Untamed

by JoAnn Ross

  It began to rain. A cold, wind-driven autumn rain that pounded against the windshield, blurring her vision. Reminding herself of the full and busy life waiting for her back in San Francisco, she put the problem away and turned all her attention to getting around all the tight switchbacks without driving off the road.

  The road to ruin was bright and airy. The moment she entered the gallery, Tara experienced a feeling of welcome that was heightened when a huge yellow dog lifted its head from the floor and began thumping its tail on the gleaming pine planks.

  "Tara." Noel rose from behind an old oak desk, her face wreathed in a warm smile. She was dressed in denim leggings, red flat-heeled suede boots and a turquoise fringed top accented with silver conchos. Today's earrings were embossed silver arrowheads. "I'm so pleased you could come."

  Moving with a grace that belied the advanced state of her pregnancy, she crossed the room and took both Tara's hands in hers. "You've no idea how pleased I was to hear you'd finally succumbed to Gavin and Thatcher's invitations."

  "Invitations?" Tara arched a tawny brow. "Although I didn't read his letters, I have a feeling that Gavin's were more of a summons than an invitation."

  Noel laughed. "Knowing Gavin, they probably were. But he was reaching the end of his rope where those kids were concerned." Her smile turned into a slightly concerned frown. "You haven't been having any trouble, have you?"

  Tara decided not to ruin her visit by relating the latest vandalism. "Not since I threatened to turn them into lizards and bats."

  This drew another laugh. "Oh, I always knew I'd like you. Come into my office. I baked a pumpkin spice cake this morning. And the coffee should be ready."

  The small private office was pleasantly cluttered. Two love seats covered in a print reminiscent of a Navajo blanket faced each other in front of a window overlooking a lush garden. The dog followed them in and settled down on a woven rug with a deep, satisfied groan.

  The cream walls were covered with family photographs. Tara had no difficulty in picking out Noel's famous sister, the former jet-setting Princess Chantal, and her equally famous brother, Prince Burke, regent of Montacroix. One photo of the prince showed him with a dazzling blond woman who was holding a baby clad in a long white christening gown.

  "That's my brother's wife, Sabrina," Noel said, following Tara's gaze. "And their new son, Prince Eduard Leon. But, of course, his name has already been shortened to Eddie."

  Tara remembered reading that when it was discovered that the woman he loved could not bear children, thus putting the future of his country in jeopardy, Prince Burke had the Montacroix constitution amended to allow for adoption of the male heir.

  "It's obvious that he loves them both very much."

  "He adores Sabrina. As for Eddie, it was obvious that from the moment the nurse placed the baby in his arms, Burke considered him his own flesh and blood."

  "That's nice." Tara smiled. "Then again, I suppose there are other men who'd feel the same way."

  "Ah." Noel nodded and patted her stomach. "I see Gavin's been telling tales."

  "He only mentioned that Mac wanted to get married, but you were waiting until your baby was born."

  "It's complicated." Noel poured coffee into two mugs. "Would you like sugar or cream?"

  "Black's fine. And I'm sorry. I didn't mean to pry."

  "Of course you didn't. If you wanted to, you could read my mind and know exactly what I was thinking."

  "I was brought up to have better manners," Tara said mildly as she accepted the coffee with a nod of thanks.

  "As was I." Noel cut two pieces from the cake that was sitting in the center of the table. "Brigid told me that you were uncomfortable about your abilities."

  "It was difficult, growing up," Tara admitted. "Although I was brought up in a nurturing environment, I just wanted to be like all the other kids. Which, of course, I wasn't."

  "No." Noel took a sip of coffee, eyeing Tara thoughtfully over the rim of her mug. "You certainly weren't. I suppose, in that respect, I was more fortunate."

  "In what way?"

  "Being born into Montacroix's royal family already made me different from other children. But I had Burke and Chantal who, being older, helped me over the bumpier spots."

  "Do they have your gift?"

  "No. I'm the only one in this generation who inherited my grandmother Katia's ability for second sight. Since we were taught that her Gypsy heritage was something to be admired, not embarrassed about, I was never made to feel uncomfortable. However, I have to admit that there are some things I haven't even told my family."

  "Everyone's entitled to some privacy," Tara agreed. She took a bite of the spice cake and was not surprised when it was delicious. She suspected whatever the princess chose to do, she'd do very, very well.

  "That's true, I suppose."

  "Don't you think it's odd?" Tara asked suddenly, "that two people with second sight both ended up in the same small town?"

  "Actually, I've always believed that there are more people than we think with special talents, people who are unaware of their gifts," Noel responded thoughtfully. "As for ending up here, I've come to think of Whiskey River as a magical place, just waiting for me to find it."

  "That's a nice thought," Tara said, not wanting to spoil the mood by confessing how she'd stayed away for that same reason. "I like your gallery," she said instead, seeking to change the subject.

  "I like it, too. I've always had an affinity for art—my sister's an artist—but I don't have any talent myself. When I was looking for a new direction for my life, opening a gallery seemed natural."

  "One of my favorite pieces of art, by the way, is this bracelet your father made." She held out her arm, revealing the familiar fluid forms of Celtic knots worked with a contemporary twist. Semiprecious dark blue stones had been embedded in the sterling silver.

  "Lapis lazuli represents harmony and journeys," Tara said.

  To her surprise, Noel burst into delighted laughter. "So Brigid told me when she first saw the bracelet. Who could have guessed that my dear papa would turn out to be so prophetic?"

  "You're talking about your move to America," Tara guessed.

  "Yes." Laughter continued to dance in Noel's eyes, like sunshine on an Alpine lake. Tara had a feeling that she was about to say more when the bell tied to the gallery door signaled a customer. "I'll try not to take long," Noel promised.

  While her hostess was in the other room accompanied by the yellow dog, Tara finished off her cake and drank the rich dark coffee and felt herself relaxing. Though she had no plans to remain in Whiskey River, the idea of sharing occasional afternoon tea with a like-minded woman was more than a little appealing.

  When Noel didn't immediately return, Tara picked up a book, entitled Sandpaintings on the Hogan Floor from the coffee table. A quick glance at the book jacket revealed the short stories had been written in the late nineteenth century by Wolfe Longwalker, a half Navajo, half Irish-American writer considered one of the legitimate voices of the American West.

  The book, Tara read, had recently been reprinted. She skimmed through the pages and found herself becoming intrigued by the writer's unique voice. Making a mental note to buy a copy of her own before returning to San Francisco, she was about to return the book to the table when the author's photo on the back captured her attention.

  Wolfe Longwalker's cheekbones were a sharp slash riding high on his lean dark face; his hair, as black as ebony and as straight as rainwater, hung to his shoulders. His lips were set in a straight, grim line that revealed not an ounce of softness. And although he'd lived a hundred years in the past, although she'd never seen this photograph before, Tara recognized him instantly.

  "It can't be," she murmured, shaking her head as she stared down at the book jacket photo. "But somehow…"

  "Ah," Noel said, choosing that moment to return to the cozy private office, "I see you recognize him, too."

  "It's impossible." Tara studied the photo more intently.
Although there wasn't any outward physical resemblance between Wolfe Longwalker and MacKenzie Reardon, she knew the two were the same man.

  "Logical minds would say that Wolfe's coming back in the body of a 1990s newspaper man was impossible," Noel agreed mildly. She slipped a small piece of cake to the dog, who was watching her with avid, adoring brown eyes.

  "Logical minds would also insist that the idea of a 1990s European princess going back a hundred years in time and falling in love with a man who'd just escaped the gallows was impossible, too."

  "Surely you're not saying that you've actually experienced time travel?"

  "As impossible as it sounds, I have," Noel said with a calm that suggested they were merely discussing the recipe for her pumpkin spice cake. "My sister had sent me an invitation for a gallery showing of unknown Western artists. The cover was printed from a woodcut entitled 'Massacre at Whiskey River.'"

  "Cheerful subject," Tara murmured, shivering at the thought.

  "The picture was definitely distressing," Noel agreed. "It was a scene of Indians on horseback watching a settler's cabin burn."

  "The minute I touched the invitation, I had a vision of a man on horseback, in the rain, with a noose around his neck."

  "And this man was Wolfe Longwalker?"

  "Exactly. For some reason I couldn't understand at the time, I was compelled to come here and find out who he was. And why he'd entered my mind." Her expression was thoughtful, her eyes serious. "I stayed at a bed-and-breakfast that in Wolfe's time had been a bordello called the Road to Ruin."

  "Catchy name," Tara said. "And now I see why you chose the name for your gallery." She also understood why the princess had laughed about the idea of the blue stone signifying a journey.

  "It gets even better." Noel dimpled in a way that made Tara wonder how she could ever have been considered an ice princess. "I bought the house. I'm living in it." Her smile reached her eyes briefly, then she sobered. "To make a long story short, I knew, when I first saw the photographs of Wolfe, that I was meant to clear his name."

  "Of course I had no way of knowing at the time that I'd end up in the previous century. Nor did I realize that I was destined to fall in love with him."

  "Then you had to leave him behind?" The thought saddened Tara.

  "Yes. But miraculously, I managed to bring something back."

  Her own family history had exposed Tara to things others might find difficult to accept. But this idea…

  "Surely you're not suggesting that your child was conceived a century ago?"

  "Yes." Noel's hands drifted down to her stomach again in a maternal cradling gesture as old as the ages. "I was worried in the beginning, but Dr. McGraw— that's Nick's wife—assures me that my baby is strong and healthy and developing absolutely normally."

  "That's so amazing."

  "I know. I suppose it shows the power of love," Noel mused. "That trip changed so much in my life, Tara. And it changed me, too. I was a different person before I met Wolfe. Or, perhaps, it was simply that I'd unconsciously chosen to appear cooler and more subdued because my older sister had already claimed the role of the dazzling Giraudeau daughter. During my time with Wolfe, I discovered feelings I never knew I possessed."

  "And not just in bed," she said quickly. "Although that certainly was one of the more exciting aspects of our time together. But I also learned how brave I could be under pressure. And how I could take risks."

  "Does Mac know? That it's his child?"

  "No." Noel sighed. "He keeps having flashes of memory, but my darling Mac has a very logical nature, so I know he dismisses them. When we first met, it was obvious that we knew each other. But he prefers to believe that he recognized me from my photos."

  "I can certainly understand that." Tara considered the position Noel was in, being in love with a man who had no idea he'd fathered their child a hundred years in the past, "This is truly incredible."

  "Isn't it?" Noel's eyes danced with laughter. "Even Brigid was impressed."

  "Are you going to try to explain it to Mac?"

  "If he hasn't remembered by the time the baby's born. But I'm hoping that won't be necessary. There's a Halloween dance at the Grange next Saturday night. I've had a copy of the dress I was wearing when I was with Wolfe made. I'm hoping that will trigger Mac's memory."

  "Well, I certainly wish you luck." Tara breathed a soft, slightly envious sigh as she contemplated the idea of a love so strong it could overcome the barrier of time.

  "Even as complex a problem as this is, you're still a very lucky woman."

  Noel smiled as she looked down at Wolfe's photo. "I know."

  13

  Tara arrived home from the Road to Ruin and found Gavin in the process of preparing dinner. Watching him, she realized she'd made a terrible mistake. He fit into Brigid's kitchen with a comfortable ease that gave her the feeling that, if allowed, he'd take over the house. And her life.

  "I take it Laverne, Vivien and Chloe called it a day."

  "They filled all the orders that had stacked up." He cut the thick piece of lamb into chucks and sliced and diced the vegetables with the same easy skill he did everything else. "Laverne said she and Chloe would drop them off at the post office on the way home. Apparently, they used to do that for Brigid."

  "It's wonderful they could get all that work done so fast."

  "Yeah." He pushed the carrots aside and dumped the lamb chunks into the pot where they began sizzling in the heated oil. "Unfortunately, today's mail brought a bunch more."

  "I suppose that while I'm here we might as well fill the orders that come."

  "Makes sense to me." The oil popped and crackled as he stirred the meat with a long-handled fork. Then he began slicing an onion.

  "You're very good at that," Tara murmured, watching the stainless-steel knife flash in the slanting yellow rays of afternoon sun.

  "It comes with practice. Sometimes, when I finish work, I'm all wound up. Cooking relaxes me. Clears the mist from my mind."

  "Running does that for me."

  "I run, too." The onions followed the meat into the copper-bottomed Dutch oven. "But it can't quite compare. Because you don't have anything to eat when you're done."

  Tara smiled at that. The smell of the frying meat was making her mouth water. As she watched, he poured some water and wine into the pot and covered it.

  "How about sitting out in the garden and having a glass of wine?" he asked. The afternoon had mellowed into a warm Indian summer.

  "That sounds wonderful."

  "You've done a great job cleaning it up," he said, looking out over the weeded beds.

  "If you hadn't kept things watered, there wouldn't have been anything left to clean up."

  He shrugged. The watering, like replacing the windows, hadn't seemed any big deal. Brigid was a friend. Friends watched out for one another. "Knowing how much Brigid loved her garden, I was thinking about trying to do more, but I figured I'd end up throwing out all the good stuff and keeping the weeds."

  "It's not always easy to tell the difference," Tara allowed. "When I was a little girl, I spent summers here. Brigid taught me a lot."

  "About more than weeds and herbs," Gavin guessed.

  "Yes." Not wanting to talk about her background, not when they were getting along so well, Tara didn't expound.

  The leaves on the apple tree were turning gold. Last year Brigid would have harvested the apples to make juice. This year, Gavin explained, he'd allowed a local food bank to take them rather than have them rot on the ground. Soon the leaves would all be gone, leaving the branches bare and forlorn looking throughout the winter. But spring would bring fresh green leaves and white flowers and the promise of renewal.

  It was the same life cycle her ancestors had celebrated. Tara sighed, thinking of Brigid, who'd completed the final stage of this cycle, and found herself hoping that her grandmother would someday return. The world needed more generous souls like Brigid Delaney.

  "Did you get any work done?
" she asked, wanting to turn her thoughts to something less painful.

  "Quite a bit, actually. The new story line's coming along great. I'm thinking about having Brianna use her charmed sword to behead the evil gods of Hades who are holding her sister hostage."

  "She'd never do that." It was against the character's nature. Since returning to Brigid's Whiskey River home, and meeting Gavin, Tara was discovering exactly how difficult it was to fight nature.

  "You know that. And I know that. But I think the reader will buy it. Especially when you see the battle garb I've given her."

  "Tell me it isn't black leather." Tara took a sip of wine.

  "Nah. Everyone knows Morganna wears blade. I was thinking silver, along the lines of a bodysuit spun from moonbeams."

  "Why be subtle when you can hit the reader over the head with sex?"

  "It's a graphic novel," Gavin reminded her. "The art's every bit as important as the story."

  "Apparently even more so," she murmured.

  "All her life, Brianna's left the adventures to Morganna. Now she's forced to delve down deep inside herself to discover strengths she never knew she possessed, powers she's never used. It only makes sense that she'd also discover a sexuality she's unconsciously kept repressed all these years. And now that she's aware of her body, she wants to show it off."

  His words reminded her of what Noel had said about her adventure changing not only her life but her outlook on life, making her bolder.

  "Now you're claiming to be an expert on the female psyche?"

  "No man could ever claim that." His hearty laugh was deep and rich. "The female mind is like Africa on all those ancient maps. Uncharted. All you women might as well have Here There Be Dragons tattooed on your pretty, smooth foreheads."

  It was Tara's turn to laugh. Then she quickly sobered again. "If I didn't know better," she said, "I'd think you were creating your new plot around me."

  "Of course I am." Gavin's easy answer displayed not an iota of guilt.