“Where did you go?” she asked warily.
“I sent a warrior to San Carlos with the news about Running Fawn,” he said, gently framing Kaylene’s face between his hands. He bent a soft kiss to her lips, then smiled into her eyes. “And I asked Anna if she would mind coming to babysit for a while, while you and I go and get Running Fawn and her child.”
So excited, so happy, so relieved, Kaylene flung herself into his arms. “I knew that you would!” she cried. She gave him frenzied kisses across his lips. “Thank you, darling. Oh, thank you, thank you.”
When Anna came into the cabin, Kaylene gave her a quick embrace, and even though she was bone tired from the days of gathering cattail leaves, and from the long journey down the mountainside, Kaylene had renewed energy at the thought of making things right for Running Fawn and little Pedro.
Hand in hand she left the cabin with Fire Thunder.
Two horses were waiting for them. Fire Thunder lifted Kaylene into her saddle on her mare, then swung himself into his own saddle. They rode off as the sun crept lower in the sky. They left the village and made their way up a narrow path on the mountainside.
“The route I took from cattailing took me by the burial grounds of your people,” Kaylene said, giving Fire Thunder a glance. “That is the only way I will know how to find Running Fawn’s cabin again.”
They swung their horses right and moved onward. When the burial grounds came into sight, Kaylene gasped and gave Fire Thunder a quick look.
“She’s there at her father’s grave,” she said in a rush of words. “That’s Running Fawn kneeling over her father’s grave. She came and found it.”
“I did not think she would stay long at her cabin once she knew her father was dead,” Fire Thunder said, looking satisfied. “She is Kickapoo after all, for no Kickapoo could ever not want to see the grave of their dearly beloved departed.”
His gaze shifted just as little Pedro stepped from behind his mother and knelt beside her over Black Hair’s grave. “And so there is Black Hair’s grandson,” Fire Thunder said, his eyes devouring the child, making him feel as though in the child, he might have a part of his friend back again. “We will wait until she is finished praying and then go to her and tell her that all is forgiven,” Fire Thunder said thickly.
“You never disappoint me,” Kaylene said, reaching out a hand and taking one of his.
Back in their cabin, freshly bathed, and having eaten a delicious meal that her mother had prepared for Kaylene’s family in her absence, Kaylene snuggled close to Fire Thunder as they stood over the beds of their children.
“Don’t our children look content in their sleep?” Kaylene murmured, first gazing at her four-year-old son, Little Thunder, and then looking over at their two-year-old daughter, Snow Bird.
“They have a good home where there is much shared love,” Fire Thunder said.
He placed gentle hands on Kaylene’s shoulders and turned her to face him. Little Sparrow was still with Wolf Fire, giving Fire Thunder and Kaylene all the privacy they needed.
“And now that Running Fawn has gone with Pedro to his home,” he said softly, “even that home will be filled with love.”
“Thank you, darling, for welcoming Running Fawn into the lives of the Kickapoo again,” Kaylene said, her voice breaking. “Thank you for forgiving her. Who knows what the future holds for our daughter? She might grow up with the same sort of wild streak that has always plagued Running Fawn. It is good to know that you no longer send young girls into exile for bad behavior, for I could not stand to see our own daughter forced to live alone, as Running Fawn has these past five years.”
“You need not concern yourself about such things,” Fire Thunder said.
He swept her up into his arms. She clung about his neck as he carried her from the children’s room.
“With such a mother as you,” he said, “no daughter born of your womb could be anything but sweet, caring, and gentle.”
As Kaylene laughed lightly and teasingly, Fire Thunder carried her into their bedroom and kicked the door closed with his foot. Then he placed Kaylene on their bed. He stood over her and began to undress.
With soft, wondering eyes, Kaylene watched her husband, never getting enough of seeing him.
His body had long sinewy muscles. He was slender and thin of flank, his arms rippling bands of muscles.
Unclothed, he crawled on the bed beside her. “Are you too tired to make love?” he asked, his hand already sneaking up the inside of her skirt.
When he found her woman’s center and began his slow caresses with his fingertips, he knew by her gasps of pleasure, and by how she spread her legs open to him, that she need not speak an answer out loud.
He moved over her and flipped her skirt up to her waist.
His mouth covered hers in a fiery kiss as he, with one heaving thrust, entered her.
Over and over again their wild whispers filled the dark, midnight air of their love haven.
“Everything is beautiful and, oh, so perfect,” Kaylene whispered against his lips, his heat becoming hers.
“Had I not taken you captive—” he began, her soft finger against his lips stopping him.
“But you did, my sweet,” she whispered back. “You did.”
He chuckled, then again kissed her with fire, his body’s rhythm sweeping her away on wings of rapture.
Don’t miss the next book in
Cassie Edwards’s exciting Wild series!
Turn the page for a taste of
WILD SPLENDOR,
coming in March.
Shall I love you like the wind, love,
That is so fierce and strong,
That sweeps all barriers from its path,
And recks not right or wrong?
—R. W. RAYMOND
Fort Defiance, Arizona
June 1863
She looked out at the cliffs, painted with red and purplish brown and luminous shadows. It was a country that changed with the positions of the sun, a land of narrow canyons, great mesas, and unending sand. Deep-green pinyons and juniper bushes dotted the distant, arid hills.
Her straw bonnet shielding her face from the hot rays of the sun, Leonida Branson strolled arm in arm with her fiancé, General Harold Porter, before the many colorful tents that had been erected in the shadows of the high walls of Fort Defiance. A band of Navaho had come down from the mountains and pitched their tents to trade with the soldiers and their wives at the fort. With their skillful geometric weavings the Navaho bartered for the white man’s knives with which to shear their sheep. They also wanted red silk handkerchiefs to wear around their heads, silver ornaments for their horses, and silver buttons for themselves.
Many Pittsburgh wagons brought to the fort by those skilled in trading with various Indian tribes were sitting a short distance from the tents. Beneath their carefully stretched canvas tops were bolts of brightly colored calico, beads, ribbons, and lace.
With her delicate white-gloved hand Leonida swept the skirt of her blue silk dress up away from the dusty sand, yet she was scarcely aware of it. She was too taken by the beautiful displays of all sorts of jewelry and handwoven woolens ranging from small mats to blankets, rugs, and tapestries that lay spread on the ground before the tents, their Navaho owners proudly standing beside them.
Leonida smiled at the lovely Navaho women as she moved from tent to tent, searching for one in particular. Harold had told Leonida that this young woman’s skills at making blankets had gained her a reputation that reached far and wide.
Harold’s left arm was even now heavily laden with special yarns to give to the talented lady, in hopes that she would weave a lovely blanket from it to be one of his many wedding gifts for Leonida.
Leonida glanced over at Harold, who today had abandoned his usual uniform to impress upon her that he was more than just a soldier. He wore high-buffed black boots, a pair of dark breeches, and a white shirt that was ruffled at the sleeves and throat, with a sparkling diamond stic
kpin in the folds of his satin ascot.
Nearing forty, Harold was handsome, with golden, wavy hair, and eyes almost as golden, and a complexion unmarred by the hot sun of Arizona, or by a hard life in general. His had been a life handed to him on a silver platter, or so it seemed to Leonida, and his brash, arrogant personality bespoke of his having been spoiled as a child.
Wanting to find excuses for him because she had promised to marry him, she wanted to blame Harold’s shortcomings on having been an only child. But she knew that was not a valid excuse for his arrogance. She was an only child, and she did not see herself as spoiled. She always looked at everyone as her equal, even the poorest people who begged for food on the street corners of San Francisco, where she had lived with her mother after her father left them. Leonida even went out of her way to help the needy, by handing out food and clothes to them from time to time, as well as sometimes finding them decent housing and paying for it from the allowance that both her mother and her father gave her.
This had all come to an instant halt when her mother died and Leonida was forced to live with her father at his military establishments.
A wave of sadness descended on her as she was catapulted back in time to another death. Her father’s.
He had been dead for only four months, and the pain was still sharp. His death had seemed to imprison her in a trap from which she had not yet escaped: this engagement to Harold.
She had agreed to marry him only because her father had wanted it so badly. He had seen many possibilities in Harold, both as a military officer and eventually as a civilian. Harold had the money to make Leonida comfortable for the rest of her life.
Her father had wanted to make sure that his daughter was well cared for when he was no longer around, but Leonida knew that if he could see how Harold’s arrogance, especially toward the Indians, had worsened, he surely would not have expected her to marry him. Since Harold had taken over her father’s post at Fort Defiance, she could hardly stand being around him at all.
The chances of traveling back to San Francisco during this time of warring between the states seemed an impossible wish that could not be fulfilled. She had to bide her time until it was safe for her to travel alone.
“My dear, there she is,” Harold said in his languid way. He nodded toward a tent where many blankets and other items were spread on the ground. “That’s Pure Blossom. Many army officers like to have her blankets because they are so tightly woven they are practically waterproof.” He smiled down at Leonida. “But my reasons for getting one for you is not so much for durability as for the loveliness of the blankets.” He pointed at Pure Blossom and frowned. “I imagine that’s all she’s good at. Look at her, all bent up and out of shape and as frail as a dove. I imagine she spends her days weaving and dreaming of what life could be for her if she weren’t so downright disgusting and pitiful-looking.”
Leonida paled and her jaw went slack as she gazed up at him, aghast at his scorn for this unfortunate little Indian woman whose back was hunched, and whose fingers were gnarled with some sort of wasting-away disease.
“That’s a horrible thing to say,” she gasped. “Harold, have some compassion. It isn’t her fault that nature has been cruel to her. Besides, she obviously possesses a sort of beauty. Just look at her face. There is such a serene innocence in her smile.”
Leonida turned away from Harold and tried to forget his unfeeling remarks as they stepped into the shadows of the huge tent, where Pure Blossom stood over her beloved blankets and jewelry, her eyes filled with pride as she looked up at Leonida.
Leonida smiled warmly in return, her gaze sweeping over the Indian woman’s beautiful clothes, jewelry, and hair. She had beautiful black hair that hung nearly to the ground and teeth so white that surely they outshone the stars at night. Pure Blossom wore thick strings of turquoise and coral around her neck, over a bright-blue velveteen blouse. Her skirt was of bright calico, very long and full, and she wore moccasins with silver buttons.
“For trade?” she said in halting English as she gestured toward her wares. “Lovely? They please beautiful lady? You take?”
Pure Blossom’s gaze fell upon the yarn across Harold’s arm, and her eyes brightened. “You trade for the pretty yarn?” she asked anxiously.
Leonida only half heard Harold explain that the bright-colored Saxony and Zephyr yarns had been shipped from the East, and that he had not come to trade with her at all. Instead he was willing to pay her well to make a special blanket for his future bride.
Leonida’s gaze had been arrested by a Navaho warrior who had stepped from the tent and now stood protectively at Pure Blossom’s side, his muscular copper arms folded across his powerful chest.
Both his handsomeness and his intense dark eyes, which locked with hers, made Leonida’s heartbeat quicken and caused a strange, mushy warmth at the pit of her stomach.
Even after living among so many soldiers, Leonida had never become infatuated with any of them. None had touched her heart, nor had they caused strange sensations within her. Not until now had she known how it felt to be attracted to a man—and this was not a soldier, or an ordinary man.
He was an Indian.
Her heart pounding, Leonida turned her back on the handsome warrior. Yet she had been so taken with him, she had noticed every detail about him.
He was a tall man with jet-black hair that he wore long and loose over his shoulders, with a red silk headband to keep it in place at his brow. He had flashing dark eyes, and a smooth bronze face with sculpted features.
Broad-shouldered and lean-hipped, he was breathtakingly, ruggedly handsome, dressed in a shirt of handwoven woolen cloth with a V-neck. His dyed buckskin trousers had silver buttons down the sides and were tied with woven garters. He wore silver-buttoned moccasins, a concha belt of round silver disks on leather, and a ketoh, a leather wrist guard with silver ornaments.
Leonida felt a sudden hush at her side that roused her from her trance. She blushed when she saw Harold’s jaw tighten and anger flash in his eyes as his gaze slowly turned from her to the warrior. Leonida realized that Harold had seen her interest in the Navaho warrior and had become instantly jealous.
She smiled wanly as he again looked her way, glad that his attention was drawn back to the business at hand. But she could tell that he was rushing things along now to get her away from the Indian.
“You will weave the blanket for many pesos, money?” Harold asked, smiling smugly when Pure Blossom accepted the beautiful yarn and draped it across her arms.
“Yes, Pure Blossom will do this for you,” she said, her eyes bright with excitement as she gazed down at the yarn. “It delights Pure Blossom to have the ready-made yarns. The yarn is so fine and even. The result will be a magnificent blanket for the lovely white woman’s wedding. Pure Blossom will weave the yarn into a pattern of stripes and zigzags, and even some in the shape of diamonds.”
She looked from Harold to Leonida. “I promise to have the blanket ready for you . . . when did you say?” she asked.
“In three months,” Harold said stiffly, unnerved by the Navaho warrior’s cold gaze. Harold had had few dealings with Sage, the young Navaho chief, but enough to know that he was the most stubborn of all the Indians in the area and that he had too much control. Harold had thought long ago that something had to be done about this powerful chief. He smiled to himself, knowing that things were in the works even now to make changes that would affect Sage.
“Uke-he, thank you,” Pure Blossom said humbly, feeling the heat of her brother’s eyes on her and knowing why. The Navaho rarely said thank you to anyone. Normally when a thank you was necessary, thanks were given by other means than humbling themselves by saying it.
Glad to be on their way, Harold placed a firm hand on Leonida’s elbow. She eased away from him, though, and knelt down on a knee to admire a striking necklace among those laid out on a colorful blanket. He nervously moved his finger around his tight collar and shifted his feet. Then he did a slow bur
n as Sage knelt down opposite Leonida, his eyes intent on her.
“You see one that you especially like?” he asked, smiling.
Leonida’s pulse raced. The Indian’s deep, smooth voice reached into her heart like warm splashes of sunshine. To keep from making a fool of herself, she looked away from him, and again down at the beautiful necklace that had caught her eye.
“This one,” she said, pointing to a string of hollow silver beads with a large crescent-shaped pendant ornament called a Naja. “It’s so very pretty, unlike anything I have ever seen before.”
Her face became hot with a blush, and she was embarrassed by the strange huskiness of her voice. This Indian had affected her much more deeply than she had realized. And she knew that she must hide her feelings. Not only from Harold, but also from the warrior. It was forbidden to have feelings for an Indian, especially the sort of sensations now troubling her.
Sage picked up the necklace and spread it out between his large, callused hands. “This is called a squash blossom necklace,” he explained. “The floral design represents pomegranates, and the crescent at the bottom is to ward off the evil eye.”
He paused to sweep his eyes slowly over Leonida. He was quite taken by the color of her hair, where wisps of her golden curls were revealed at the sides of her straw bonnet. He also admired the azure of her eyes, having seen such a beautiful color of blue only in the sky on the clearest of days.
Where her low-cut bodice revealed her porcelainlike skin, the swell of her breasts was smooth and creamy. While she had been standing with calm dignity, he had noticed how tall and willowy she was, a blond beauty.
If he allowed himself, he could have many feelings for this woman, most sensual.
“It is so beautiful,” Leonida said, trying to draw the Navaho warrior’s attention back to the necklace. She could hear Harold’s hastened breathing, a sure sign that he was growing angry.
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