Tales of Western Romance

by Baker, Madeline

  She paused a moment, then shook her head. What was she doing? Did she really believe that the wind had told Daniel her life was in danger? She shook her head again. She didn’t believe in visions, but, as she had told Daniel, she believed in him.

  Closing the valise, she carried it downstairs. A glance out the front window showed her palomino and the dun were saddled and ready to go. It seemed wrong to run away, to leave the land her father had fought so hard to keep.

  With a sigh, she went outside, wondering if there would be anything left when they returned.

  * * * * *

  Lynnie glanced backward repeatedly as she followed Daniel toward the high bluff where Jase had shot him. The dust from her herd and that of Jase and the cowboys, was barely visible in the distance. She had given Jase a letter, to be opened if she didn’t return, granting him ownership of the land, the stock, and the house.

  Daniel was oddly silent as they began the upward climb. When they reached the summit, she was surprised to see the funny-shaped brush hut still standing.

  Dismounting, Daniel lifted her from the back of her horse, then unsaddled the palomino and the dun. Both horses immediately began grazing on a patch of yellow grass.

  Blue Hawk picked up the canteens he had brought and slung the straps over his shoulder. “Are you ready?”

  She picked up her valise, then shrugged. “Ready for what?”

  “That remains to be seen,” he said, and taking her by the hand, he ducked inside the lodge.

  After reshaping the fire pit, he added an armful of wood from what remained of the pile he had gathered when he was here with Fox Hunter. He touched a match to a handful of kindling, filled the wooden bucked with water from the canteens, then stood there, his arms crossed over his chest, waiting for the stones to heat.

  Sitting on the blanket facing the doorway, Blue Hawk gestured for Lynnie to sit beside him.

  “Listen, Lynnie, while I pray, I need you to sprinkle water over the stones. Can you do that?”

  She nodded.

  “Okay, here we go.” After lighting the pipe, he clasped one of Lynnie’s hands tightly in his. Then, taking a deep calming breath, he offered the pipe to the four directions, to mother earth and father sky. He puffed on it four times, then laid the pipe aside.

  Lifting his head, he began to chant softly, sending a fervent prayer to Heammawihio that the Great Spirit would grant him and his woman a safe journey back to Bear Valley and the people he had left there.

  He could feel Lynnie shivering with tension as she sprinkled the cold water over the hot stones. Soon, the air was thick with steam.

  Blue Hawk continued chanting and as he did so, he saw shadowy movements on the lodgeskins. There was his father, his long black hair blowing in the wind as he raced a red stallion across an endless prairie. There was his mother, her head bowed in prayer. And there…there was Lynnie, cradling a dark-haired baby in her arms.

  Stunned, Blue Hawk fell silent.

  The steam dissipated.

  Lynnie! He glanced quickly to his left to find her staring at him, her eyes wide, her face pale. She swayed unsteadily and he lifted her onto his lap, one hand stroking her hair.

  “It’s all right, Lynnie,” he said. “Whether we’re still in your time, or in mine, everything will be all right.”

  Chapter 14

  Blue Hawk pulled Lynnie to her feet. For a moment, he held her close and then, his heart hammering with apprehension, he lifted the door flap and stepped out of the lodge, drawing Lynnie with him.

  The palomino and the dun were gone, but Blue Hawk hardly noticed the absence of the horses when he saw the man riding up the hill toward him leading two saddled horses.

  “Neyho.” Blue Hawk breathed the word in wonder as his father reached the summit.

  Swinging from the back of his mount before the horse had come to a halt, Shadow embraced his son. “Naeha!”

  Blue Hawk blinked the tears from his eyes. They stood together for several moments before Shadow stepped back, his gaze moving over Lynnie. “Who is this?”

  “Neyho, this is Lynette Richardson. She saved my life. Lynnie, this is my father, Two Hawks Flying, but we just call him Shadow.”

  “I’m pleased to meet you, sir,” she said, with a curtsey.

  “You are welcome here,” Shadow said, smiling. “Come, we must go. Hannah is waiting for you.”

  “My mother,” Blue Hawk explained as he lifted Lynnie onto the back of one of the horses, then glanced at his father. “How did you know we were coming?” Blue Hawk asked.

  “I saw you, in a vision,” he said. “Both of you.” He winked at Lynnie. “Hannah is already making plans for the wedding.”

  * * * * *

  It was almost too much to take in, Lynnie thought as Daniel gave her a tour of the house, the corrals, the barns. She had never seen such a large house, never imagined things like telephones and motor cars.

  Daniel’s family welcomed her as if she was an old friend, making her feel immediately at home as they regaled her with tales of Daniel and the mischief he had gotten into when he was growing up.

  Sitting beside Daniel at the large table in the dining room that night, Lynnie felt as if she had known his family for years, though she was certain it would take quite some time to learn the names of all his nieces and nephews. She took an immediate liking to his sister, Mary, and to their mother.

  Lynnie had thought to feel sad when she realized she would never see her home again, regret for the loss of the ranch. Instead, looking at the welcoming faces around her, she felt a deep sense of belonging.

  She smiled, her heart overflowing with love, as Daniel took her hand in his and kissed her palm. This was home, she thought, blinking back tears of joy. This was where she was meant to be.

  Chapter 15

  And so, my baby came home with his bride-to-be, and our family was complete at last. The next afternoon, Shadow asked Blue Hawk what he had learned from living with the Cheyenne.

  Blue Hawk didn’t answer right away, and then, hugging Lynnie close to his side, he said, “Turns out it wasn’t a place I was looking for at all. It was home, and I found it here, in Lynnie’s arms.”

  I blinked back my tears as Blue Hawk and Lynnie kissed.

  Taking me by the hand, Shadow led me outside, so the kids could be alone.

  “That was sweet, what he said,” I remarked, hugging Shadow’s arms tight around me.

  Shadow grunted softly. “He is a poet, that one.”

  I nodded. Blue Hawk had written his father’s story, starting from the time that Shadow and I first met. So many years ago, I mused. How quickly the years had gone by. I wondered if Blue Hawk would one day write the story of his own life and of his journey back in time, though I wondered who would believe it.

  * * * * *

  Blue Hawk and Lynnie built a house a few miles from ours and were married the day after it was finished. Nine months later, a black-haired, blue-eyed, baby girl slept in the nursery. They named her Audrey Adele – Audrey for her best friend in the past, and Adele for her housekeeper.

  I was smiling when we left our son’s home shortly after the baby’s birth. Shadow and I paused in the shade of an aged cottonwood, both of us smiling with the joy of having another grandchild in the family as we gazed out over the ranch.

  I glanced up as a shadow passed over the ground. “Look!” I pointed at the pair of red-tailed hawks drifting overhead.

  Shadow gazed upward, one hand shading his eyes. The hawks had come to him during his first sun dance. He had told me the story many times. Of how he had been writhing at the end of his tether, lost in a world of blood and pain, when a pair of red-tailed hawks had emerged from the bright blaze of the sun. They had hovered side-by-side in the air above his head, mighty wings touching.

  “Be brave,” the male had cried. “Be brave, and you will be a mighty war leader among the people.”

  “Be strong,” the female had admonished. “Be strong and everything you desire shall
be yours.”

  They had come to him often since that first time.

  “A long life together and happiness for our children, Hannah,” he murmured, kissing my cheek. “That is what the hawks promised us.”

  I smiled as the birds rose higher, higher, until they disappeared from sight and then, hand in hand, Shadow and I went home.

  The End

  About the Author:

  Madeline Baker enjoys writing, particularly in the genre of Historical Romance. She is one of the most popular authors of Native American romance and has written numerous bestsellers. She resides in California, where she was born and raised.

  Also, writing under the name Amanda Ashley, Ms. Baker delves into the world of the paranormal and fantasy.

  For more information about all her wonderful books,

  please visit her website at

  http://www.madelinebaker.net/

  Special Bonus Section

  Cristie Matthews is obsessed with The Phantom of the Opera. On her once-in-a-lifetime trip to Paris, she visits the Palais Garnier to see the play. Afterward, she hides, remaining in the empty building to relive the haunting story once again. Then she sees HIM!

  But how can that be? He is a myth, a legend. Or is he?

  The Music of the Night

  by

  Amanda Ashley

  Chapter 1

  Cristie Matthews couldn’t believe it, she was actually inside the famed Paris Opera House. It was everything she had ever imagined, and more. Try as she might, she couldn’t find words to describe it. Beautiful seemed woefully inadequate. Totally awesome came close, but still fell short.

  She owed her fascination with the Paris Opera House solely to the brilliance of Andrew Lloyd Webber, or, to be more exact, to her fascination with his amazing production, The Phantom of the Opera. She had seen the movie, of course, but it didn’t hold a candle to the stage play. She had seen the play once, and once had not been enough. The music had enthralled her; the plight of the Phantom had plucked every emotion from joy to sorrow to despair. She had eagerly joined the ranks of the thousands of people who flocked to see the play again and again, never tiring of it, always finding something new, always feeling emotionally drained by the time the Phantom’s last anguished cry faded away.

  She quickly became obsessed with all things Phantom. She collected everything she could find with that world-famous logo: music boxes and posters, ads in the paper, books, and magazine articles. If it related to the Phantom, she simply had to have it. Dolls and figurines crowded her book shelves, along with snow globes, collector plates, and picture frames. She wore Phantom-related jewelry; decorated her Christmas tree with Phantom ornaments. She bought every tape and CD of the music she could find, including several in languages she didn’t understand, but the language didn’t matter. The music was everything.

  Before coming to Paris, she researched the Opera House online and found a wealth of information. The Opera House had been built by Charles Garnier who, at that time, had been a young, unknown architect. Completed in 1876, the Palais Garnier was considered by many to be one of the most beautiful buildings on earth. The theater boasted two thousand seats; the building’s seventeen stories covered three acres of land. Seven levels were located underground, among them chorus rooms and ball rooms, cellars for old props, closets and dressing rooms, as well as numerous gruesome objects from the various other operas that had been produced there. It was rumored that these grisly effects had sparked the idea behind Gaston Leroux’s The Phantom of the Opera.

  And now, after scrimping and saving for three years, she was there, in the midst of the Phantom’s domain.

  Alone.

  Shortly after the final curtain, she hid in one of the bathrooms. Had she been caught wandering around, she would simply have said she lost her way. Which would not be a lie, because she really was lost. There were so many hallways, so many doors; she no longer knew where to find the exit.

  Her footsteps echoed eerily in the darkness as she climbed a winding staircase and then, to her relief, she found herself inside the theater.

  She sank into a seat near the back of the house and gazed around, wondering if this had been such a good idea, after all. It was dark and quiet, and a little bit spooky sitting there, all alone.

  Resting her head on the back of the seat, she closed her eyes, and music filled her mind…the haunting lyrics of “The Music of the Night”, the Phantom’s tortured cry when he spied Christine and Raoul pledging their love on the roof top. Even more heartbreaking was the Phantom’s plea when he begged Christine to let him go wherever she went, his anguished cry as he took her down to his lair one last time. And who could forget his rage and anger—and the faint glimmer of hope—when he demanded she make her choice, or the last haunting notes that always moved Cristie to tears when he declared it was over.

  There was a never-ending discussion on any number of websites about whether Christine should have stayed with the Phantom, and polls asking whether the listers themselves would have stayed with Erik or gone with Raoul. Poor Raoul, he seemed to be disliked by one and all.

  There had never been any doubt in Cristie’s mind that she would have stayed with the Phantom. She knew what it felt like to be left for another, knew the pain and the heartache of unrequited love, knew there was more to life than sweet words and a pretty face.

  Sitting there, with her eyes closed, she seemed to hear Christine’s voice. Of course, it was only the echo of her imagination.

  Still, it seemed so real. Opening her eyes, Cristie stared at the stage, blinked, and looked again. Was there a figure standing there? A slender figure wearing a hooded cloak, and a bright red scarf?

  Cristie rubbed her eyes. Not one figure, but two. A dark shape wearing a black hat with a long curling black feather stood beside the cross atop the cemetery wall. A long black cloak covered him from neck to heels. Was that a staff in his hand? Canting her head to one side, Cristie heard him sing ever so softly and sweetly to his wandering child.

  Cristie sat up straighter, leaning forward. It wasn’t possible. She had to be dreaming. She rubbed her eyes again. The figure of Christine seemed transparent, ghost-like, but the Phantom… Cristie felt certain he was real.

  Fear sat like a lump of ice in her belly, and then she realized that what she was seeing was probably just some star-struck member of the cleaning crew, or a night watchman wearing one of the Phantom’s costumes. Or … of course, it was an understudy who had stayed late to rehearse. It was the only logical answer, except it didn’t explain the ghostly Christine.

  And then, echoing through the empty building, came the Phantom’s cry of rage as Christine turned her back on him and left with Raoul. Fireballs spit from the Phantom’s staff to light the stage and the image of Christine faded away like smoke. But the figure of the Phantom remained standing near the cross, his shoulders slumped in defeat, his head bowed.

  It had always been one of her favorite scenes, one that never failed to move her to tears. This performance, by some unknown actor, was no different. With a sniff, she wiped the dampness from her cheeks.

  And found herself pinned by the gaze of the man on stage. Even through the darkness, she could feel those black eyes burning into her own.

  Her mind screamed at her to leave, to run from the theater as quickly as possible, but try as she might, she couldn’t move, couldn’t tear her gaze from his.

  It took her a moment to realize he had left the stage and was walking rapidly toward her. He moved with effortless grace, the long black cape billowing behind him. His feet made no sound; indeed, he seemed to be floating over the floor.

  He covered the distance between them more quickly than she would have thought possible. She cowered back in her chair when he loomed over her. The half-mask gleamed a ghostly white in the darkness.

  “Christine?”

  His voice, filled with hope, tugged at her heart.

  She shook her head, her gaze fixed on the mask covering the right side
of his face. No, it couldn’t be. He wasn’t real. He didn’t exist.

  He took a step closer, then frowned. “Forgive me, you are not she.”

  Cristie tried to speak, but fear trapped the words in her throat.

  “You are very like her,” he remarked, a note of wonder in his voice.

  His voice was mesmerizing, a deep, rich baritone laced with pain and sorrow, and a soul-deep loneliness.

  Caught in the web of his gaze, she could only stare up at him, her heart pounding a staccato beat as he reached toward her, his knuckles sliding lightly over her cheek.

  “Who—?” Her voice emerged as no more than a whisper. “Who are you?”

  “Forgive me,” he said with a courtly bow. “I am Erik.”

  She swallowed hard. “Erik?”

  A slight nod, filled with arrogance. One dark brow arched in wry amusement. “Some people know me as The Phantom of the Opera.”

  Cristie shook her head. No, it was impossible. She must be dreaming. He couldn’t be real. Soon, her alarm clock would go off and she would wake up in her room at the hotel. And she would laugh…

  She looked up into his eyes, dark haunted eyes, and wondered if he had ever laughed. Wondered if, after sensing his pain, she would ever laugh again.

  “And your name?” he asked.

  “Cristie,” she replied, and fainted dead away.

  He caught her before she slid out of her chair.

  She was quite lovely, light as a feather in his arms. Her hair was a rich auburn, soft beneath his hand. What was she doing here, in the Opera House, long after everyone else had gone?