by Kat Flannery
IVY
The Montgomery Sisters #3
KAT FLANNERY
IVY: The Montgomery Sisters #3
Copyright © 2018 by Kat Flannery. All Rights Reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without prior written permission from the author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. And any resemblance to actual persons, living, dead (or in any other form), business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
www.katflannerybooks.com
FIRST EDITION ebook
November 12, 2018
Publisher: Picco Press
ISBN: 978-1-989189-06-1
Cover designed by Carpe Librum Book Design
Table of Contents
IVY
Copyright
Novels by Kat Flannery
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
About the Author
Novels by Kat Flannery
Chasing Clovers
The Branded Trilogy
Lakota Honor (Book 1)
Blood Curse (Book 2)
Sacred Legacy (Book 3)
Hazardous Unions: Two Tales of a Civil War Christmas
(by Alison Bruce & Kat Flannery)
The Montgomery Sisters Trilogy
Fern (Book 1)
Poppy (Book 2)
Ivy (Book 3)
For my mother…
Thank you for always being there.
Chapter One
Somewhere in Wyoming… 1886
Ivy Montgomery was dragged from her horse so quickly she hadn’t a second to scream. A wide hand clamped around her mouth and flattened her lips. Heart in throat, she blinked several times to try to focus on the darkness around her.
The cloudiness in her left eye made it difficult to see anything, so she concentrated with the right. Unfortunately for her, the sight in either eye wasn’t great in the daylight, let alone in the black of night. Rats.
It really was her luck—almost blind at eighteen and a spinster. She’d left her spectacles at home on the kitchen table on purpose—a show of defiance, independence. She needed no one, least of all her overbearing sisters, Fern and Poppy. Between the two of them, they’d coddled and repeated lecture after lecture on what she could and could not do. How far from the homestead she was allowed to go. No traveling into town alone. Stay inside the house if no one is home. Even now she could hear their voices reciting the rules. She was a prisoner, and her two treacherous sisters wielded the whip.
The thick arm snaked around her neck tightened, and a gruff voice whispered something she could not understand. It was a guttural tone with high syllables. The language sounded oddly familiar to her, but Ivy had not done much living being locked up on the homestead.
“Oh wah’zhee-ahn’-kah wasicun winyan,” he said again, each word dripping with anger, revulsion.
Ivy inhaled. The air burned her nostrils. She shifted to try to face him, but he squeezed harder. The muscles around her neck compressed. Terror raced up her back and lunged for her heart. She cried out, but no sound came. Instead, her throat seized and the breath there stolen. The blood left her head, and the forest walls closed in. Her eyelids fluttered as she fought for air. Why did she leave? She should’ve stayed home. Regret filled every part of her, and she didn’t know if it was his arm around her neck or the shame she felt that caused the air in her lungs to evaporate like ice melting in the spring.
There was nothing left…no more color…and soon no more life.
He chanted into her ear the same line over and over while he gripped her neck, and Ivy knew he was going to kill her.
Hotah stood next to his niece, Kimimela. At ten winters old she was as smart as some of his warriors. He placed his hand gently over the bow she held and leaned in.
“Be calm, ciqala—little one,” he said, “and listen to the wind.”
She turned toward him, losing the stance he’d helped her acquire. “There is no wind, Leksi—uncle.”
“Ahh, but there is.”
She shook her head.
He placed his finger over his lips. “Shush.”
Kimimela was not a patient child, and Hotah knew she had a lot to learn, but she was wise beyond her years, a gift from Wakan Tanka. It was his responsibility as her uncle and chief of the Paha Sapa tribe to make sure she was adept in the teachings of their father and fathers before them. He took great pride in the relationships he formed with the people of his tribe, treating each of them as his family.
Hotah wanted to be the leader his father had been. The great Matoskah had taught the men and women of the Paha Sapa to love first, be kind always, only battle when there is no choice, and trust in the ways of their people. Unfortunately, Hotah had failed his father—and their tribe. There would be no more battles, no more fighting, and no more death. One year before, Hotah agreed to take his people onto the reserved land the United States government held for them. He had hoped for peace. Instead, the Paha Sapa had been given nothing to start their new lives with. The government rationed all their supplies. Forbidden to erect their tipis, they were forced to live in wooden cabins on the sectioned grounds. He feared his people might lose their traditions and strived to continue their rituals.
“I feel it,” Kimimela whispered.
Hotah raised a brow.
“It comes from the mountains.”
“Yes, you are correct.” He patted her head before positioning her into the stance once more.
Kimimela held the bow and pulled back the arrow. She remained in the position for some time, and Hotah knew she was waiting for the light touch from Mother Earth to caress her round cheeks.
He waited.
Her brows furrowed and her lips grew taut before she released the arrow. Hotah watched as the red-tipped shaft soared through the air until it stabbed the tree.
“Well done.” He smiled down at her.
“Does this mean I get to go on hunts?” she asked. Round brown eyes the color of a redwood stump stared up at him.
“You need to be better.” He did not want to tell her the truth. The Paha Sapa no longer hunted their meat. They were forbidden to have their weapons. The arrow Kimimela used had been built in the secrecy of his cabin and solely to teach her how to shoot. When the government delivered the meat, most times it was rancid from days traveling in the hot sun. He hid the sadness from his eyes at what his people had become.
She tossed the bow and crossed her arms, an exact replica of Red Swallow. Hotah’s chest ached as memories pushed their way through to seize his muscles and cause his eyes to mist with tears.
“I am good!”
He blinked away the hurt. “No, you are not.” He picked up the bow and handed it to her. “Try again.”
Her bottom lip jutted out and she crossed her arms, the defiance more present than before.
“Try again,” he repeated.
Kimimela pushed her pudgy chin outward and growled.
“You cannot get better if you do not practice.”
“I am good,” she said again.
“You are not good enough.”
She needed to be shown, so he picked up the bow she’d thrown and took an arrow from the quiver on her back. With deft movements he shot it directly into Kimimela’s own arrow that was stuck into the tree.
&nb
sp; Eyes big she stared up at him.
“You can be better. You have to try.”
“I will not be as you, Leksi.”
“Why not?”
“You are chief of our tribe—the best and not to be challenged.”
He smiled. She was smart—and yet too confident at the same time.
“I want you to be better than me.”
“Why?”
He knelt in front of her. “When the time comes for Wakan Tanka to take me to the spirit world, you will need to protect yourself.”
“I shall marry, and my husband will do this.”
“No. You will learn.” Hotah did not want his niece to lean on a man. He had watched his mother do this, and after his father died, she could not see her life without him. Ina was lost within herself, and no matter what Hotah did he could not reach her.
“My ina was not subservient to my ate.”
Mention of his brother set Hotah’s jaw, and he flexed his hand around the bow he still held.
“Do not speak of Kangi—he is dead to us.”
Kimimela nodded, but he could see within her eyes she did not understand. Kangi was her father, but Hotah had raised her. The Paha Sapa believed in good will, Kangi believed in killing and nothing more. Red Swallow’s face appeared in his mind—young, flawless, and full of life. He pressed his palm into his chest to ease the ache that never seemed to go away.
“You will see this when you grow older.” He handed her another arrow. “Now try again.”
“Do you teach me to protect myself from the wasichu—white man—or from my own father?” she asked.
“You are to be taught the way of our people and nothing more.” But the truth was in his eyes, and he feared his brother might one day return to take his daughter from him.
Kimimela raised a thick black brow.
“Do not question this anymore. It is the way.” He nodded at her to get into position.
She placed the arrow back within her bow, took aim, and released. She missed the target—it hit a foot higher than intended.
“I am done.” She tossed the bow onto the ground.
“Hoka hey—pay attention! You are done when I tell you so.” He disliked being firm with his niece, but there was no one left to teach her but him. She needed to learn, and practice was the only way.
“I am done now.” She stomped her foot. “I do not care—
He raised his hand to silence her. What he saw in Kimimela was what he himself felt. Hopeless. Hotah took a long breath. His father would not approve of such foolishness. He must be strong, never show the weakness within him. His niece had to learn—if not for what they were, then for what they may become. He thought of the disastrous state they now called home. His eyes skimmed the wooden huts erected in the open field a dozen yards from where they stood hidden in the trees. Cavalry men rode in and out of the reserved land.
Most days they remained hungry, not given enough food. The healthy gave their rations to the children and the elderly, but their generosity was evident. Hotah’s warriors had become thin, their once muscled bodies now skeletal and lean. He ground his back teeth. Nothing good had come of the government’s law to confine the Paha Sapa like a herd of cattle.
Hooves trampled toward them. Hotah reached for another arrow and waited. Two soldiers came to a stop a few feet from him. Trouble. He pushed Kimimela behind him and glared. They would not be pleased he’d acquired a weapon. No matter the cost, he’d protect his niece with his life.
General Davis and another man waited for Hotah to drop the bow, but he stood proud a moment longer knowing in his heart he could defeat the two men before they thought to pull their guns. A small grin crept across his face, and he bent his head before he released the bow and arrows, letting them fall to the ground. It was not wise to show defiance. He’d paid that price a few times already, but today wrapped in Mother Earth’s wonder, he remembered the brave warrior he once was, a proud chief of the Paha Sapa who never showed weakness.
The soldier’s tanned slacks and button-down shirts grubby from days of wear needed a wash. Each man fashioned face hair around his mouth and wore a wide-brimmed hat atop his head. Hotah didn’t recognize the man to General Davis’s left, nor did he care to know him. They were all the same. Liars.
The general was well spoken, with light-blue eyes and golden hair. It wasn’t his appearance but instead the way he held himself that had Hotah on edge whenever the general was near. There was something evil there only few could see.
“Davis.”
“Afternoon, Hotah.” He looked at the girl “Kimimela.”
His niece moved slowly around his legs to face the general but did not say a word.
“Have you come only for an afternoon greeting?” Hotah knew there was more but waited for Davis to tell it.
The soldier dismounted and walked toward him. He picked up the bow.
“What is this?”
“A bow,” Hotah responded casually.
“Why must you break the rules?” The general snapped the bow over his knee, breaking it in half.
Kimimela gasped and stepped back behind Hotah.
He held in the anger, knowing the result if he launched himself at the man.
“This”—Davis held up the broken pieces—“could get you in a lot of trouble.”
Hotah stood tall, not moving an inch, and stared the man directly in the eye.
Davis tossed the wood to the ground and came closer.
“Can we speak in private?” Davis asked.
Hotah glanced down at his niece, then back toward the other man on his horse.
“Tell him to go,” he said, not trusting anyone but himself and his tribe alone with Kimimela.
Davis glanced up at the other man and nodded.
He watched as the horse galloped back toward the cabins. Once they were alone, he faced the general. “Speak.”
The man glanced at Kimimela and motioned with his arm for Hotah to follow him.
“I will be right back,” he said to his niece before walking with Davis ten feet away.
“I am in need of your help,” the Cavalry man said.
Whatever the general needed was important, evident by the tone in his voice and the creases around his eyes. The usually relaxed man had something to say, and Hotah wasn’t sure he wanted to know what it was.
“Four homes west of here were ransacked and the inhabitants killed last week.” Davis hesitated before continuing. “Two of those homes were families with small children.”
Hotah tensed.
“No one survived.”
“Why do you tell me this?”
“We believe it to be Kangi.”
“How can you be sure?” Hotah kept his features mute. He did not want the general to see the anger brewing inside him.
“He was spotted in the area three weeks ago.”
“Why was I not told this?” Newfound worries took root, and Hotah knew Kangi would come for his daughter.
Davis shrugged.
“You do not know it was him who ransacked the homes.”
“One of these was left at each house.” Davis took a black crow’s feather from his pocket.
Hotah clenched his jaw. Rage, hot and wild, raced up and down his arms, forcing his hands into tight fists. It seemed his brother’s deranged behavior was growing worse. What had Kangi done? Hotah wanted to fall onto his knees and sob, to scream out in anger. How had this happened?
He allowed his mind to wander back to a time when his brother idolized him. When he taught him to shoot his bow and arrow and hunt for the tribe, and trained him to become a warrior. When had Kangi changed? Was it after Red Swallow died? He couldn’t know for sure. Was the evil always present lurking within the shadows of his soul?
He shook his head. Kangi was a murderer. He killed innocent families, if what the general had said was true. Thinking this turned his stomach, and bile crawled up his throat. He ran his hand down the length of his face to stop the tears from falling.
He blamed himself for not helping his brother. For not seeing when he was so filled with hatred and guiding him away from those feelings. Instead, Hotah had been too wrapped in his own despair to see where Kangi’s mind had gone.
Unable to end his own brother’s life, Hotah had disowned him, cast him from the Paha Sapa, never to return. He hoped Kangi might see all the wrong he’d done and ask forgiveness from Wakan Tanka, but that had not happened. Instead, his vengeance and hate for the white man had grown worse over the years, until he’d been captured and thrown in jail. Now it seemed he’d escaped, and no one was safe from the dark mind of the boy he once loved more than anything.
“What would you have me do, General?” he asked.
“You know your brother better than anyone.”
Hotah wasn’t so sure anymore.
“The government is asking if you’d track him and bring him in.”
“Colonel Black knows of this?” Hotah liked the colonel. The man spent time with the Paha Sapa whenever he came to visit. Black listened to his concerns and promised a change. Hotah trusted the man not because of his words but because of his actions. When the Colonel came by he brought blankets and food for the Paha Sapa. He admonished General Davis for his poor direction and often favored Hotah and his people over the general and his men. Hotah knew this caused animosity between the two cavalry men but kept himself at a distance and away from it.
“He does, yes.”
He watched Davis carefully for any signs indicating the man was lying.
“And if I don’t?” He didn’t trust the wasichu any more than his brother did. But it was his blood they wanted him to capture, and Hotah knew what would happen when he brought him in. Could he watch his brother die? Could he be the one to hand him over to his fate?
