by Aimée Thurlo
Table of Contents
Cover Page
Excerpt
Dear Reader
Title Page
Dedication
CAST OF CHARACTERS
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Epilogue
Preview
Copyright
He’d saved her life…for the price of a kiss
Though streaked with sweat and ashes, the Navajo man who held her was devastatingly handsome.
“Good. You’re really with me now,” he murmured. “Stick around this time.” His smile was dazzling, filled with tender concern. The warmth of his breath touched her face like a lover’s caress.
“You’re an irresistible temptation, woman. Forgive me for taking advantage of you,” he murmured. Then he leaned over, taking her mouth with his own. Lanie was caught in a swirl of sensations; a tremor rippled through her. This man had sheltered her while they’d escaped the blaze, but in his arms she was finding another kind of fire—one with the power to blaze a path to her soul.
Lanie sat up, moving away from him as she looked around at the unfamiliar surroundings.
“Who are you, and where am l?” “You’re safe, and you’re in my town. I’m Sheriff Gabriel Blackhorse. Welcome to Four Winds.”
Dear Reader,
Welcome to Four Winds, New Mexico! It’s one of those magical towns where no one is who they seem to be…and everyone has a secret. And the sexy Blackhorse brothers are just the perfect tour guides we need.
Harlequin Intrigue is proud to present the FOUR WINDS miniseries by bestselling author Aimee Thurlo. She’s been called a “master of the desert country as well as adventure” by Tony Hillerman, and a favorite author by you, our readers.
Join Aimée for all the stories of the Blackhorse brothers and the town in which they live. Don’t miss Her Hope in November and Her Shadow in March.
Happy reading!
Sincerely,
Debra Matteucci
Senior Editor & Editorial Coordinator Harlequin Books
300 East 42nd Street New York, New York 10017
Her Destiny
Aimée Thurlo
To Bonnie Crisalli, who saw the promise of Four Winds and gave me the chance to bring it to life.
And to Huntley Fitzpatrick, whose perceptive feedback has guided and supported the series and kept it on track. Thank you for being there!
With special thanks to Bill Hilburn for sharing his expertise.
CAST OF CHARACTERS
Lanie Matthews—Where else could she end up but in a town called Four Winds?
Gabriel Blackhorse—His job was to keep the peace, yet the beautiful drifter had brought enough trouble for a dozen officers.
Bob Burns—He had been accused of juggling the books before. Just how far would he go this time to get what he wanted?
Ted Burns—His father was the mayor, and had always given him everything. Wouldn’t that be enough?
Ralph Montoya—He ran the newspaper, so why was he doing such a lousy job finding out the town’s secrets?
Sally—She owned the diner, but could soon be serving time instead of green chili stew.
Marlee—Scarred both inside and out, she ran the boardinghouse. Was the safe haven she offered Lanie really safe?
Lucas—He was Gabriel’s brother, providing the only medical care for miles. His services would definitely be needed.
Alma Wright—Since her sister had died, their antique business no longer held her interest. Lanie changed all that. The Peddler—Everyone knew his business was trouble, not pots and pans. Everyone but Lanie.
Prologue
Summer 1876
It had been another hot, dusty day. Sunset had left the New Mexico Territory skies the color of burning coals. Standing by the open window, hoping in vain for a breeze, Sheriff John Cooper stared outside, watching the orangered horizon turn to violet over the Jemez Mountains.
Slow ripples of darkness battled the remnants of the day. Night would claim the land soon, and then the fights would start. It was a routine he was more than familiar with by now. Too much whiskey, pockets emptied too soon after several hands of poker at the saloon, and the boys from the Lazy L Ranch would get scrappy, hunting for trouble.
He returned to his desk, checked his Colt .44 six-shooter, then grabbed a handful of cartridges from the box and stuck them into his vest pocket. It never hurt to carry a couple of extra loads. Hearing footsteps and a loud thump outside his door, he cursed under his breath. He’d hoped to get dinner before things got too lively.
“Door’s open,” he roared, resting his hand over his revolver.
No one entered. Annoyed, he scooped up his Colt and crossed the room with quick, bold strides, throwing open the door as he stepped back by the jamb to avoid presenting a clear target. Hearing a moan, he glanced down. An Indian man lay bleeding on the wooden steps, clearly a victim of an unrelenting beating.
Cooper glanced around quickly, jamming the .44 into the holster at his hip. The Navajo man’s horse was lathered with foam, indicating that rider and mount had just made the run of their lives:
Cooper crouched beside the injured man and lifted him enough to see his face. “Flinthawk!” The elderly medicine man’s features were distorted by the cruel blows he’d endured, and by trails of dust and caked blood. “Who did this to you?”
His swollen lips moved, but no words came out.
Curly Jordan from the general store across the street rushed up, his breath coming in short gasps. “I saw him ride up all hunched over and slide right off his horse. I yelled for the new doc. He’s on his way.”
“Good. Help me get him inside onto a bunk. From the looks of that old horse of his, I have a feeling whoever took a fist to him isn’t long behind.”
Cooper’s young deputy forced his way through the gathering crowd. “What happened, Sheriff? This morning Flinthawk said he was going over to the Lazy L to see what was killing off their herd.”
“Then you know as much as I do.” As far as Cooper knew, the Navajo healer had no enemies in town. His herbs and remedies had cured almost everyone in Four Winds at one time or another. During the winter of the great fever, he’d been their only doc, and an effective one at that.
Hearing the sound of galloping horses approaching, Cooper squinted into the fading sun. “Looks like we’re about to get some answers.” Cooper stepped out into the street to meet the men riding in.
The group of five reined in beside Flinthawk’s horse. Dusty Calhoun, tall and lean, his face hardened by a network of lines that attested to long days in the territory’s sun, tipped his hat back. “Sheriff, if you’ll let us finish our business, we’d be much obliged. We want no trouble with you. Just turn the Indian over to us, and we’ll be on our way.”
“First, suppose you tell me what you want him for.”
“Flinthawk killed our Indian blacksmith, one of his own people, if it’s any of your concern. Then he beat my tenyear-old boy up real bad, and left him unconscious. Two of my hands saw him riding off in a real hurry. We took off after him. What I just told you happened on my ranch, on my land,” he emphasized. “There, I’m the law, and we serve out our own justice.”
“You’re not on the Lazy L right now, Calhoun. You’re in Four Winds. This is my town
, and I’m the law here.”
Calhoun dismounted slowly, never taking his eyes off the sheriff. He wore the expression of a man who knew a confrontation was at hand, and was ready to see it through. “I’ve heard you’re good with a six-shooter, Cooper, and it’s possible you’ll shoot me dead before my Colt clears leather. But if I go down, one of my men will put a bullet in you, sure as can be. You can’t outgun all of us. Just tell these good people to go home, then you and your deputy step back inside your office. You don’t want any bloodshed:”
The sheriff moved directly into Calhoun’s path, blocking his way. “Mount up and ride off. Nobody needs to do any dying.”
Calhoun stepped back, reaching for his Colt. Cooper was faster than Calhoun, but as he thumbed back the hammer on his .44, Calhoun’s men drew their own weapons. Four Winchester rifles pointed at his chest.
“What’ll it be, Sheriff?” Calhoun added softly, bringing his own revolver up. “Five against one are bad odds.”
The ratcheting sound of a rifle shell being fed into its chamber came from somewhere out in the street. Cooper glanced past Calhoun and stared at old Mrs. Riley, standing behind her buckboard. Until now, he’d never realized that the old schoolmarm knew how to use a rifle.
“I think it’s best if you boys take the sheriff’s advice and go home,” she said in her firmest schoolteacher voice. “Do the figuring. Dusty, though you’ll undoubtedly have to use your fingers and toes. You can’t outrun the sheriff’s bullet, and I’ll subtract at least one of your hands, maybe two. Nobody’s taking that medicine man anywhere, not without filling three or four graves first, maybe more. I owe Flinthawk, he saved my life. He’s also done a lot of good things for the people of this town. My guess is you’ve got your story wrong. Flinthawk wouldn’t harm anyone, especially a child.”
Calhoun turned his head. “You don’t want to do this, Mrs. Riley. You’ll slow us down, but you’ll die for your trouble.”
“Oh, I don’t think so,” another voice piped in. “The odds against you seem to be growing by the minute.”
Sheriff Cooper stared at Jensen, the owner of the saloon. He rested the butt of his double-barreled scattergun against his side as he stepped out from behind a porch post. Farther across the street, Cooper could see other rifle barrels poking through open windows, aimed at Calhoun’s men.
Cooper smiled slowly. “You came to the wrong town looking for vigilante justice, Calhoun. Folks stick together here. Best you ride on. A jury will settle this matter in due time. If you press it now, there’ll be more blood than you bargained for.”
“I’ll return with as many men as it takes, Cooper. Don’t think this is over. The Indian is mine.”
As Calhoun mounted his horse, a woman driving a red buckboard at a gallop thundered into town. By the time she had stopped the team of horses, the buckboard was right in front of the sheriffs office. When the dust settled, Cooper saw a boy in the buckboard beside the dustcovered woman, his head bandaged.
“Mrs. Calhoun,” the sheriff greeted with a nod.
She scarcely gave the sheriff a glance. Her attention was focused solely on Dusty Calhoun. “Husband, you didn’t hurt that medicine man, did you?” she asked quickly.
Calhoun stepped back down from his mount. He glowered at his wife as he approached the buckboard from the boy’s side. “What are you doing here, son? You should be at the doc’s. Leave it to me to make sure the Indian gets what’s coming to him.”
“No, Pa, you don’t understand. Flinthawk didn’t hurt me. He saved my life.”
Calhoun’s eyes narrowed and he shifted his gaze, staring at his wife with open suspicion. “Have you been confusing the boy?”
“Pa, I’m telling the truth,” the boy insisted. “I caught Beyale, the blacksmith, pouring something into our well. When I tried to stop him, he acted like a wild man, grabbing me by the throat. Flinthawk must have seen what was going on when he rode up. He ran over to help me. We almost had him, but then Beyale picked up a piece of firewood and hit me right over the head. I saw it coming, but I couldn’t duck in time. Flinthawk pushed him back against the well. I heard Beyale’s head hit the stone sides and saw blood. But then I guess I passed out. Next thing I knew, Beyale was dead, but I was still alive.”
“I heard what you were planning to do, Luke Calhoun,” his wife said, using his Christian name. “That’s when I knew only your son could stay your hand. What you were after was nothing short of murder.”
“If Flinthawk’s as innocent as you claim, then why did he run away?” Calhoun said, shaking his head.
“I wasn’t there, but I can tell you the answer to that one,” Mrs. Riley, the old schoolteacher, offered. “Flinthawk’s Navajo. His people are afraid of the dead and anything connected to them. You should know that, you’ve lived in the territory long enough.”
Before Calhoun could answer, Flinthawk staggered to the door. “I defended the boy and myself,” he managed to say through swollen lips. “Your blacksmith was the one who attacked me. Then you and your men tried to finish the job.”
An ominous hush fell over the crowd.
“The blacksmith was evil,” Flinthawk continued. “He was what my people call a skinwalker, a Navajo witch. He was poisoning your well because through your deaths his magic would have grown even more powerful. You don’t understand our ways, but it happened as I say. If you don’t believe me, perhaps you can believe your own child.”
Calhoun glanced at his son, who nodded, then back at Flinthawk. “Seems we wronged you, old man,” Calhoun admitted slowly. “I’m in your debt now.” He caught the eye of the storekeeper. “From now on, see that he gets whatever supplies he needs. You can put his bills on my account.”
Cooper glanced at Flinthawk. “Just say so, and I’ll arrest these men. I don’t know if the charges will stick, but I’ll be happy to make their lives difficult for a day or two.”
Flinthawk leaned heavily against the wall for support, but somehow managed to stay on his feet without anyone’s help. “That’s not necessary. Let them go.”
As the group from the Lazy L rode off, Flinthawk looked around at the townspeople. “You risked your own lives to save mine,” he acknowledged, his voice weak. “Once my injuries heal, I will repay this town. I will do a sing here. From this day on, Four Winds will be protected by the medicine of my people. The wicked who come here will never know peace, and if they remain, they will find that the cost is more than they ever dreamed they would pay.”
Cooper watched Flinthawk walk slowly but unaided toward his hogan near the stockyards. That was one proud man.
“Sheriff, what do you think he meant by that talk about the wicked paying for their ways?” the deputy asked.
“I’m not sure,” Cooper answered, “hut I know Flinthawk, and he’s as good as his word.”
Chapter One
Spring, 1997
Gabriel Blackhorse woke up in a gnarly mood. He coughed, sputtered and blinked back the sleep from his eyes. Damnation. He’d come out here to get away and relax. Why on earth was he waking up so early?
Tossing aside the top half of his sleeping bag, he sat up, half-naked, and sniffed the pungent air. He suddenly knew what had woken him up, and it wasn’t good. Gabriel squinted through the haze of smoke that enveloped the forest clearing where he’d spent the night. The forestservice boys had been scheduled to make a prescribed burn in the area to clear away the underbrush, but from the looks of it, that fire had gotten out of hand. It shouldn’t have come anywhere near this campsite.
Grabbing his jeans and pulling them on as he walked, he went to his Jeep and radioed the dispatcher back in town. It only took a moment to confirm that the fire had jumped the fire line. The rangers were scrambling to contain the blaze.
Well, from the looks of it, nobody was going to have a good day. He searched the ground next to the bedroll for his jish, the medicine bundle with the flint hawk, a fetish carved by an ancestor of his who’d also borne that name. Following family tradition, Gabri
el’s father had handed it down to him a few months ago, and he’d kept it with him ever since. Finding the fetish, he quickly fastened the drawstring around his belt, then grabbed the sleeping bag and ground cloth, tossing both into the back of the Jeep. It was time to get out of here.
The Jeep bounced for a few minutes along the uneven dirt trail until Gabriel reached the graveled forestry road As he began the final quarter-mile stretch before reaching the main highway, Gabriel caught a glimpse of something blue and metallic behind a cluster of pines. A car.
Someone else must have had the misfortune of choosing this area as a campsite. He had to go make sure they were awake and getting ready to leave.
Gabriel drove off the forest road, following the tire imprints left on the sandy soil. The camp was just a dozen or so yards off the road. He studied the site as he pulled up. The car was parked near a one-man tent, but no one was visible. “There’s a brushfire!” he yelled, honking the horn. “You’ve got to get out of here now!”
Not receiving a response, he left his vehicle and walked to the tent. Whoever was in there was either stone deaf or just too hungover to care.
He peered inside the tent, but it was empty. A lace bra and lavender-colored panties stuck out of a bright pink laundry bag with a cartoon-chipmunk design on it.
He stepped back outside, curious now about the camper. Frilly things like the ones he’d found inside didn’t fit his image of an outdoorswoman, particularly one who’d go camping alone.
The smoke was getting thicker, moving up from the valley below in a growing cloud.
“Anyone out here?” He shouted loud enough to be heard in the next county, but there was no response.
The woman couldn’t have gone far, since her vehicle was still there. Problem was, he had no idea when the smoke had reached this spot. It was possible she’d gone off on a hike and then been unable to find her way back in the haze.
