Sacred Ground

by Rita Karnopp

  "Why? So you can use it against me? When Dad died, it seemed so did the talk. He must have kept the gossip going, just to get back at her. These past few years no one has thrown my 'bastard' status at me. Don't even know why I told you," he said, turning his back to her.

  The strange surge of affection she felt frightened her. "I certainly won't bring it up to you or anyone else for that matter. I'm not ruthless and hollow-hearted like those Indians that hurt your mother," she said, her tone soft.

  "When I think about it, I have to face what I don't want to face, the very thing I try to forget. One of those ruthless bastards is my father! Do you know what it's like to wonder who your father is? Every middle-aged Indian male I see, I wonder, is he the one. Every drunken Indian I catch a glimpse of, I have to wonder . . . could he be my father. And if I were to find him, would I want to get to know him, or kill him?"

  He slammed his fist into his palm, and Willow jumped. She moved her hand across his broad back. "I wish there was something I could say to ease your pain, but there isn't," she whispered, feeling his shoulders shake with emotion. She leaned against him, hoping to offer some comfort.

  He turned toward her and met her gaze with sad, puppy-dog eyes that expressed the depth of his sorrow. Without thinking, she pulled his head to her shoulder. She felt his warm tears through her cold, wet shirt. She held him close, offering motherly comfort.

  Against her own will, she felt her breathing increase and her blood grow hot. As much as she didn't want to admit it, her body reacted to Brett Turner.

  She slid her finger into the back of his wavy, curly hair. It felt like wet silk and smelled of almond. She tried to ignore the strange aching in her limbs. When he pulled back, she gave no resistance.

  "Thank you," he whispered.

  She watched him, as breathless as a girl of eighteen. He pulled her roughly, almost violently, to him. His kiss felt punishing and angry, or was it passionate and needy? Confusion and fear filled her. Thoughts of Gordon's demands turned her blood cold. She twisted in his arms, arching her body, seeking to get free. His release came sudden, sending her sprawling backward.

  "God, I'm sorry," Brett said, moving to help her sit. "I didn't mean to scare you. I wasn't going to hurt you, like Gordon. I heard things, but I never believed them. You're right about little towns. They seem to know everything, right or wrong. I found it hard to believe Gordon could beat on you, but he did, didn't he?"

  Willow swallowed the lump that rose in her throat. "It wasn't as bad as you think. I'll admit he got carried away sometimes. He always apologized and he tried real hard to control his anger. I had a way of saying the wrong thing or doing something stupid. If I’d been more careful, none of those beatings would have happened," she explained, aware that she once again defended Gordon, as though he still had a grip on her. Gordon was dead. She no longer had to accept responsibility for his actions.

  Brett covered her hands with his. She froze. "Did it ever occur to you that it wasn't your fault? He had no right to hurt you. If he loved―"

  "Love," she interrupted. "Is there really such a thing? Sometimes I wonder."

  "I know what you mean. But my mother is a strong believer in love, although I wonder why. Her life certainly lacked it. Sean has been our source of love. He fills both our lives."

  "I can relate to that. Lance is the only reason I keep on trying.” An involuntary chill caused her body to tremble. "That's not entirely true. My responsibilities to my People also give me strength and purpose.” A shiver shook her body and she struggled to control it.

  "You're cold? Me too." He leaned to grab a couple of dry towels. "Here," he said, dropping one into her lap.

  Willow rubbed her forehead to ease the pain and moved the old towel around to the back of her stiff neck. "Dang headache. Hope it doesn't get worse," she muttered, more to herself than to Brett. She closed her eyes and moved her head in a slow circle, hoping to ease the stiffness. His gentle fingers slid across her shoulders and worked the muscles at the base of her neck. Although surprised, and somewhat embarrassed by the intimacy, it felt too good to make him stop.

  "Sean told me Lance has bad headaches. Kind of unusual for a nine-year-old, isn't it?"

  "I get migraines, a family thing. I started at Lance's age too. He's learned to stay quiet and relax. I have to admit I worry about it. Our doctor doesn't seem all that concerned. I wish we could pass on only the good genes, but life isn't that easy." She realized he'd stopped massaging and she opened her eyes to find him looking at her. A flush of heat raced across her cheeks.

  "You'd better dry off," he said.

  She wondered if his tone seemed deeper, even husky. She dismissed the thought. Brett ruffled the towel over his head, then peeled off his shirt to dry his skin. She found herself spellbound by his muscles moving as he worked. A light cover of sandy hair added to his masculine appeal. She tore her gaze from him, hiding her increased breathing by drying herself with a vengeance, keeping all her cold, soggy clothes intact.

  Willow cleared her throat. "Do you realize we've been neighbors for almost ten years and I don't really know you?" She immediately wished she'd kept the comment to herself.

  "Yeah, I've been thinking a similar thing. It's not that I didn't want to, I mean, Gordon did come around our place now and then. But, it seems friendship wasn't something we shared." Brett lunged to his feet and stomped over to check on Thunder.

  She thought about his comment. Finally she shuffled through the straw and sat close by. "What did you mean by that?" she asked, watching him intently.

  "Nothing particular."

  His answer came too fast. "I don't believe you. You had a point behind that comment, now you don't want to explain it. I don't ever recall Gordon saying he went to your ranch. He seemed to have a friendship with Wyatt Anderson, not you. I don't think he cared one diddly what you did or didn't do. I think you owe me an explanation." She didn't look at Brett, but concentrated on watching Thunder use her rough tongue to cleanse her newborn.

  "Stuck between you and Wyatt's run-down ranch has been a real experience in neighbors. The way I see it, I owe you nothing. It's you who owes me an explanation," he snapped.

  She took in his firm stance, feet spread, hands on his hips, while towering over her. Willow swallowed hard. Her heart beat fast. If he hit, she'd aim for his balls, no hesitation. Gordon was the last man who would mistreat her. "What could I possibly have to explain to you?"

  "Justify sabotaging my ranch. It's all I have to give Sean when I leave this earth. I work hard to provide for my mother and son. I don't pretend not to have raised some hell in my youth, but I've been sober and solid since my son was born. You may call me a spoiled rich kid, but I'm not. What you've done to me isn't excusable. I've done nothing to you."

  "What are you talking about?" She stood and stretched her full length before him. "How would I know anything about what's been happening on your ranch? Your cattle problem wasn't my doing. Your well? Hell, why would I want to disable your well? If I wanted you to suffer for lack of water, I'd dam-up your main water supply on my property, which I have no intention of doing. When your great-grandfather purchased that tract of land it was in good faith. Gordon said all his ancestors have honored that agreement, I'm not about to change it."

  "Last fall I found a small strip of wheat burned out. Don't suppose you know how that could have happened?" he asked, sitting hard. "I saw plenty of horse tracks in the area. Just to keep you from lying, I followed the trail; it led straight to your place."

  His contemptuous tone sparked her anger. "I admit I was there, I never denied it. Why didn't you come over and ask me about it then? You would have discovered I didn't start that fire, I put it out." She glared at him. "You accused Gordon of doing some land sampling too. He wouldn't have―"

  "One damn minute! I have proof," he yelled, his voice rising. "I didn't get to see the results, but I did see the cash payment receipt and it was signed by Gordon Jenkins."

  "Let me see it,
" she demanded between clenched teeth. "I'll prove the signature isn't his."

  "I can't," Brett admitted.

  "Can't or won't?" she asked, pushing straw around with the tip of her moccasin.

  "Someone tore my office apart. Several things were missing, the receipt was among them."

  "How convenient for you," she drawled in a heavy sarcastic tone. "Now I'm supposed to believe my husband barged into your study and stole it? Sorry, I'm not convinced. Come up with the truth, I might."

  "You always such a hard ass or is it just me? I think you could be soft and sexy, but I have the feeling you never let anyone get close enough to find out. From what I hear, Gordon hadn't reached your heart either."

  "What Gordon touched or didn't touch is my business. I heard when Lorraine divorced you and ran back to New York; you didn't exactly shed any tears. Did you?"

  The way he tucked his shirt in, she felt certain he planned on heading for the door.

  Willow didn't look him straight in the eyes. She couldn't; what if he read the truth beneath her attempted stern exterior? Her mind told her to have nothing to do with Brett. Then why did her body betrayed her when he came near? Determined to stay distant, she would ignore the tingle from his touch, the breathlessness from his nearness, the moistness from watching his muscles move across his naked torso.

  He checked Thunder, Little Thunder, and Shadow. Willow pulled the dry towel around her shoulders, and then wearily nestled down in the straw . . . content to watch him. She didn't miss the tenderness of his touch while rubbing the newborn's neck. Listening to his deep, soothing voice, not really hearing the words, soothed her tensed body.

  Her lids grew heavy and she succumbed to the exhaustion that overwhelmed her.

  * * *

  Brett leaned, cushioned his elbow on the straw and watched Willow sleep. He knew it invaded her privacy, and that she'd be madder than a bee in a jar if she knew, but he couldn't help himself.

  He especially liked the pout of her full, soft lips. He longed to feel them touching his own, willingly, exploring, demanding. He yearned to feel the weight of her round, full breasts in the palm of his hands. He wanted to feel her long silky legs wrapped around his waist, encouraging, pulling him closer, deeper . . .

  God! Why did she taunt him this way? Women were clamoring to be the next Mrs. Turner, and he daydreamed about making wild, passionate love with Willow Howling Moon. What possessed him to want an Indian?

  And whatever possessed him to tell her the truth about his mother being raped? Damn! He'd never told anyone. After stewing a moment, he decided to be honest. Brett knew damn well he told her so he could point out what bastards her People were. She needed to know he wanted nothing to do with being a stinking Indian. But instead of evoking anger and hostility, she'd showed him compassion and understanding. That he hadn't expected from her.

  He couldn't help liking her. He never thought he'd ever say that about Willow. Strange as it seemed, he even looked forward to their discussions. He loved how her dark brown eyes flashed sparks of amber when she got angry. He liked how her dimples deepened when she smiled. Her laugh sounded like the singing of a joyous meadowlark.

  He wanted to go skinny-dipping with her in the mountain pond. He wanted to take her floating on his rubber raft down the Missouri Breaks. He wanted to share his find of an underground sod house. Why he had a need to do all these things, he didn't know.

  Once he got past her invisible shield, he felt certain he'd find the most passionate, heart-warming woman he'd ever met.

  He rested his head back on the straw, alongside Willow. The warmth of her body touched his. He thought about her willingness, no eagerness, to help deliver the calves. She'd been great.

  Merely hours ago he'd have killed every buffalo in sight. Now, he'd just saved a buffalo cow and her two calves. Why did he feel so good about it? It'd been years since he had the urge to return to vet work. The sense of satisfaction and power he felt when helping a hurt animal made his heart pound and life seem exciting . . . like Willow Howling Moon.

  She nestled against him, and Brett guided her head into the crook of his arm. Content, he closed his eyes and drew in the scent of her, savoring it, yet unsure what it was. He'd smelled it before. It was the grass the old man burned over Thunder while she labored. He'd have laughed in disbelief had someone earlier today told him he'd have called a wild buffalo cow by name.

  * * *

  Brett woke to clanging cymbals and deep beating drums. He sat erect, glancing around uneasily. The mother buffalo nursed her calves, one white, and one black. The hollow sound of wind whirled around him, and then became a hazy mist.

  He rose, confused and leery. The drumming increased, beating hard and steady. His heart pounded as though anxious to catch up to the beating drums. He felt light and free. Through the mist a figure on a horseback rode toward him. As horse and rider loomed closer, he recognized Whirlwind, then Willow.

  Her hair flowed behind her, wild and free. She wore a white leather tunic and matching knee-length moccasins, heavily beaded with designs of the moon and a howling wolf. A fluffy white feather tied to one side of her head moved with the wind, its soft down enticing his attention.

  She brought her horse to a slow stop and he found himself rushing to her, arms lifted, to help her down. She swung her right leg over the head of Whirlwind. Brett captured her around the waist and she slowly slid down the front of him.

  Her smile warmed his heart. Her womanly softness pressed against him, and he found it hard to breathe. She clung to him, bringing her face close, staring into his eyes, baring her soul. The drumming continued, lively, happy, and demanding. Floating figures of young Indian women and warriors smiled, kissed, and touched while dancing around them.

  Like the others, Willow danced seductively. He slid his palms over her shoulders. The drumming increased, urging him on. With a sense of immediacy, he swayed rhythmically, dancing circles around her. He halted in front of her to steal a kiss. What he expected to be quick and teasing became lingering and soul-searching.

  The deep, bounding beats came faster. He performed several steps to show her he, too, could dance as well as the other warriors, and then smiled at her.

  He pulled her against his aroused, heated body. The drums pounded, echoing back in a deafening fury, matching the rhythm of his heart and gradually slowed.

  The pungent scent of sweetgrass filled the air. It filtered into his hair, her hair, whirling around him like a drug. He held her against him, and they swayed with the rhythm. Her hip intimately touched his hip. Her stomach brushed across his. Her breasts pressed into his chest. The haunting, soft cry of a howling wolf replaced the drums. The dancers had vanished.

  On a bed of soft white wolf skins lay Willow, naked and more beautiful than he ever imagined. She raised her arms to welcome him to her. Breathless, he stripped off his boots, socks, and Levis. God, he wanted her.

  The sad song of the wolf gave him pause. A startled scream filled his senses, and he jumped.

  Chapter Three

  What the hell do you think you're doing?" a shrill voice broke through his trance-like state.

  Brett blinked away the drowsiness that claimed him and looked into the startled, dark eyes of Willow Howling Moon. She backed away from him, clutching her towel. He glanced down at his swollen erection and dropped his hands to cover himself. He sank to the straw and snatched his jeans, yanking them on with a vengeance. "I don't know how to explain this. I was dreaming. I'm embarrassed―"

  "You're embarrassed! What were you planning? After what happened to your mother, I wouldn't have guessed you the rape type."

  "I'm not. God, Willow, I can't explain this. I don't know how it happened. I was dreaming―"

  "You expect me to accept such a shallow story? You want me to believe you were acting out a dream? Brett Turner, I don't believe a single word you say."

  "But, Willow, it's true. I mean . . . I think it's what happened. I . . ."

  Willow pressed
further into the straw. "I think you'd better get your clothes on, find your son, and get the hell off my ranch." She drew in an uneven breath. "And don't ever come near me again."

  "You don't understand." Brett had as much trouble trying to explain it as he did getting his overly aroused body zipped safely away.

  "There doesn't seem to be anything to explain. It's obvious to me what was up!"

  He could tell she not only distrusted his explanation, she also feared his actions. Damn, how could that dream have been so real? "Wait, don't you smell it?" he asked, sniffing the air. "The sweetgrass . . . you smell it, don't you?" She'd have to believe him now.

  "What about it? Grandfather must have been in here during the night. He might have felt a need to purify the animals."

  She explained it away so quickly, too quickly, he thought. "But it wasn't him. I tell you, it was real.”

  "What was real, Brett? You're talking crazy or trying to confuse me. Either way, it's not working. Your behavior is inexcusable."

  "There were Indians dancing to drums. They were dancing a mating dance. I know it sounds crazy. I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen it. Don't look at me that way. I know what I saw."

  "What else did you see?" she asked, her tone almost a whisper.

  "The drums got faster and faster. A woman rode toward me on a horse . . . right through a thick fog or mist. She came to me like―"

  "A lover?"Willow asked.

  "Yes, how'd you know?" he glanced at her, pausing to pull on his sock.

  "There’s a legend of the howling moon, the one I'm named after. It's a beautiful story of two lovers separated by the death of a son . . ." Willow paused, her mind reeling ahead. "It's a warning of death," she whispered.

  "No. I don't think so," he answered, uncertain why he even felt compelled to get caught up in this craziness. "The dream had nothing to do with death. The woman offered herself to me, and I wanted her. That's all there's to it." He felt embarrassed and angry to be in this position.