Native Gold

by Glynnis Campbell

Epilogue

  Sakote spit out some ridiculous, impossible to pronounce word as he wrapped sinew around the basalt knife he was crafting.

  "What?" Mattie asked, lacing the second boy onto his willow and deerskin cradleboard. She slid it gently across the packed earth floor, closer to his drowsing brother and the warmth of the stone firepit, where the flames danced cheerily, casting merry shadows onto the cedar plank ceiling. "You’d give our sons names I can’t even pronounce?"

  Sakote scowled, but it was a good-natured frown. Now that they’d found a peaceable place to settle, he was far too content to stay angry about anything for long.

  She sat back on the low redwood stool and smiled as she put the finishing touches on the sketch of her sons. Then she set the drawing aside and stared into the fire, pretending to consider Sakote’s atrocious suggestions and letting her thoughts drift over the events of the past several weeks.

  They’d traveled north for almost two hundred miles, much farther than Mattie had ever dreamed, but Sakote had been true to his word. Taking only his bow, his fire drill, and his stone knife, he’d managed to sustain all of them in relative comfort.

  He’d cleverly made a fishing line from milkweed fiber and slivers of bone. He’d shot several rabbits to roast in the ground, though he wouldn’t let her make blankets for the babies from the skins, claiming that rabbit fur blinded infants. They’d snacked on hazelnuts and wild currants, and he’d shown her how to spot squirrel caches in the snow by the telltale pine-nut shells. She’d eaten things she’d never dreamed were edible, things like the fungus on oaks, the soft inner bark of fir trees, and the sugary powdered sap of the pine.

  When the weather grew fierce, they’d hidden in caves or made their own huts out of the furry limbs of young evergreens.

  But despite their grand adventure, Mattie was very happy to have secure walls about her now and a hearth to warm her toes by. She couldn’t pronounce what this village was called any more than she could pronounce the names Sakote had just spoken, but the native people that had welcomed them, the Hupa, were easy to understand. They were civilized and friendly. Their houses, with their sunken floors and haphazard angles, though clearly of tribal design, were equipped with solid cedar plank walls and gravel porches, and they lined a boulevard of sorts that made up the village of more than two dozen homes.

  Best of all, the Hupa didn’t seem to mind that she was white or that Sakote was Konkow. They were an easygoing people with abundant game and land, who had little need for formal government since they had so few conflicts. They admired Mattie’s artistic hand, and once they discovered Sakote’s great talent for hunting, they embraced him as a brother.

  "Tell me the first name again," she said with a sigh.

  He repeated it. It was truly awful.

  "And the other?"

  Equally bad. It sounded as if he were choking.

  "What do they mean?" she asked, exasperated, knowing it was the Konkow custom to name children for some event that happened shortly after their birth.

  Though his eyes were fastened on the knife he made, Mattie thought there might have been the hint of a smile playing about his lips as he answered her. "Snoring-Duck and Pees-in-the-Water."

  Mattie’s brows lifted, and her mouth made a perfect O. Then, whether Sakote was serious or not, she couldn’t help but burst out in peals of laughter.

  Sakote ceased his work, raised his head proudly, and furrowed his brow sternly at her. "They are worthy names. They are the names of my ancestors."

  Mattie didn’t bother stifling her giggles. Sakote grunted and went back to his work.

  "I’ll make a bargain with you," she decided, reaching forward to rest her palm on his bare thigh. "You said you didn’t want to name them for another couple of years. I’ll name them now, and if you decide to change their names later, you may."

  One corner of his mouth lifted. "Even if you can’t pronounce them?"

  She returned his smile. "I’ll learn."

  His eyes sparkling softly, he lifted her hand to kiss her fingertips.

  Of course, he was teasing all along. She could see it now in the curve of his mouth. He had no intention of changing their names. Which was just as well, since she’d already chosen them anyway. They were a compromise—good English names with a touch of Konkow tradition, certainly better than Snoring-Duck or Pees-in-the-Water.

  Mattie glanced over at their two as yet unchristened sons, snuggled quietly in their cozy nests in a rare moment of concurrent slumber.

  She’d tell Sakote their names later, she decided, letting the backs of her fingers trail ticklishly along his muscular thigh. She’d tell him while he lay beneath her, warm between her thighs, while the sheen of lovemaking still misted his skin and the glow of satisfaction darkened his eyes.

  "You wish to make a kiss with me?" he breathed, his eyes smoky and a sultry smile on his lips.

  "Oh, yes."

  CHASE WOLF AND DREW HAWK.

  In the drawing, the twins slept with their dark downy heads turned toward each other, snug in the cradleboards their father had made for them. Above them, mingled with smoke from the fire burning on the hearth, were the mystical clouds of their dreams. In one boy’s cloud, Sakote waved his arms wildly, shooing away a hungry wolf. In the second cloud, Mattie sketched a hawk soaring overhead. The mist of the twins’ visions intertwined with the figures of their parents, and where they met, they formed a perfect circle, eternal and unbroken, like the sacred circle of their love.

  AKINA

  Thank You for Reading My Book…

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  to be able to share my stories with you.

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  and may ALL of your adventures have happy endings!

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  More Books by Glynnis Campbell

  The Knights of de Ware

  My Champion

  My Warrior

  My Hero

  The Warrior Maids of Rivenloch

  The Shipwreck (novella)

  Lady Danger

  Captive Heart

  Knight's Prize

  The Medieval Outlaws

  Danger's Kiss

  Passion's Exile

  The Scottish Lasses

  The Winter Stone—"The Outcast" (novella)

  MacFarland's Lass

  MacAdam’s Lass

  The California Legends

  Native Gold

  Sneak Peek at…

  Native Wolf

  Book 2 of The California Legends

  SPRING 1875

  PARADISE, CALIFORNIA

  Chase Wolf lifted his eyes to the grand mansion shining in the moonlight, and the corners of his mouth turned down.

  Natives had built this princely manor for a white man who’d probably never soiled his hands on the Great Spirit’s earth. While revered Konkow headmen and gifted shamans like his grandmother blistered their palms and bent their backs to serve the rancher, Parker and his family lived like spoiled children, untouched by harsh winds or scorching sun or the indignity of hard labor. He wondered how Parker would fare as a slave, sweating and toiling for the profit of another.

  Then a dark inspiration took hold. His lips
slowly curved into a grim smile.

  The march to Nome Cult.

  He would force Parker to endure the march, as his people had. He’d prod the rancher across a hundred miles of rugged land, without water, without food, without shelter, until there was nothing left of him. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, as his white mother’s Bible preached. That was how his grandmother would be avenged. That was how her spirit would find peace.

  Resolve—and liquor—made him bold. He silently climbed the steps and circled the porch until he found a window left open to capture the night breeze. He brushed aside the sheer curtain. Moonlight spilled over the sill and into the darkened house like pale acorn soup.

  A sudden swell of vertigo tipped him off-balance as he climbed through the window. He made a grab for the curtain, tearing the frail fabric. Luckily, he had enough presence of mind to silence an angry curse, and his feet finally found purchase on the polished wood floor.

  He swayed, then straightened, swallowing hard as he perused the sumptuous furnishings of the parlor in the moonlight, feeling as out of place as a trout in a tree.

  A pair of sofas so plump they looked pregnant squatted on stubby legs carved with figures of leaves. Four rush-seat chairs stenciled with twining flowers sat against one wall. Delicate tables perched here and there on legs no thicker than a fawn’s. A massive marble fireplace with an iron grate dominated the room, and an ornate clock ticked softly on the mantel. A huge chandelier hung from the ceiling like a giant crystal spider, and a dense, patterned carpet stretched in an oval pool over the floor. Sweeping down one side of the room was a mahogany staircase, and the walls were adorned with paper printed in pale vertical stripes.

  His gaze settled on the enormous gilt-framed oil portrait hung above the mantel.

  Letting the torn curtain fall closed, Chase ventured into the room to take a closer look. The title at the bottom read, SAMUEL AND CLAIRE PARKER. Hatred began to boil his blood as he let his eyes slide up to study the face of his enemy, the evil rancher who’d enslaved his grandmother.

  Samuel Parker was a portly old man with a stern, wrinkled face, a balding head, dark eyes, and a trailing gray mustache that made him look even sterner. He was easy to hate. Chase’s lip curled as he savored the thought of dragging the villain from his bed.

  Then his gaze lit on Claire Parker. A wave of lightheadedness washed over him. It was only the whiskey, he told himself, yet he couldn’t take his eyes off of the face in the painting. The woman was half her husband’s age, as innocent and fair as Parker was darkly corrupt. She had long fair hair, partially swept up into a knot. Her features were delicate, and her eyes were serene and sweet. He’d never seen anyone so beautiful.

  After a good minute of gawking, he finally squeezed his eyes shut against the image. The woman’s looks didn’t matter. Her heart was doubtless as evil as her husband’s.

  A flicker suddenly danced across the landing above, and Chase faded back into the wallpaper. The glow of a candle lit the top steps, making shadows flutter about the walls. And then, at the top of the stairs, the portrait of the woman appeared to come to life.

  Claire Parker.

  The flame illuminated her face, giving her creamy skin an ethereal glow. Her long hair had been cut since the painting. Short, blunt strands now caressed her chin. But the blonde locks shone in the candlelight like the halos of the angels in his mother’s Bible. She wore a white lace-trimmed camisole, an ankle-length petticoat...and nothing else. Timidly she descended the steps in bare feet.

  He stood frozen while the woman, unaware he lurked in the shadows, crept slowly closer. He didn’t dare breathe as she brushed past him.

  She hesitated, close enough for him to tell the portrait didn’t do her justice. Claire Parker was breathtaking. Yet there were dark hollows beneath her eyes that painted her face in shades of unspeakable sorrow. His heart softened briefly, and he wondered what horrible tragedy haunted her.

  Then, just as quickly, he remembered who she was, what she was, and the reason he’d come. He couldn’t let a pretty face distract him from his vengeance.

  But how was he going to steal past the lady to get to her husband? He couldn’t afford to wait for her to go back to bed. The longer he remained in the house, the greater his chances were of getting caught.

  Hell. He had to do something. And soon.

  Instinct took over. It must have been instinct. Or the whiskey. Because if he’d thought about what he was doing for one minute, he never would have taken that first step.

  Sliding his knife silently from its sheath, he slipped out of the shadows and came up behind her. Before she could wheel around in surprise, he clamped a hand over Claire Parker’s mouth and set the sharp blade against her slim throat.

  It happened in a heartbeat.

  For one brief moment, Claire, hearing the soft sound from downstairs and sensing a shadowy presence in the room below, had foolishly believed it might be the spirit of her beloved Yoema. Hope filling her heart, she'd crept down the stairs.

  But in an instant, those hopes were dashed. A huge hand closed over her mouth, choking off her gasp of shock. And a sharp edge of cold steel pressed against her neck.

  She dropped the candle, extinguishing its light. Her heart jammed up against her ribs, fluttering like a singed moth. Air whistled through her flared nostrils. Her fingers splayed ineffectually as the blade threatened her with a menacing chill. Her throat clogged with panic, and she stared ahead with blind terror, sure the knife would end her gulping any moment.

  She felt utterly helpless, not at all like the heroes of the dime novels she kept under her bed. She had no revolver. She had no Bowie knife. And she had no idea what her attacker intended.

  For a long, drawn-out moment, the man did nothing, which was almost worse than killing her outright, for it gave her time to think, to dread.

  Who was he? What did he want? Was he going to hurt her? Kidnap her? Murder her? The panicked whimper born in her throat was cut short by his tightening grip. Who was he?

  The pungent smell of strong whiskey and wood smoke rose off of him, stinging her nose. The palm crushing her mouth tasted faintly of blood. His fingers, pressed into her cheek, were rough and callused. One thick-muscled arm, slung heavily across her bosom, trapped her. Where he secured her against his broad chest, he was as hard as a tree trunk.

  She didn’t dare resist, scarcely dared to breathe while the knife rested so close to her madly pulsing vein. If only she hadn’t left her scissors in her bedroom...

  The man moved his arm to struggle awkwardly with something behind her. She squeezed her eyes tight, praying he wasn’t unfastening his trousers.

  Then, for one moment, the cool blade disappeared from her throat. She stiffened like a clock spring, poised to bolt free. His hand fell away, and she sucked in a great gulp of air to scream.

  But he was too quick for her. He jammed a wad of dusty cloth into her open mouth. She fought to keep from gagging, wincing as he knotted it tightly at the back of her head. Then he brandished the shiny silver blade in front of her eyes, flashing a silent threat in the moonlight.

  This time, instead of cowering in fright, she let his gesture fuel her courage. Mustering her strength and calling to mind all the Buckskin Bill adventures she’d read, she swung her clasped hands across his forearm and brought her heel down hard on the top of his foot.

  His forearm didn’t budge, and she felt the bone-jarring impact of her bare heel upon his stiff boot all the way up her leg. She winced in pain. If only she’d had her Sunday church heels on, she despaired, she might have heard much more out of him than just an annoyed grunt.

  Instead of thwarting him, her struggles seemed to increase his determination. He hugged her closer against him, so close she could feel his hot whiskey breath riffling her hair. He raised the knife in his huge fist till it glinted with menace before her. Then he began dragging her backward across the room.

  In desperation, she tried to wrench out of his iron grasp, twistin
g enough to catch a glimpse of his shadowed face before he jerked her back against him.

  What she’d seen surprised her. Even in the dim light, she could tell he was a native. His eyes, narrowed with intent, were as dark as the night, and his short, unkempt hair shone like ebony silk. His features were strongly sculpted and handsome, from the bold arch of his nose and his square jaw to the lean cords of his neck and his strong brow. And though she couldn’t imagine why, he looked somehow familiar.

  Why would an Indian attack her? The Indians who worked her father’s ranch were as docile as sheep. Still, there had been tales of scalpings years ago, perpetrated by savages who’d learned such violence from vicious white settlers. Dear God, did he mean to take her scalp?

  Suddenly she could draw no air into her lungs, and a hysterical thought kept circling her brain—she’d surely cheated the man of his prize if he meant to scalp her, for only moments ago, she’d cut her hair short in mourning.

  Stunned and breathless, she hardly resisted as he continued to lug her toward the open window. But when he climbed out and began to haul her over the sill, pushing her head down with one massive hand so she wouldn’t bang it on the sashes, she awoke from her stupor.

  Dear Lord, the man was abducting her!

  They were halfway out of the house when panic made her fight in earnest. She grabbed hold of the window, refusing to let go. Kicking at the wall for all she was worth, she twisted and flailed against him until he hissed a guttural word at her, probably an epithet in his native tongue.

  In a matter of seconds, of course, his strength won out. He unlatched her hands with a sweep of his arm and pulled her out onto the porch into the stark night.

  Maybe she could still make noise, she thought in desperation. Her screams might not be heard through the gag, but if she stomped on the planks and made a huge fuss, surely her father or one of the ranch hands would come to investigate.