by London, Cait
Perhaps It Was His Native American Blood That Told Him To Claim His Woman, To Keep Her Near.
Two mornings ago Gabriel had awakened with Miranda in his arms. Was that a dream, the soft fragrance of her haunting him? In her, he’d seen his eternity and his essence, in that flashing pinpoint before his desire came flooding into her keeping. He’d known that he was meant to hold her, to give her his child, to keep her safe until the winds took away their breath—together. She’d burned a path to his heart, and that soft scar hurt him more deeply than those of the flesh.
Flesh? She was more—a part of him now, inside him, moving in his blood, heating it, the fever for her—Wait! Gabriel hadn’t been aware of the power of a woman’s calling to him. He wasn’t certain about his strength against it now.…
Cait London
GABRIEL’S GIFT
Books by Cait London
Silhouette Desire
*The Loving Season #502
*Angel vs. MacLean #593
The Pendragon Virus #611
*The Daddy Candidate #641
†Midnight Rider #726
The Cowboy #763
Maybe No, Maybe Yes #782
†The Seduction of Jake Tallman #811
Fusion #871
The Bride Says No #891
Mr. Easy #919
Miracles and Mistletoe #968
‡The Cowboy and the Cradle #1006
‡Tallchief’s Bride #1021
‡The Groom Candidate #1093
‡The Seduction of Fiona Tallchief #1135
‡Rafe Palladin: Man of Secrets #1160
‡The Perfect Fit #1183
†Blaylock’s Bride #1207
†Rio: Man of Destiny #1233
†Typical Male #1255
§Last Dance #1285
‡Tallchief: The Homecoming #1310
§Slow Fever #1334
§Gabriel’s Gift #1357
Silhouette Yours Truly
Every Girl’s Guide To…
Every Groom’s Guide To…
Silhouette Books
Spring Fancy 1994
“Lightfoot and Loving”
Maternity Leave 1998
“The Nine-Month Knight”
‡Tallchief for Keeps
CAIT LONDON
lives in the Missouri Ozarks but loves to travel the Northwest’s gold rush/cattle drive trails every summer. She enjoys research trips, meeting people and going to Native American dances. Ms. London is an avid reader who loves to paint, play with computers and grow herbs (particularly scented geraniums right now). She’s a national bestselling and award-winning author, and she has also written historical romances under another pseudonym. Three is her lucky number; she has three daughters, and the events in her life have always been in threes. “I love writing for Silhouette,” Cait says. “One of the best perks about all this hard work is the thrilling reader response and the warm, snug sense that I have given readers an enjoyable, entertaining gift.”
To Stella
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Prologue
From the Journal of Magda Claas, Montana 1881
This beautiful valley, in the land the Indians call “Montana,” and the women who have become my sisters, have given me peace and comfort. In the heat of that hot, dry summer, ten women came together in this beautiful valley with towering mountains on one side, a lake filled with fish, and lush green grass for our stock.
The land is wild and rough with men, who would take us as they would a cow or a horse, caring little for our pride. Who would protect us? we wondered by our campfire and wagons and stock, women without menfolk in a harsh land. We wanted husbands, of course, but we wanted the freedom to choose good men who would treat us well.
Fleur Arnaud, Anastasia Duscha, Beatrice Avril, Jasmine Dupree, China Belle Ruppurt, and Fancy Benjamin had already been treated poorly by their men. They would not settle for less than their rightful due again. Margaret Gertraud, Cynthia Whitehall and myself had not suffered so, but we were determined to keep ourselves free of unjoyful and painful bondage, such as they had suffered. We know little of the woman known as LaRue, except that she is most helpful and inventive. She has loved, she said, and she has lost. Yet her quiet, secret smile tells more.
So it was that women with strong minds decided to become a family, to protect one another, to weigh marriage offers as a father or brother would have done in the Old World, to see that men courted as was proper and that they kept their marriage promises. We decided that our family would protect the brides men would have, inspecting the men’s qualifications as future husbands. At first, we laughed, and then the idea grew into our dream.
Jasmine Dupree had been berry picking when her baby decided to come, and an Indian man, Mr. Deerhorn, came to her rescue. He fashioned a travois, two long poles with a blanket between them, which dragged behind his horse, and brought her back to our camp. He was most shocked when Cynthia Whitehall of Boston society thanked him by kissing his cheek.
I am a midwife, and when Jasmine’s baby came into my hands, we cried. That night, we decided to name our valley Freedom, and our town, too. With the fine big boy nursing at Jasmine’s breast, and joy in our hearts, we sat down to decide the Rules for Bride Courting. By next summer, we will have a town called Freedom.
Mr. Deerhorn came the next morning with a reed basket of herbs from his mother. He explained the uses to us, but his warm gaze followed Cynthia. A bold woman, she has become suddenly quiet.
Magda Claas, Midwife and Healer and
Butter Maker
Freedom Valley, Montana
One
My children are my joy. A widow with three young children, I feared I would fail them. Yet now Tanner, the oldest at twenty, is already off to college and has his heart set on Gwyneth Smith. At sixteen, Kylie is the youngest, and tosses herself into life. She is determined to bring down one Michael Cusack. My oldest daughter, Miranda, is just eighteen and furious with Gabriel Deerhorn. It has been months since he called or came to our house. Always controlled and keeping her secrets, Miranda will say nothing. I think she dreamed of marrying him, and now she is grimly determined to leave Freedom.
—from the journal of Anna Bennett, descendant of Magda Claas
The woman stood in the night, campfire smoke curling around her and Gabriel’s baby nestling in her rounded belly. Filled with promises and love, her hair swept back from her face by the mountain wind, her eyes were warm upon Gabriel. The joy that she gave him swirled through the tops of the pines, settled deeply within him. She had his heart and together they had made a child—
Gabriel awoke suddenly, his heart racing, his mind trying to hold the dream close to him. Yet it swirled off into the mountain’s December snow, torn from him too soon. It was always the same, the woman who came to him in sleep, his child nestled within her. He sat up, his hands shaking as he stirred his campfire into life—not for the warmth, but to do something, anything. Gabriel lifted his face to the slashing mountain snow, then turned to study his evening campfire. The snowflakes blended with the smoke and disappeared, just as the woman always left him. Without her, he carried the cold ache of loneliness.
His people believed in dreams, in the meanings they held. Gabriel breathed deeply, and glanced at his horse in the pine bough shelter. The Appaloosa’s mottled coat blended with the veil of snowflakes as the gelding returned Gabriel’s study. Once the woman had come to Gabriel when he was cold and alone, curling warmly ag
ainst him, placing his hand on her full breast. Milk for the coming child had dampened his palm and gave him peace; he knew that his blood would live on, his heritage and pride. He had dreamed of her riding in front of him, wrapped snugly in his arms. Turning slightly, she would lean against him, her breath warm upon his throat, their baby pressing against his stomach.
Gabriel shook his head and dusted the snowflakes from his face. Perhaps it was Michael Cusack and Kylie Bennett’s approaching church wedding that had stirred the dreams, like dying embers brought back to life. Perhaps it was Tanner and Gwyneth’s announcement of a coming baby. Gabriel hadn’t thought of his need to have a child for years. At thirty-seven, he had settled into his mountain ranch, tending his horses and cattle and occasionally serving as a guide for tourists.
He shoved a stick into the fire, prodding it, and watched the coals spring into flame. He’d been too lonely at his cabin, and he’d known the woman would come to him where his Native American blood called to him and the dreams came more freely—in the high untamed mountains overlooking Freedom Valley.
He rose and walked to the rock bluff overlooking the valley with its twinkling lights. His ancestor had helped the women who founded their dream, a land and a town where they could choose their lives.
Just there was the Bennett farm, a tiny complete twenty acres. Mother of three children and a widow, Anna Bennett had lost her life almost a year ago, when her car collided with a semitruck. A midwife and healer, she was loved in Freedom Valley, respected by Gabriel’s mother, also a midwife and healer. First Tanner Bennett had come home to claim his ex-wife, and then Kylie to clash with Michael Cusack. Miranda would be coming soon, Kylie’s matron of honor.
Miranda. Gabriel breathed unsteadily, hunching down into his shearling coat, as her name curled in the wind. He was only nineteen to her seventeen when they started dating. In another year, Miranda had finished high school and colleges were courting her. Gabriel saw then that their lives were not meant to be entwined. For he was a part of this life, these high mountains, the livestock, the land and his blood.
For Miranda’s good, he had torn her from him, never to hold that sweet scent of her close, those soft innocent lips against his.
He’d told her he didn’t want her. The lie had hurt, because back then, he had wanted to go before the Women’s Council and speak for her. He’d wanted to court her in the traditional way of his ancestors, to offer horses as a bridal price. But Miranda was meant for a different life, one apart from his. Intelligent, creative, and at the top of her class, Miranda would have resented him eventually.
When she’d visited Anna, Gabriel had seen her and the ache returned. She’d said she was happy, and that a few years ago she began living with a man she intended to marry. Gabriel lifted his face to the icy mountain wind. At thirty-five, Miranda was now probably married and a mother. He frowned slightly. Anna had been so proud of her children, and yet she had said nothing of Miranda’s wedding or of grandchildren. A sensitive woman, perhaps Anna had known that information would trouble him.
He wasn’t looking forward to seeing Miranda and her husband at Kylie’s wedding. Gabriel stood suddenly and tore off his coat and the layers of clothing beneath it, giving himself to the freezing, cleansing winds. The wind tore at his hair, swirling it around his face in a storm of snowflakes, and he thought he heard the song of her low, soft voice.
He pushed her from his heart and still she clung to him—soft, warm, beckoning.
The first week of January, Miranda came down the wedding aisle before Kylie, the bride. Standing with the other men beside the groom—Michael Cusack—Gabriel held his breath. With a coronet of daisies in her sleek black hair, bound into a fashionable knot, Miranda caught his heart—just that easily, after all those years.
Taller than Kylie, Miranda moved with the same lithe grace, her flowing feminine gown of mauve emphasizing the blush on her cheeks. Those green eyes were just as startling, highlighted by the magic of makeup. Framed by those long sweeping lashes, her eyes still reminded him of the summer meadows in the mountains. Her brows, finely arched, were like that of the wings of the raven. The new softness in her face, much like Anna’s, said she had found peace.
But her mouth—Gabriel tensed, pushing away the soft, haunting memory of it against his, the sweet hunger of seventeen-year-old Miranda.
Then she turned, taking the traditional matron-of-honor’s place beside Kylie, and Gabriel’s gaze locked on Miranda’s gown, clinging to the slight mound of her belly.
There was no time like the present, Miranda thought, as she moved through the dancers, making her way to Gabriel. If she were going to make a home in Freedom Valley for her and her baby, she had to grapple with her “ghosts” first. Gabriel was definitely a man no woman could forget.
As a teenager, she’d had a crush on most of her brother’s friends—some of them had married, but those who remained were called “the Bachelor Club” by the matrons of Freedom Valley. Those men who did not conform to the time-honored customs of the Founding Mothers of Freedom Valley were condemned as “Culls.”
Gabriel was definitely not a “Cull.” He was quiet, thoughtful and lived peacefully on his mountain ranch. He had never married and had been her first real love. At times, the sweetness of those memories caught her, wrapped carefully before she stored them again in the past. Standing with the other men at the altar, Gabriel had been just as tall and fierce and lean as she remembered. His dark suit emphasized that hawkish look, his hair in a rough, long cut and just touching his shoulders. His face was harder, more weathered and angular, tension humming from him. He wouldn’t be comfortable in a suit, of course, but he had made the sacrifice for his friends.
She’d felt the burn of those black hunter’s eyes, the narrowing of them on her rounded belly. Had his hard mouth tightened then, or had she just imagined that reaction? Gabriel always held his emotions tightly, even at nineteen, when his body ran warm and taut with the need to take more….
Miranda fought the tremble moving through her, and stopped her hand from nervously fidgeting with her hair. She wouldn’t be nervous of Gabriel Deerhorn, no matter how fiercely he’d scowled at her. Again—had she just imagined his reaction? Or was it a reflection of her own shaken emotions?
Standing in front of him now, Miranda looked up. His black eyes were flat, shielded now, deep set beneath those fierce brows. The lights gleamed on his high cheekbones, the planes and shadows of his face cruising along an unrelenting jaw and a chin with a magical little dimple. For just a heartbeat, the memory of his unsteady breath sweeping across her cheek, the open hot furnace of that mouth, startled her.
There had been no softness in that long, well-shaped mouth the day he told her that he didn’t want her.
Miranda pushed away that slicing memory and decided to keep their meeting light. “I’ve danced with all the other men in the Bachelor Club. You’re next and it’s the last dance.”
Gabriel looked over her head, ignoring her. Then those black eyes pounced upon her, tearing at her, though his deep voice still held that magical lilt. She didn’t understand that slashing glance, battering her, and it was quickly shielded into a bland expression. “Sure.”
He took her stiffly in his arms, in the traditional way she remembered, and eased her into the waltz. She’d forgotten that he was so tall—six foot three—and with the added height of his polished Western boots, she barely reached his shoulder. He had that ramrod-straight look of a lean working man, and for just a moment, she imagined him on horseback, his body flowing easily with the animal’s.
As a teenager, he’d been so careful of her sensibilities. The first time she saw him playing field football without his shirt, she’d been entranced by the beauty of his smooth, dark skin rippling over the muscles and cords.
Now his hand was rough against hers, his shoulders even wider, and she felt feminine and delicate within his very proper embrace. She wondered what had happened to that sense of being a woman—had it been strip
ped away by her career, in the push-push to succeed? She dressed and acted like a woman, but inside she felt so empty—except for the wonder of her coming baby. Miranda glanced up at Gabriel, dancing as if forced to do his duty. He’d given her the only wildflower bouquet she’d ever had, but now those high, sharp cheekbones and that jaw looked as if none of the boy’s softness remained. She wondered what bitterness had happened to him, to make those lines upon his brow, the brackets beside his lips. Strength ran through his body, though he held her lightly. She could sense the vibrations of emotions circling him, that taut hoarding of his thoughts, the control she always associated with him. “Michael and Kylie are so perfect for each other, don’t you think?” she asked, just to hear him speak.
“Sure.” A man obligated to dance with his friend’s sister, Gabriel looked over her head, studying the other dancers.
Gabriel was simply doing his duty, dancing with her, and Miranda gave in to the impish need to prick that cool shield. “I hear you have a ranch now, and that you guide like your father did.”
“Sure. He’s retired now.” He looked down at her, and his hard face softened momentarily. “I’m sorry about your mother. I liked Anna.”
Suddenly he seemed so safe, even after all the years between. She couldn’t resist placing her forehead against his shoulder and resting there for just a moment, her hand clenching his large callused one as an anchor. Gabriel tensed, his hand at her back opening, digging in slightly. Was he afraid she’d cry? That a pregnant woman’s moods would embarrass him? Unpredictable emotions seemed to be the effect of her pregnancy, so unlike Miranda’s usual control. She was too vulnerable now because she’d fought reality and lost. The man she’d thought she would marry didn’t want her or their baby.
Only Kylie and Tanner, her brother, knew that she wasn’t married, that her child was unwanted by its father. She’d come to Freedom to protect her baby, to surround it with love and family. She’d stay in her mother’s home, find work and nurture her child. Freedom Valley was where she belonged; somehow she’d find a way to explain the missing husband, and in two months she’d be holding her baby. She’d only been back two days, but amid the hustle of the traditional wedding Michael Cusack wanted for Kylie, Miranda knew she had made the right choice—to come back home. She’d sold everything of her past life, wanting a new one for herself and her baby.
