by Connie Mason
Fallen Angel
“Please! Don’t do that,” Hannah said.
“What would you prefer I do? Do white men arouse their women differently? Or do you wish me to pay in white man’s coin to lie with you?”
Hannah shoved at this chest, trying to push him away. It was too dark to see his expresioin but the warmth of his silver eyes and the heat of his body scorched her flesh. “I’m not what you think. I’ve never lain with a man.”
Wind Rider laughed harshly. “Perhaps you’ve never lain with an Indian but I know that you’ve lain with white men. Do no lie, Hannah McLin, for I know what it means when a woman is called whore. Do not fear, Little Sparrow, I am capable of giving you pleasure if I so desire. Did you receive Pleasure from the others or was their coin more important to you than their manhood?”
Wind Rider
Connie Mason
Copyright @ 1994, 2011 by Connie Mason
To Jerry, you’ve been my hero for 44 years. And to our children, Jeri, Michelle, and Mark. I love you all.
Chapter One
December 1864
Hannah’s eyes clung with desperate appeal to those of the tall, silver-eyed man before he turned and strode away. He paused to glance at her over his broad shoulder, and in those brief moments of visual contact she was moved by a profound sense of loss. Then Mr. Harley shoved her inside the inn and the stranger was lost from sight.
“Get upstairs, girl,” Burton Harley growled as he pushed Hannah through the door into the common room of the inn.
“Hey, Harley,” one of the patrons shouted as he nudged Hannah toward the stairs, “you’re gonna have to clean her up some if you expect me and the boys to pay good coin to bed her.”
Hannah pushed the matted mass of her dishwater-hued hair from her eyes as she resisted the hard pull of Harley’s hands. Her dirty brown dress hung like a gunnysack from her bony shoulders, and she wondered how anyone could look at her with desire. The filth that covered her body and clung to her oversized, ragged clothing created a stench she could barely tolerate herself. Yet she welcomed her pitiful state, for it had protected her from unwanted attention until now. Despite her best efforts to appear un-attractive, Mr. Harley had begun eyeing her in a speculative manner. And just today he had suggested that she earn her keep in a way that had shocked and disgusted her.
“I’ll see that Hannah smells right pretty for you, Billy,” Harley snickered. “It’s gonna cost you, though. I wouldn’t be surprised if the little Irish slut is a virgin.”
Raucous laughter and lewd remarks followed Harley’s words, and Hannah turned crimson to the roots of her grimy hair. When she’d indentured herself and sailed to America to become a servant, never in her wildest dreams had she envisioned a master like Burton Harley. She had left Ireland hoping to ease the burden upon her impoverished father, who had seven younger children at home to support. It had seemed a good idea until Harley had bought her articles of indenture and brought her to Denver to work in the inn he had recently purchased.
It wasn’t that Hannah minded hard work; far from it. She had worked very hard at home. But when Harley slyly suggested she entertain men in the tiny upstairs room she occupied she had balked.
She had reacted by attempting to run away. Mr. Harley had caught her in front of the inn and severely chastised her before a crowd of curious onlookers, none of whom had come to her defense. Not even the tall, dark man with compelling silver eyes. And now Harley expected her to whore for him.
Praying to the God she thought had abandoned her, Hannah resisted wildly as Harley shoved and pushed her up the stairs. Using her body in such a manner was reprehensible to her. When she had left home she was prepared to devote the next seven years to honest, hard work, but not this, never this. Still a virgin at eighteen, she wasn’t prepared to lose her innocence to one of the vile men who quaffed ale in the common room of Harley’s inn.
Harley had managed to manhandle Hannah to the top of the stairs now, and she was growing desperate. Just as they reached the landing she turned abruptly, poking him hard in the ribs with a bony elbow. Teetering on the landing, Harley made a desperate grab for the railing, lost his balance, and tumbled backwards down the entire length of the staircase, bouncing to the bottom with a thud.
“Damn bitch!” Harley spat, groaning in pain. His face was white as the sheets Hannah bleached each wash day, and his right leg was bent at an odd angle. “Don’t just stand there gawking; send for the doctor!”
Harley’s timid wife came running into the common room, saw her husband lying on the floor, and ran upstairs to hide in her room until help came. The poor abused woman was so cowed by her bully of a husband that she was frightened of her own shadow.
When the doctor finally arrived he found that Harley had not only broken a leg but fractured an arm as well, which in all likelihood would immobilize him for the rest of the winter. Hannah’s prayers had been answered; not in the way she had expected, but she had certainly gotten a reprieve. With Harley flat on his back for weeks to come, he no longer had the power to force her into prostitution. She had plenty of time now to plan her escape. By the time Mr. Harley was back on his feet the weather would be warm and she could make her way to Cheyenne, where her cousin, Seamus McLin, lived. Once she reached Seamus, she knew he would help her. Absolutely nothing would make her remain in Denver and sell her body to Harley’s customers.
Chapter Two
May 1865
Wind Rider loped through the tall prairie grass in long, easy strides, his sturdy brown legs bulging with muscles long accustomed to being pushed beyond the endurance required by most men. His brown shoulders, slick with sweat, gleamed like polished gold beneath the brutal sun on this extremely hot spring day. With only a brief breechclout covering his loins, his strong body was poetry in motion, magnificent in its savage splendor. His feet, clad in moccasins, literally flew over the rough ground. His long dark hair was crowned with an eagle feather and his face and tautly muscled body sported garish black-and-yellow stripes. Sounds of pursuit added wings to his feet as he sprinted toward the wooded hills a short distance away.
While raiding with a war party of Southern Cheyenne and Oglala Sioux, Wind Rider’s horse had been shot out from beneath him as he and his companions attacked a stagecoach. They hadn’t known the coach would be escorted by troops attached to Fort Lyon and literally had ridden into a trap. After a few wild shots the war party, badly outnumbered, had given up and ridden away. No one had seen Wind Rider’s horse fall. Hidden by the tall prairie grass, Wind Rider had scanned the horizon, realizing that his survival depended upon reaching the wooded hills rising majestically above the plains two miles to the north.
With the soldiers hard on his trail, Wind Rider ran like the wind, glancing neither to the right nor the left, placing his life in the hands of the Great Spirit. He thought of his sister, Tears Like Rain, who had taken a white husband and made a life for herself among the white eyes. He had seen her recently in Denver and learned she was to have Zach Mercer’s child. He was grateful that she was safe from all the troubles and bloodshed that had erupted on the prairie since the Sand Creek massacre.
Wind Rider had been shocked to learn that Tears Like Rain and Zach had been at Sand Creek during the massacre and had warned their foster father, White Feather, who had escaped safely. Distrustful of white men’s false promises, Wind Rider had refused to settle at Sand Creek with his tribe; he rode north, instead, to join the Sioux. Several weeks later, after he had learned about Sand Creek, he had joined thousands of other Indians camped outside Denver to discuss retaliation against the whites who had attacked innocent women and children at Sand Creek.
Many chiefs had smoked the war pipe and now they began a campaign of battle that blazed a bloody path across the p
rairie. Wind Rider and his friends had been on their way to Powder River country when they spotted the stagecoach, unaware that a column of soldiers followed a short distance behind it. They had been badly outnumbered from the start but had made the most of the raid, striking hard, then running. One of the last to leave the scene of attack, Wind Rider had run out of luck when his valiant pony was shot from beneath him. Now he was fleeing for his life.
The woods loomed before him and Wind Rider pushed himself beyond the stretch of human endurance. His heart pounded furiously within his sun-bronzed breast and the breath exploded from his chest in harsh, panting bursts as he demanded more from himself than he ever had before. Like any good Cheyenne warrior, he was fully prepared to die for his beliefs, but he was not yet ready to meet Heammawihio.
One of the soldiers spotted him. “There he is! Shoot the murdering redskin.”
The stark planes of his face displayed little emotion as Wind Rider raced toward the woods and the hills beyond. The hot breath of the soldiers’ horses seared his neck as they ran him down like a wild animal. With a speed born of desperation he avoided their bullets, shifting and dodging with a cunning only an Indian, or one raised as an Indian, could possess.
Unfortunately, luck deserted him just as he plunged into the cool darkness of the forest. A bullet from a trooper’s gun tore into his thigh and he cried out in pain. But it neither slowed nor stopped him. He gritted his teeth against the searing pain and maintained his grueling pace.
Demanding more of himself than was humanly possible, Wind Rider burst through the woods and sprinted up the hill, losing the soldiers easily among the tall pines, stately willows, and cottonwood trees. High up on a hillside he ducked into a cave to wait out the soldiers’ passage. He knew the bluecoats wouldn’t search forever for a lone Indian, and once they gave up the search he’d make his way to the camp, where he hoped his companions awaited him. His leg needed tending, but necessity demanded that he wait until the danger was past.
Night covered the plains like a blanket, blotting out the sun and awakening the moon. Wind Rider could feel the fever rising in his body and forcibly shook off the lethargy making him groggy and inattentive. He had abandoned the cave shortly after dark, stopping briefly to cleanse his wound in a sluggish brook and to pack it with wet leaves to stem the flow of blood. To keep from dwelling on the pain, he turned his thoughts to his sister, recalling how well and happy she had appeared when he had seen her in Denver. Wind Rider seriously doubted he’d ever find that kind of happiness himself.
Then, unaccountably, a vision of vivid green eyes passed through his mind. Searching his memory, he recalled the indentured servant he had seen in Denver, remembering how she had fought off her masters heavy hand and how she had searched for help among the onlookers without finding it.
Despite her youth, Wind Rider knew she was a whore. His memory conjured up a small, nondescript woman with plain features, matted hair the color of dun, and bones protruding from beneath her skin. She had been dirty beyond imagination, but her one memorable feature had been her compelling green eyes. Why he should think of her now was beyond his comprehension, but think of her he did, even though she had lain with many men and was unworthy of his consideration. Cheyenne men respected virtue and modesty in a woman. They practiced restraint in all their dealings with Cheyenne maidens and were accustomed to long periods of celibacy. Loose women were scorned and shunned among his people.
The moon was high in the sky when Wind Rider neared the place where his friends had made their camp. By now his pain was excruciating, but he forced himself to keep going, ignoring the agony in his wounded leg. The Sioux camp wasn’t far, and if he hurried, he could reach it before his comrades left. But the farther he walked, the more unbearable the pain became. His swollen leg barely supported his weight and he was close to collapse. Dawn had just painted the sky with streaks of gray and mauve when he stumbled upon a woman sleeping beneath a tree, wrapped in the filthy remnants of her tattered dress.
Hannah shifted uncomfortably on the hard ground, wishing she’d had the foresight to bring a blanket with her. She had no idea how long it would take to reach a road where she could hail a stagecoach to Cheyenne but prayed it would be soon. She’d made good time the first day and hoped to do better today. Her eyes were still tightly closed as she stretched the kinks out of her body and wished for a cup of hot coffee.
Wind Rider’s narrow-eyed gaze settled disconcertingly on the woman curled up on the hard ground. He recognized her immediately. Dimly, he wondered what she was doing so far from Denver. He thought it a strange coincidence that he had been thinking of this very woman just a short time ago, reviling her for being the kind of woman he could never respect. Where was her master? he wondered curiously. What was he thinking to let her roam at will in the woods where danger existed?
Wind Rider’s lip curled derisively when he saw her stretch. She was so thin, one had to look closely to tell that she was a woman. Her hair was tangled and covered with dirt and leaves; she could have harbored an entire family of mice in the filthy mass.
Slowly, Hannah opened her eyes. She blinked repeatedly, and when the apparition did not go away she cried out in dismay. Some devil inside Wind Rider made him nudge her with his toe.
Hannah stared at him in fear and awe, hoping she was dreaming and fearing she wasn’t. She had never seen an Indian up close before, and this one was truly frightening, with his painted body and fierce expression. Nearly naked, his muscular frame was sleek and golden. He was tall and straight, the corded muscles of his chest and shoulders rippling beneath his smooth flesh. His powerful physique blotted out the rising sun, and just the sight of him set her blood pounding in fear and wonder. His nose wrinkled and his silver eyes glittered as if he could smell her fear.
Silver? Her brow furrowed in concentration. Where had she seen eyes like that before? She wasn’t aware that Indians had eyes any color but brown. Yet there was no mistaking this steely-eyed savage for anything but a fierce Indian warrior. When he nudged her with his toe she gasped and scooted out of his reach.
“Go away!” Her voice trembled with fear. When the Indian stared at her as if he had no idea what she was saying, Hannah assumed he couldn’t understand English. “Go,” she repeated, making a swishing motion with her hands. “Leave me alone.”
Reaching down, Wind Rider grasped her shoulders and hauled her to her feet. The green pools of her eyes were so entrancing, he felt an inexplicable urge to plunge into them and never come up for air. Hannah resisted, convinced he meant to kill her.
“Don’t hurt me, please,” she whimpered, cringing beneath the hard grip of his hands.
Wind Rider’s nose twitched, as if he had just sniffed something offensive. “Phew, you stink.”
Hannah blinked. ”Wh-what? You speak English.”
“I speak the white man’s tongue but do not like it.”
“Let me go, please,” Hannah pleaded. “I’m no threat to you.”
“Everyone with white skin is a threat to my people. Your great numbers are depriving us of our lands and livelihood.”
“What are you going to do with me?” Hannah shuddered, recalling the lurid tales she’d heard at the inn about Indians and what they did to their captives.
Wind Rider’s eyes glittered unnaturally as fever raged through his body. He knew he was strong and fit, but he wasn’t so naive as to think he was invincible. It was obvious his wound was festering, and he wasn’t certain how much longer he could continue without help. Finding the woman was a stroke of luck.
“There is a bullet in my leg; you must remove it.”
Hannah’s gaze flew to Wind Rider s thigh, her eyes widening when she saw angry red flesh surrounding the crude bandage of leaves. Her mouth worked wordlessly, realizing that he must be in terrible pain despite his stoic reserve. She recoiled in revulsion. How could she touch that bronze flesh without fainting dead away?
“I cannot. I-I’ve never done it before.”
&
nbsp; Desperate, Wind Rider whipped out his knife, pressing it against the tender curve of her neck. “You will.”
Hannah gulped and stared at him, not trusting her voice. Would he kill her if she refused? “Will you let me go afterward?” she dared to ask.
“I will think about it,” Wind Rider promised. “Is there water nearby?”
“There’s a stream a short distance away. Can you walk?”
“You will help me,” Wind Rider said, clutching her thin shoulders. Her bones felt so fragile beneath his huge hands, he could easily crush them with his fingers. He wasn’t certain her slight weight could support him, but it did, giving him the impression that she was stronger than she appeared. He allowed her to pick up her sack, and they started off toward the stream.
Wind Rider sat gingerly on the bank of the stream while Hannah stared at his thigh in utter fascination. She had never seen so much of a man’s body before, except for her younger brothers, and they didn’t count. She grudgingly admitted his body was magnificent, though his proud, handsome features were as fierce as any she’d ever seen. Stark and noble, savage, yet somehow different from what she had expected Indians to look like. Stranger still were his silver eyes. Could he be a half-breed? she wondered, regarding him from the corner of her eye. If he was, he certainly gave no indication that he possessed a drop of white blood.
“I will soak my leg in the river while you gather wood to start a fire,” Wind Rider told her. “Once the bullet is removed you will need to cauterize the wound. Do not attempt to run away,” he cautioned when her expression turned speculative. “Even wounded I can run faster than you.”
Hannah didn’t doubt him for a moment. It didn’t take long to gather sticks of wood and dried grass. When she set the pile before Wind Rider he removed his flint from the parfleche he carried at his waist and struck a spark that caught immediately. “Wash your hands in the stream,” he said, thrusting his knife directly into the fire. “Cheyenne maidens have more pride than to abuse their bodies with filth. Do you never bathe?”
