Montana Mavericks, Books 1-4

by Diana Palmer

  “When, uh…when her periods still hadn’t started again about eight months later, she went back to the doctor who had performed the operation. He laughed at her, Jackson. And he t-told her to f-forget about it.”

  “Why?”

  Maggie’s eyes suddenly glittered with fury. Her voice dripped venom onto every word. “Because that lousy son of a bitch had given her a hysterectomy while she was still under the anesthetic. Nobody had bothered to tell her about it.”

  Jackson uttered a vicious curse. Maggie nodded in agreement. Then she continued.

  “He, uh…he said he had every right to do it to any dirty squaw who came to him expecting free emergency service. He’d made it his personal mission to save the taxpayers from having to support any more lazy damned Indians. Aunt Rose told me she knows of at least ten other women he sterilized involuntarily.”

  “Nobody ever took him to court?”

  Maggie shook her head. “The women were all too ashamed to talk about it, and none of them thought they’d get any justice from the white courts if they did.”

  “He’s not still practicing, is he?”

  “No. If he was, I’d probably kill the bastard. Unfortunately, he’s already dead. He murdered her, Jackson. It was because of him she wouldn’t go to the doctor when she found the lump in her breast. I know it was.”

  “Damn, Maggie, I’m sorry that happened to your mother.”

  “Me, too. God, she must have felt so violated, and to him, it was like spaying a dog or a cat.” Maggie turned to him, her eyes stark with pain. “I can’t even imagine hating anyone that much. Can you?”

  “No. But that kind of hatred’s been out there for a long time,” Jackson said. “After what she went through, I don’t understand why your mother willingly spent the rest of her life with whites.”

  “I didn’t, either. Aunt Rose said Mama blamed everything on her own ignorance of white people. I guess she thought she could save me from being that ignorant by raising me off the res. It was just pure luck she met Dad.”

  “How did that happen?”

  “He hired her to clean the rooms in his first motel. She could have made more money as a waitress, but she took the motel job because he allowed her to bring me to work with her.”

  “He sounds like a nice guy.”

  “He is. Oh, God, I should call him. I don’t think he knows any of this.”

  “Do it tomorrow,” Jackson suggested. “You’ve had enough for one day.”

  “You’re right.” Leaning her head back against the sofa cushion, she closed her eyes. “You know what makes me feel the worst about this?”

  “What?”

  “When I was little, I used to beg my mother for a brother or a sister. Can you imagine how much that must have hurt her?”

  “You were just a kid. You didn’t know.”

  Tears trickled out from beneath her lashes. “I know, but she loved babies so much. After she was diagnosed, she used to go up to the hospital when she wasn’t sick from the chemotherapy. And she’d rock and cuddle the babies who were born addicted to drugs. She said it comforted her as much as it did them. And that miserable excuse for a doctor took away her right to have any more babies of her own.”

  Jackson pulled her into his arms again. She clung to him for a moment, then pushed herself away. Refusing to look at him, she whispered, “I’m sorry. Knowing what he did to her makes me feel like I’m dirty inside.”

  “You’re not the dirty one, Maggie. That damned doctor was.”

  “I know, but somehow I feel too…violated myself to touch anyone. I need to be alone for a little while.”

  Though he hated the thought of leaving her when she looked so forlorn, Jackson nodded and got up. “All right. I’ll check on the horses and mess around in the garage or something. Call me if you need anything.”

  As he reached the back door, she called to him. “Hey, Jackson? Thanks.”

  “That’s what friends are for,” he said.

  Then he walked into the mudroom, where he spied the stack of tarps and blankets he used for the sweat lodge. He hesitated for a moment, wondering if the idea forming in his mind would help Maggie put this painful episode into perspective.

  Well, why not? he asked himself. Her spirit needed healing. While his idea might not be too kosher, she wasn’t a traditional Indian. Hell, she wouldn’t even know the difference. Grabbing the pile of blankets, he hurried out the back door.

  Exhausted and numb, Maggie curled up in the blanket again. Jackson had been so sweet, she hoped she hadn’t hurt his feelings by asking him to leave her alone. But it couldn’t be helped. She’d learned so many things today, she needed some time to digest them all and regain her composure.

  Gradually, the daylight faded. Her clamorous thoughts subsided, and the peace and quiet of the house sank into her bones. She lost all sense of the passage of time. Her eyelids grew heavy.

  “Maggie,” a deep, familiar voice said close to her ear. “Maggie, wake up.”

  She forced her eyes open and sat up. What she saw made her wonder if she was having a weird dream. Closing her eyes, she shook her head to clear it. When she opened them again, Jackson was still standing in front of her, wearing nothing but a pair of black gym shorts and sneakers. He held out what looked like a purple T-shirt. In a voice that sounded as if it were coming from the bottom of a well, he asked if she needed some help.

  “Help with what?” she asked.

  He waved the T-shirt under her nose. “You need to take off everything but your underwear and put this on.”

  “Why?”

  “We’re gonna do a sweat. It’ll make you feel better.”

  At the moment, she seriously doubted anything could accomplish that. But Jackson had a determined look on his face, and she still felt too groggy and disoriented to argue with him.

  “Okay, okay…” she grumbled, holding out her hand. “I’ll put it on.”

  “Do you need some help?” he asked again.

  “No. Just give me a second to wake up.”

  “All right, but don’t take too long. Everything’s ready, and I can’t leave the fire unattended. I can see it from the backyard, so I’ll wait for you there.” He handed her the shirt and walked to the door, then added, “Wear your shoes, too, or you’ll get stickers in your feet.”

  Moving slowly, she stood up. When she heard the door shut, she stripped down to her bra and panties and pulled the T-shirt over her head. The soft fabric covered her from her neck to her knees. It held a fresh scent, as if it had been dried on a clothesline. Then she obediently put on her shoes, made a pit stop in the bathroom and went out to join Jackson.

  A cool evening breeze washed away the last vestiges of drowsiness. Jackson smiled at her as she crossed the patio, holding out a hand in welcome. It felt natural to slide her hand into his and walk beside him under a sky filled with stars.

  Looking up at them, she said, “How long did I sleep?”

  “Five hours,” he said.

  “Tell me about this sweat thing. Why is it going to make me feel better?”

  “It’s a purification ritual. It’ll help you find your center of balance again, and connect you with Mother Earth. We usually have more people than this, but we’ll do our best with just the two of us.”

  The sweat lodge came into view. A patchwork of blankets covered the sapling frame. The fire ring beside it held a pyramid of rocks surrounded by glowing embers. A pitchfork leaned against a nearby tree.

  Jackson released her hand, then grasped her shoulders and turned her to face him. “It’ll be pitch-black when we get inside the lodge and close the flap. I’ll bring in the rocks four times, and it’ll feel like you’re being roasted alive.”

  “Gee, it sounds like fun,” she muttered.

  Ignoring her smart remark, he went on. “If you can’t breathe, put your face close to the ground or lie down. It’ll be cooler down there. You can leave anytime you need to, but try to stay with me through all four rotations. Okay?�
�

  Following his directions, she ducked through the low canvas doorway and crawled to the far end of the lodge. She sat cross-legged and inhaled slow, deep breaths, reminding herself she was not claustrophobic. The only furnishings were a bucket of water with a metal dipper and a portable cassette player. Weird, she thought. Using a modern machine in an ancient ceremony was definitely weird.

  A moment later, Jackson carried in a load of glowing rocks, balancing them on the tines of the pitchfork. He dropped them in a hole dug in the center of the floor.

  Then he quickly shut the flap and crawled to a spot beside her, dragging the bucket of water behind him. The temperature rose immediately. When the glow of the rocks died down, Maggie couldn’t see a blessed thing. She heard a soft click, and the sound of Indian drums touched her ears. Well, that explained the cassette player. The rocks flared again when Jackson sprinkled something over them. Wisps of smoke rose from the pit. A wonderful aroma filled the air.

  “This is cedar, for purification,” Jackson said, his voice low and reverent, blending with the drums. “Breathe it in. Take it with your hands and rub it over yourself.”

  Determined to give this a chance, she followed his instructions. He poured a dipper of water over the rocks next, creating a hissing cloud of steam. Suddenly it was hotter. Hotter than anything she’d ever felt before. Hotter than even hell could be.

  Sweat gushed from her skin. The air was too thick to breathe. Panic seized her. She had to get out. Get out. Get out!

  Jackson’s voice reached out to her, calming and soothing her, even though she couldn’t understand the words he was chanting. They must be in Cheyenne. She bent down as Jackson had instructed, finally succeeding in dragging the searing air into her lungs. The drumbeats echoed through her head in a steady, relentless rhythm.

  Her mind whirled with half-formed thoughts and fleeting images. Her heart picked up the cadence of the drums. She clung to Jackson’s voice as if it were her only link to sanity, while the heat continued to come at her in overwhelming waves. Just when it was about to become bearable, she heard Jackson moving toward the doorway.

  Cool air rushed in, shocking her skin, raising goose bumps as high as the Rockies. He brought in another load of rocks and flipped the canvas flap shut, and the cycle of heat and steam started all over again, opening her pores to another cleansing bath of sweat.

  Slowly, slowly, her mind cleared. Her anxiety merged with the steam and floated into the night. She felt the earth, hard and cool beneath her. Heard the drums and Jackson’s voice as if they were somewhere inside her. Sensed a deep and expanding unity of spirit with him that was like nothing she had ever known.

  The lodge became a womb, the steam a protective cushion of fluid, the drums her mother’s heartbeat. She was safe here. Safe from guilt and grief and humiliation. Safe from rage and hurt and confusion. She was one with the darkness, one with Jackson, one with all of the people who had ever experienced this ceremony. Here, finally, was a place where she felt, to the bottom of her soul, that she belonged.

  When the fourth cycle ended, she didn’t want to leave. The world outside was too exposed and frightening and lonely. But when Jackson held out his hand to her from the doorway, she went to him.

  He helped her to her feet, then enfolded her in his arms. And suddenly, as if by magic, she felt safe again.

  Eleven

  “Thank you,” Maggie whispered. She hugged Jackson with all her strength, then leaned back and gazed up at him. “That was absolutely incredible.”

  He tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear. “I thought you were pretty incredible. Your first sweat can be intimidating, but you handled it like a champ.”

  “Hearing your voice helped.” She shivered from the memory of the intimate connection she had felt with him.

  Jackson released her, untied one of the blankets on the sweat lodge and wrapped it around her. “Can’t let you get chilled. Why don’t you go to the house and take a shower? I’ll clean up here.”

  “No, I want to help. You went to a lot of trouble to do this for me.”

  “It was my pleasure.”

  He leaned down and dropped a playful kiss on her mouth. That brief contact wasn’t enough. She wanted much, much more. When he started to straighten up, she raised one hand to the back of his neck and held him there. His muscles tensed. His gaze locked with hers, and in the black depths of his eyes she saw a fierce hunger that matched her own. Oh, God. The intimate connection was still there, and she wanted—no, needed—to feel it with her body, as well as with her heart and mind.

  She lifted her other hand to his neck and pressed her lips to his. The blanket slid off her shoulders, hitting the ground with a muffled plop. His arms surrounded her, pulling her flush against him.

  Conscious thought ceased. Ancient instincts took over. He was all hot, naked skin, hard bones and muscles, strong, seeking hands. Her senses feasted on him. The slickness of his tongue stroking hers. The salty taste of his neck. The aroma of wood smoke mixing with his own musky scent. His hoarse groans of need and want. The rough calluses on his hands when he slid them beneath her shirt and caressed her back and sides.

  She strained closer. Cupping his hands under her bottom, he hiked her up. She wrapped her legs around his hips, clutched at his back with her hands, rubbed her breasts against his chest, reveling in the strength of his erection pressing into her most private parts. God, she loved being wanted like this. Needed to be needed like this. Never, ever, wanted these exciting sensations to end.

  But suddenly he was pushing her hips away, untangling her arms from around his neck, denying her his mouth. Her feet touched the ground. He held her by the waist until her wobbly legs would support her. Then he let her go, curling his fingers into fists at his sides, as if to prevent himself reaching for her again. They stared at each other, chests heaving with ragged breaths that rent the night’s stillness.

  “We can’t do this, Maggie,” he said. “Not now.”

  “I want you, Jackson. And you want me. Don’t deny it.”

  “I don’t want to deny it.” He glanced down at his groin, then gave her one of his half shrugs and a rueful smile. “I couldn’t if I wanted to. But you’ve had one hell of an emotional day, and I don’t want to take advantage of you when you’re so vulnerable. I didn’t bring you out here to seduce you.”

  “Fine.” Grinning wickedly, she stepped toward him, her palms itching to touch him again. “I’ll seduce you.”

  He grabbed her hands and held them together in front of her. “No, Maggie. Stop and think about this, before I run out of nobility. Believe me, I don’t have much left.”

  “Jackson, I know what I’m doing.”

  He inhaled a deep breath, then released it with a shuddering sigh. “Humor me. I don’t want you to have any regrets. Go up to the house and wait for me. If you still want to make love with me when I get there, we will. If you don’t, there won’t be any problem. Deal?”

  Maggie knew she wouldn’t change her mind. She had never felt so close to anyone, and nothing in her life had ever felt this right. Unfortunately, she could see that he had his heart set on protecting her, and she could hardly fault him for forcing her to make a clear and conscious decision. In fact, she loved him for it, more than she’d ever dreamed she could love anyone.

  “Okay, deal,” she said. “But don’t take forever.”

  Releasing her hands, he stepped back. She turned and walked away, plotting wonderfully wicked things she would do to him the next time she saw him. Unbraiding his hair topped the list. After that, she’d think of something.

  She entered the kitchen, turned on the lights and dutifully sat down at the table to wait. She even tried to think of reasons not to make love with him. But there weren’t any.

  Until now, she had spent her whole life looking toward the future, studying to achieve the goals her mother had set for her and working to become the kind of woman who would make her mother proud.

  The sweat lodge had
forced her to live in the moment. It had taught her the joy of feeling all her feelings, no matter how intense they might be. It had shown her how empty her heart had been before she met Jackson.

  When she finished her report, she would have to choose between going back to Washington and staying here with her people. It would not be an easy choice to make. But she wasn’t going to worry about that now.

  No, tonight she was not Beverly’s daughter. She wasn’t the congressman’s aide or the Little Fed. She was simply a woman who deeply loved a man. She didn’t need or want promises, commitments or obligations. The future would take care of itself. At this moment, the only thing she really wanted was to spend one night in Jackson’s arms. Whatever she had promised her mother, she deserved that much happiness.

  The back door opened and closed. Standing, she turned to face the doorway. Her heart soared when Jackson appeared. Catching sight of her, he halted in his tracks and rocked back on his heels as if he’d run into an invisible barrier. His gaze locked with hers, and in his eyes she saw everything she could have wished for—longing, hope and hunger, all mixed up with a resigned acceptance of the possibility that she’d changed her mind.

  Unable to speak past the lump in her throat, she held out her arms to him. He crossed the room with long, deliberate strides, dumped the cassette player he carried on the table and studied her face intently, as if he were searching for the slightest sign of doubt. She looked back at him just as intently, holding her breath, praying he would see the feelings she couldn’t express with words.

  Finally, a slow, sensuous smile moved over his face, and then she was in his arms, hugging, kissing, laughing with the sheer joy of holding him. He lowered one hand to the backs of her knees and lifted her high against his chest. Chuckling at her startled yelp, he carried her up the stairs and into the bathroom.

  He kissed her as if she were a tasty morsel he intended to savor to the fullest. Then he set her on her feet, turned away to start the water in the shower, and came back to her as the room began to fill with a steamy mist.