by Cait London
WILD DAWN
BY
CAIT LONDON
~**~
Copyright
WILD DAWN
Copyright 2011 by L.E. Kleinsasser
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author.*
*This also pertains to uploading to free download sites, which is considered piracy and does not recognize the labor of this author or their livelihood from that work. Please discourage piracy and purchase works (other than those listed by the author or publisher as Free Books).
Publishing History: Wild Dawn 1992
~**~
WILD DAWN
by Cait London
Prologue
Colorado Territory, 1867
The mountain man adjusted his buffalo robe to better protect his four-month-old son from the October wind. Tucked against MacGregor’s lean side, little Jack slept in his fur-lined pouch and suckled as he dreamed.
MacGregor scowled at the gray clouds drifting low on the Sangre de Cristo Mountains. Sweeping through big game country, the English had taken his Indian wife and a baby he never knew existed. MacGregor was married to Singing Bird while he was drunk, and he left her the next morning. Unaware of the marriage, he’d discovered the birth of his son at the same time he’d learned of his wife’s death. Lured by the Englishmen’s promises, Singing Bird had left him a strong son to raise.
Jack. With his Indian heritage written in his black hair and dark, rosy skin, Jack would be safer in the high mountains.
MacGregor had learned how to survive as an orphan shoved into a mission school. Then in the War Between the States, some called him a hard man who made his rules along the way. By MacGregor’s rules, the English owed him; a man took what was due him... a wife for a wife, a mother for a mother. And take one he would.
Raised by mountain men, he knew how to corner his prey and set the trap.
MacGregor had come from the hell of the Civil War to find the West ripped apart by the Sand Creek Massacre of Black Kettle’s Cheyenne. To the north, the Bozeman Trail was under seige by soldiers building forts and Indians fighting them. Railroads pushed westward, and the Sweetwater gold rush was a fever in men’s blood. The half-white chieftain of the Kwahadi Comanche, Quanah Parker fought the Kansas Medicine Lodge Treaty.
Amid the battles, English sporting nobility shot buffalo and left them to rot while they drank afternoon tea from china cups.
Beneath his heavy buffalo robe, MacGregor’s son slept, slung close to his father’s body. MacGregor rubbed his son, soothing him and thinking of the woman in the cabin just an hour’s ride from him. In his experience, women needed a man to do their thinking, to provide for them. He intended to use a gentle but firm hand on the woman who was his by rights. Marriage by necessity was often the case in this rough country, and the female he’d chosen would prefer him to dying on the mountain.
Mist clung to MacGregor’s weathered skin and beard as he thought of the Englishwoman, kidnapped by her own kind, and deserted in the cabin. He’d watched her when he scouted the English camp; she had spit, plenty of backbone, a good fit for this wild country.
But deserted, alone in that cabin below him, she’d be hungry and freezing now, willing to bargain. She had no choice: Lady Regina Mortimer-Hawkes was his.
~**~
“I will survive. I always do.” Regina smoothed away a tear from her bruised cheek. She hated feeling weak; weakness was worse than the mountain’s freezing cold. Leaning against the cabin’s logs, she sniffed and shivered and forced herself not to cry.
Wearily she fought the hunger gnawing at her stomach and the painful bruises inflicted by her kidnappers.
As a child, she’d dreamed of King Arthur and his knights rescuing her from her father. A gallant knight would ride out of the English mists with his lance poised and great war horse pawing at the earth. He’d carry her off to safety and court her with flowers and sonnets.
But she wasn’t a child any longer. That protective knight hadn’t ridden into her life.
Using all her strength, Regina forced herself to think of surviving. The freedom of the American wilderness lay just beyond her reach. There were new settlements in the sprawling lands where she could begin anew....
Lifting her chin, Regina forced her stiff English pride to return. Perhaps she’d gotten that pride from her father’s English side, or from the dark, moody Bedouin blood of her grandmother. How her father had hated his daughter’s dusky skin, despite his gift of the Mortimer-Hawkeses’ amethyst eyes. Mocking her, he had taunted her with the name “Pagan.”
As a child he had hurt her, but she was free of him now.
The marquess would soon discover that she had left colored glass in the family vault, taking her Bedouin inheritance with her. Now the jewels nestled in the leather horn of her sidesaddle. Of course, she didn’t have that saddle now, did she?
Regina straightened her back against the cabin’s cold logs, arranging her tattered skirt over the rags that covered her bare feet. When Lord Covington had proposed to her and offered the hunting trip to the American wilds as an engagement present, she’d accepted immediately, making plans to escape and lose herself in the new country.
Alfred Covington was weak and spoiled and had gambled away a fortune. When her father had offered Regina and her money, keeping the jewels for himself, Alfred had immediately become her suitor.
Closing her eyes, Regina remembered Lord Covington’s bloated, enraged face after their argument; her kidnappers had frequently whispered his name, linking him to the deed.
The wind howled around the corners of the cabin, and Regina gathered her torn shawl closer. Her fists tight in the fabric, her anger, her need for revenge burned her....
The men had made a bad mistake.... They’d let her live.
But now the mountain and winter waited to claim her. Her belly ached, crying for food, and she had no skills to provide. But she’d tried. Her struggles with the men and searching for food had exhausted her; she had nothing but a few sticks left for the fire, and little energy to scavenge for more....
Closing her eyes, Regina forced herself to dream of hot, sweet English tea and scones.
Then a horse whinnied and Regina’s heart stopped. She opened her lids and listened intently before she scrambled to her feet.
~**~
Chapter One
“Halt there, I say,” Lady Regina Mortimer-Hawkes ordered as she stepped out of the log cabin.
She pointed her empty dueling pistol at the man’s heart. Peering through the ghostly gray mists that preceded the mountain night, she lifted her chin. There were men like her father who could smell fear, feed on it. Whoever this frontiersman was, whatever he wanted, she would not display the fear snaking wildly through her.
She swallowed, forcing moisture down her dry throat, and straightened her shoulders. Pressing her lips together, she tightened her finger on the trigger of the empty pistol; her free hand swept a long, rippling strand of raven hair away from her cheek. Her fingers snagged on a twig and she hurriedly plucked it away.
Had her fiancé, Lord Covington, sent his men back for her?
Would she survive another attack at their brutal hands?
The tall man adjusted the buffalo robe carefully around his chest, the edges skirting his knees. Tied to an aspen branch a stone’s throw from the cabin, his mottled horse whinnied. The man turned his head toward the three horses and two loaded
packing mules.
Poised for danger, the man’s hand tightened on his rifle and lifted it all in a single motion. He moved with an animal grace, as though he had walked through hellfire and survived by his keen wits and not the kindness of man.
Turning slowly, the stranger faced her. A wash of dead leaves caught on the winter wind, slashed between them.
Swishing through the pine branches, the wind sounded like the keening of a faraway banshee.
A wolf howled in the distance, his pack joining him in a chilling chorus. The eerie sounds hovered between the tall man and Regina, causing the hair at the back of her neck to rise. Caught by the wind, a dead leaf tumbled along the wooden planks of the porch and scratched at her legs above the rags. The shreds of her petticoat, wrapped about her feet, lacked the dignity of her buttoned, heeled boots.
She damned Lord Covington again, for he would surely give her boots away.
Regina straightened, attempting a shred of dignity and bravery. The strands of her hair escaped the loose knot at the crown of her head. Her body craved the warmth of the man’s fur robe; she could almost feel his heat throb inside it, like muscle sliding within sun-heated skin.
Draped in the shreds of her torn dignity, Regina squared her bruised shoulders.
Her fingers shook around the small gun as she fought the fear ricocheting through her. “I ordered you to halt.”
Shadowed by the wide brim of his hat, his deep-set eyes narrowed down at her. Taking two long strides toward the cabin, the man stopped.
His dark, piercing gaze cut through her like an icy sword. Her hand clutched tighter at the shawl, the pulse at the base of her throat pounding....
“Ma’am,” he said, dipping his head slowly and watching her with piercing eyes. “I’m a blunt-spoken man, but fair. I reckon you deserve to hear where I stand.”
His lips moved slightly as though tasting his words on his tongue before allowing them to slide free in the deep raspy tone.
He shifted his arm beneath the fur cape, the wind lifting the edges about his calves. “My son, Jack, is under this robe. He needs that cabin tonight, and I’m coming in. That fancy little gun won’t go through buffalo hide. The chambers are empty anyway.... Tuck it away.”
When she stared at him blankly, he nodded and took a deep breath. “I’d appreciate you asking me in. I’ve come a long way for you.”
Long legs shifted restlessly beneath the buffalo cape. “The Indians know you’re MacGregor’s woman—that’s me—MacGregor. I’m needing a woman for Jack, ma’am, and you’re the choice cow of the herd.”
“Cow?” she repeated blankly.
“Female... woman,” he answered impatiently. “You’ll find I’m not good with words.”
Stunned, Regina’s gaze slid down the tall man’s body, shrouded by the cape down to his buckskin leggings and boots.
A cold chill ran up her spine before she straightened her shoulders. Fear danced over her flesh like icy sleet. The mountain man had no claim on her; his arrogance caused her to remember her father.
“I’m a blunt-spoken woman,” she tossed back at him. “I haven’t heard of you, nor am I ‘your woman.’ If you have a child in your robes, show him to me and you may have shelter for the night.”
When he spoke the wind rose, penetrating the rags covering her feet. MacGregor’s black eyes sliced at her, and his voice reminded her of a castle mastiff’s growl. “No one doubts my word, ma’am. Jack’s tucked in snug enough, and I’m not bringing him out until we’re in the cabin. I’m done palaverin’—talking.”
He lowered his head deeper into the mass of buffalo fur. “I’m tired and my son needs that cabin, ma’am,” he said roughly. “We’re coming in. You’ve got the night to think about living or dying.... The way I see it is, you have four choices: You can freeze in that cabin this winter— alone... let the Indians turn you into a tribal squaw... or maybe some trapper will set you up as his property in a back room and hire you out.”
Then he added quietly, “Or you can marry me.”
The proposal caught Regina broadside, winding her. He must be a lunatic, she decided, taking a breath to compose her thoughts. The wind whistled around the cabin corners, and she shivered, her torn dress exposing her shoulders to the wind. She gathered the lacy shawl closer against the cold, her finger growing numb on the steel trigger.
“I am an engaged woman, sir,” she shot back hotly, pushing back a wind-tossed curl from her cheek. She drew her shawl around her shoulders as though it were a shield against him. “I’m having a bit of a rough patch, but—”
The man’s low voice slid over her chilled flesh like a cold steel blade. The easy drawl sharpened. “Rough patch,” he repeated harshly. “You cost me ten plew—beaver pelts. Swift Foot of the Kiowa had already claimed the first time on the blanket with you. You’ve been corralled up here for three days.”
“How did you know that?” Fear slammed into Regina, her eyes widening.
“I scouted Covington’s camp, picked you out for my own. I’m not one of the men who left you here, but I’m claiming you just the same.... Now, like I said, I’m done palaverin’. Step aside.”
Dry aspen leaves crackled beneath his boots as he moved like a mountain cat, suddenly standing over her.
Dark, fierce eyes glinted as they took in her long, disheveled hair and torn skirt before he spoke quietly. “They call me MacGregor. A quarter Indian, the rest is white. I’m needing a woman, and now I’m claiming you. You’re needing a man to take care of you. We’ll strike a bargain for Jack’s sake, or in the morning I’ll leave you to die. Winter is coming to the mountains, and it will be a hard one. I’m taking my boy to my valley—one hundred and sixty acres—and you can come as my woman... my wife,” he corrected. “That’s about the size of it.”
Regina’s eyes widened, rage slashing through her. “If you knew I’d been kidnapped, you should have stopped them. But no man claims me.”
His gaze ran down her again, and Regina curled her fingers into a fist, fighting the urge to hit him. “You’ll last less than a week without me,” he said without feeling.
MacGregor’s beard blended with the fur, leaving black eyes framed by the dark skin of high cheeks. His gaze flickered over her taut face, challenging her.
“How gallant, sir,” she managed stiffly. “How chivalrous... a true gentleman. You come in here like some dark knight home from the Holy Wars, claiming the castle and the damsel in distress as though it were your right.... I don’t think I like you very much, Mr. MacGregor.”
He nodded curtly. “Never asked a woman to like me.”
Beneath his long lashes, he studied the tear trails down her dirty cheeks. She could feel him searching inside her wounds and fear, probing for the right words to soothe her as though she were a frightened child. “Whites call me a hard man, and Indians call me Two Hearts. I know how to hunt and trap, but I don’t know much about soft words for females.”
He inhaled deeply, then continued in a low voice as though he were taking a vow. “I’ll keep to my side of the wedding vows, ma’am. Won’t bring other women to our marriage bed, and I won’t beat you. In return, you’ll help me with Jack and do the woman-work. Seems like a fair offer to me.”
Her fingers, torn by searching for roots and bark for food, clutched the light crocheted shawl, crushing it. MacGregor needed a woman, did he? She’d fought men wanting something from her for years. MacGregor had proposed his demands to the wrong woman. “Baby under your cloak or not, you are to leave. Now.”
One corner of his mouth moved upward, though the warmth didn’t reach his eyes. The westerner’s gaze touched her face—a small oval-shaped face beneath a heavy tangled mass of long hair. An arched lift of black brows and the thick mesh of lashes, spiked with tears and shielding eyes that changed from dark blue to purple with her emotions. Her lips pressed together tightly as he lingered, tracing the generous wide contours.
“Ma’am”—the stranger’s relentless stare rose to meet hers. “
Like I said, I’ve got a four-month babe under my robe. I’d appreciate you asking us inside. Otherwise, I’m coming in anyway.”
A thin mew sounded on the freezing wind, and the mountain man asked again, this time his deep voice held the threatening growl of a dangerous bear. “Can we come in, ma’am?”
“I—” Stunned by fear and hunger, Regina watched as the tall man stepped past her into the stark cold cabin. His size filled the empty room, a huge man staking out each corner with a hunter’s eyes. She barely reached his chest and realized painfully that with a flick of his hand, he could snap her neck. Or take her on the floor against her will.
Her stomach contracted painfully, and she rubbed her palm against it. Swallowing a measure of her pride, she asked, “Could you spare food... please?”
The buffalo robe swirled around his long legs, tangling with the fringes of his leggings when he turned toward her. “Get in,” he ordered gently. “Close the door. I’ll answer your questions later... after Jack’s warm and fed.”
She stared at him, hating his strength. “You leave me little choice.”
Inside, the man towered over her. With every ounce of her strength she forced her knees to lock, boldly meeting his intent stare as he leaned his rifle against the wall.
Straightening, he studied her quietly, taking in the rags wrapped about her feet. “You’re scrawny, but there’s still plenty of spit in you.... You’ll do,” he stated quietly, easing back the buffalo robe from his arm.
Lifting an infant swathed in soft skins from the pouch crossing his chest, he searched the tiny, sleeping face. “My son—Jack,” he said softly, reverence threading the gravelly voice. “He’ll be needing a fine woman like you.”
“Oh, my goodness,” Regina finally managed. Slowly she forced her gaze to the baby, who nudged a fold of tanned skin, searching with his mouth. Under a cap of glossy straight black hair, Jack’s tiny face was round and dark-skinned.
“His ma died,” the man rapped out gruffly. “Didn’t want him anyway, I reckon. He’s half Ute and half mine... Jack’s all mine now. Jack MacGregor is his name,” he corrected. “Can you hold him while I get wood?”
