it?”
“Spi….spider.” She pointed a trembling finger at an enormous spider clinging to the curtains. The creature was nearly as big as a man’s fist.
“It’s harmless.” With a flick of his wrist he sent the thing flying out the open window and slammed the window shut. “There, it’s gone.”
She was standing motionless, paralyzed with fear. “Okay, it’s gone now.”
“M…might be more.”
“I’ll check to make sure if it will make you feel better.” He searched the room inwardly wondering how anyone could possibly be afraid of the ugly, harmless creature.
“What if it crawls on me?”
Tears poured down her cheek. She looked so little and vulnerable wearing a white nightgown and with her hair tumbling down over her shoulders.
“I can’t stay here, not until daylight so I can be sure.”
“It’s gone.”
“There might be more hiding in the shadows.”
He reached out and picked her up, sat on the bed and held her on his knee. “I wouldn’t let anything hurt you.”
“Oh, Grant, I hate them. Aunt Edna locked me in the cupboard once,” she sobbed the words out. “There were spiders everywhere, crawling on my face, in my hair.” A shudder shook her body.
“You can have my bed, I’ll sleep in here.” As if he’d be able to sleep now. She smelled so sweet and clean and the contours of her body were clearly seen through the thin material of her nightgown. Her breasts pressed into his bare chest. Hell and heaven rolled into one.
“It’s all right, darlin’, nothing is going to hurt you.”
“I want to stay with you tonight. Please, Grant.”
“All right,” he reluctantly agreed. She was terrified he could see. Maybe once she fell asleep he could sneak back in here. It was the only idea he could come up with.
She carried the lamp, he carried her to his room. She felt ice cold as she trembled against him. That old witch of an aunt had been pure evil. He was glad she was dead. How could a woman treat a child so cruelly?
His life hadn’t been all that great, with a father who was always in debt, never staying in the one place for long, but he had always treated him with a gruff, kindness.
“I’m not afraid with you, Grant.”
The scent of lavender from her hair filled his nostrils. He laid her on a sheet that was still warm from his body and pulled the bedclothes over her.
“I’ll sleep in the chair.”
“No, stay with me. Hold me. I want you to.”
He didn’t want to take advantage of her while she was in such a distressed state. Could he trust himself to keep his hands off her?
“Please.” Her voice wavered. At least her terror was subsiding. He took a deep breath before sliding in beside her. She came to him so trustingly he despised himself for the quick surge of desire that shot through him. She lay quietly in his arms, her hand resting on his hip.
After a while she said softly. “Are you still awake?”
“Yes.”
“Would you like to kiss me?”
For a moment he wondered whether he was dreaming, although his desire was certainly real enough.
“Yes, I want to kiss you, but I don’t think I’ll be able to stop at just that.”
“I wouldn’t want you to. I love you, Grant.”
“What!” His hearing must be playing tricks on him.
“I love you,” she said it again. “I’ve always had strong feelings for you ever since we were at school and you tried to help me.”
“I don’t know how, why, or even when, but I’m in love with you, Hannah.” There, he’d said it out loud, what he should have told her weeks ago. “I’d like to consummate our marriage, darlin’, but only when you’re ready.”
“I’m ready,” she said softly. “Doc was right, we have to move forward, make a life for ourselves. Arnie and I liked and respected each other, nothing more. It’s love that I feel for you.”
If this was a dream he didn’t want to wake up.
“When I’m close to you I feel….”
“Don’t say anymore, darlin’, just let me kiss you. My little duckling has grown into a beautiful swan and I’m anxious to make her truly mine.”
Epilogue
Three years later
Grant strode on to the back porch. All was silent. A good sign surely? He had been worried because this was the first day the Doc’s wife, Iris wasn’t with Hannah. The birth of their son Luke had thankfully been uneventful. He couldn’t believe how nervous he had been, but Hannah had done so well. He sure was proud of her.
He had worked as close to the house as he could, and he and Hannah had worked out a signal system if she needed him. Two rifle shots in the air. Not the best of signals, but the only one they could come up with.
As he opened the door, two year old Arnie toddled up to him as fast as his chubby legs would take him, raising his arms to be picked him up and swung around a couple of times, which had now become a daily ritual. “Pa. Pa. Up.” He could speak clearly when he wanted to.
“Have you been a good boy for Ma?”
“Good. Bubba.” Arnie pointed at two week old Luke who was in Hannah’s arms having a feed.
“He has been very good,” Hannah said with a smile. She was still pale and slightly drawn looking, but she had never looked so lovely. There was a serenity about her now that caused his heart to beat a little faster. She sure was a beautiful woman.
Grant picked Arnie up and swung him around the required number of times, all the while his eyes didn’t leave Hannah or baby Luke. He wanted to dash over and kiss her, and stroke the baby’s soft little cheek, but didn’t for Arnie’s sake. They didn’t want him to feel pushed aside because of the new baby.
“How are you feeling, darlin’?”
“I’m all right. I followed Iris’ instructions and rested. She left a nice stew for your supper, so it only needs heating up. Arnie has been good, passing me things I needed for the baby. You’ve been a very good boy haven’t you, sweetheart?”
Grant placed Arnie on the floor and the child wrapped his arms around his father’s legs, making it difficult to walk.
“Arnie would be proud of his son don’t you think,” Hannah said. “I can see a lot of his father in him.”
“Yes, he’s got his father’s determination. Arnie could be as stubborn as a mule sometimes.” Grant grinned. We’re lucky to have two healthy sons, and I thank God that we do.”
“Yes. After everything that has happened. All the loneliness and fear. Now I’ve got three handsome men in my life.”
Grant laughed, picked Arnie up and stepped over to his beautiful wife and baby to give them a kiss. He was the happiest and luckiest man in the whole of South Dakota.
The End
About the Author
Margaret Tanner is an Award Winning Historical and Contemporary Romance Author who has now added Western Historical Romance to her writing repertoire.
She lives in Australia, is married and has three grown up sons and two gorgeous little granddaughters.
Frontier Australia and frontier America, have many similarities, isolated communities, a large single male population and a lack of eligible women. This leads to many interesting plots.
She has always loved Westerns, soaking up all the Western TV shows and movies when she was young. Bonanza was her all-time favorite show. Little Joe Cartwright was her hero. Western Author, Zane Grey was her favorite author at that time.
Margaret’s Links.
http://www.amazon.com/author/margarettanner
http://www.margarettanner.com
Crimson Hunter
N. D. Jones
A Red Riding Hood Retelling
Crimson Hunter
The War of Eternal Hunger freed witches from the rule of werewolves, ending a patriarchy only to create a matriarchy. A thousand years later, Oriana, Matriarch of Steelcross and Crimson Hunter, is a young, untried ruler who seeks to bridge the divide between witches and werewolves. But how can witches trust werewolves not to hurt them when Rage Disrupter collars are needed to control their lust for witch’s blood and magic? And how can werewolves trust witches to treat them as equals when they’ve built metal cities and armed themselves, literally, with iron weapons of werewolf destruction?
Claws and fangs.
Magic and metal.
Will one side devour the other, or will they find a way to peacefully coexist?
Welcome to Earth Rift, where the moon is black, and the sun is crimson.
Crimson Hunter © 2019 N. D. Jones
All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Warning: the unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in prison and a fine of $250,000.
Blood of the Sun Decree #171
November 1, 2236
By Matriarchal decree, the region of Janus Nether,
and all cities therein,
is the reserved territory of the
Clan of the Black Moon.
Kalinda, Matriarch of Irongarde
Oriana, Matriarch of Steelcross
White Moon
April 27, 2243
Irongarde Realm
City of Wild Moor
Howls slashed across the beleaguered city like werewolves’ claws cleaving a witch’s chest open to devour the sun magic heart within. The incessant sound shattered glass windows of buildings, jagged shards falling like deadly rain, cutting and slicing, adding to the pools of blood already soaking the urbanscape.
Oriana lifted her face to the starless night sky, sweat rolling from her brow into unblinking, dark-brown eyes. “Wild Moor will be our final stand,” her mother had told her. “If we allow them to take that border city, if they reach Irongarde, the beasts may overrun us. You cannot allow that to happen, Crimson Hunter.”
More howls sliced through the darkness, followed by rampaging paws. Oriana lowered her head. This was it then, the battle she’d seen in her nightmares, a war she hoped wouldn’t come to pass. So many had already died, countless by her own hand—in defense of her sisters and by order of her mother, Matriarch Kalinda. Oriana raised her hands, her arms, steel where blood and bones used to be, flawless maple-colored skin an illusion of humanity.
“Come forth Ravagers of the Lost.” Red sun magic burst from her hands, wild flames sparking and hissing. “Control your magic,” she heard her mother say, an old memory from too many lessons that ended with Oriana in tears and the training room walls scorched.
Channeling her flames into her steel arms, she willed the magic down, down. The magic complied, as it always did nowadays. From the sparks and hiss of sun magic, twin handheld cannon guns formed, covering her from elbow to fingers.
“Shift,” she ordered to her sisters, no doubt the same command the leader of the Muraco had given to his brothers. Like Oriana, sun magic surged through steel and iron body parts, turning them into shields and weapons in a war between witches and . . .
Across the battlefield—cracked roads and burned buildings—the howling stopped, and silence descended, an emissary of violence, blood, and death. Oriana raised her head to the night sky again, a cursed white moon glowed above. A red moon would’ve favored the witches. Oriana would’ve even been grateful for a black moon. But no, this night, in the city she couldn’t allow to fall, a white moon had risen, strengthening her enemies unlike anything else in nature save for the blood and magic of a witch.
If she and her Crimson Guards didn’t prevail, Kalinda would do the unthinkable. If she didn’t win, if she ended up food for the beasts, like the mangled, half-eaten bodies of her sisters littering the landscape, their murderers charred corpses beside them, her daughter would be left parentless. That, more than anything else, Oriana could not allow to happen.
Oriana focused on the enemy, their seething energy and low growls rancid in the tepid, spring air. As ghost white as the moon, their fur beautiful, the color marked the viciousness of the creature . . . of the Muraco. Rows of white werewolves filled the town square, a public gathering where no one would leave happy.
Eight feet tall and pure muscle, the werewolves exuded primal might. Sharp and perfect for ripping, the length of their fangs set them apart from any other beast of prey. Their claws were deadlier still.
The werewolves charged, a bestial gallop of fur, claws, and fangs.
“Steady,” she said to her sisters, two rows of witches extending from one side of the square to the other. “Don’t move until they’re in position.”
Magic sizzled, and perspiration drenched her red-and-black Crimson Hunter body armor, clinging to her as fiercely as her resolve.
“Harbingers of Terror?” she yelled.
“Ready.”
“Quellers of Eternal Struggles?”
“Ready.”
“Whisperers of Echoes?” Oriana said, calling out to the last group of warrior witches.
“Ready.”
So were the white werewolves. Ready and nearly upon them. Claws extended, fangs bared, their clawed paws carved a feral path through the concrete. Saliva flew, red eyes darkened, and Oriana, despite everything, agreed with her mother.
White werewolves, Muraco, were irredeemable, untamable. Feral beyond reasoning.
“Put those rabid dogs down, Oriana, that’s an order from your Matriarch.” Yes, it was, and she’d do her duty, if for no other reason than to end the Muracos’ suffering. Regret and guilt would come later. But first, she needed to survive this wretched night.
The werewolves lunged at them, frenetic, and slashing with a strength that had the witches propelling themselves backward, sun magic drawi
ng them away.
“Whisperers of Echoes, go.”
A third of the wall of witches vanished, only to reappear behind the werewolves, shoving magic-laced steel blades into thick hides. The wolves bellowed, swinging around with lightning speed, claws curved, vulnerable throats their targets.
Slice. Slash.
Blood spurted in an arc of crimson, splashing the wolves in their favorite liquid, their stained fur a demented painter’s morbid muse.
Oriana filled her cannons with magic, shooting over and again. She ran, darted, jumped, blasting anything with fangs and fur. She fought until her body burned raw with magic, nothing to draw on but her stubbornness and will.
The werewolves fared better, the white moon doing for them what the sun did for witches. All she and the remaining witches had to do was wait for the sun to rise. From the way her magic tingled, they had less than an hour left. But her sisters were bedraggled, having defended the region of Janus Nether all day, Wild Moor one of three of the region’s cities.
“Harbingers of Terror, do your worst.”
Twenty-five witches converged on the werewolves, their metal blades, blasters, and phasers shoving them backward, a magical rampage on par with the werewolves’ frenzied slashes. Neither side gave an inch, a destructive storm that leveled city blocks.
Mindless, they fought. Mindless, they killed. Were her Crimson Guards any less feral than the white werewolves? No, they weren’t, and, on this night, they couldn’t afford a sliver of humanity. So, Oriana commanded her guards to, “Push forward. Keep fighting. The sun will soon rise. Will we be here to greet it when it does?”
Promise Forever: Fairy Tales with a Modern Twist Page 33
