Raven and the Cowboy: A Loveswept Historical Romance

by Sandra Chastain

  Raven?

  Tucker?

  Down here.

  She was down the canyon from the cliff on which he stood, asking.

  What do you want from me, Raven?

  Only you, Tucker. Only you.

  Tucker started toward her, his steps slow but unfaltering. As he walked the thrumming in his head grew quiet; his knees were firm and his heart full. He knew even as he walked that he’d conquered mountains for this woman. She’d taken his pain and now his fear, replacing it with confidence, with need. He could want again. He did want.

  He wanted Raven.

  Their spirits melded first, creating a circle of warmth that transcended time and place. Along the walls of the canyon, the shadows of the Ancient Ones watched. Overhead and beneath, the spirit world joined to enclose them in a place of joy.

  And then they were together in the flesh, touching, silk against sand, rough against soft, dream against reality. There was a song in the rhythms of their touch and their breathing, a chant that caught in the rain and intensified as it hit the textures of the valley. The murmur of the river, the high, sweet sound of the wind and the baritone of the rocks. All became the music of their love.

  Tucker asked and Raven gave, riding the currents of their desire, caressing the sure softness of their acceptance. Turbulence followed gentleness, until the fever of their dance erupted into one final firestorm of love that exploded the cocoon and joined them with the elements. Nature accelerated their climax into an explosive tempest that melted every painful memory they’d ever kept. Then time stood still as the rain stopped and the moon moved out from behind a wall of gray.

  “Oh, Tucker—” Raven said, her voice tight in her throat, “I don’t understand how this happens to us, but I don’t want it to be over.”

  For a long time, Tucker did not speak. Then, finally, he raised up on one elbow and looked into Raven’s eyes. “This isn’t over, Spirit Woman, and this isn’t a dream. You’ve taught me something about myself.”

  “I have? What?”

  “Everything I ever cared about was lost to me, so I quit caring. When I did that, I quit living. You came into my life with an impossible goal. Nothing stopped you and you reached that goal.”

  “Yes,” she said softly, “I did. But I learned something from you as well.”

  His face was washed with surprise. “What could you possibly have learned from me?”

  “That a person can’t be single-purposed.”

  “Single-purposed? I don’t understand.”

  “I never thought that I might have a life for myself. I was so careful to close off anything that might interfere with my duty, I forgot that I’m a woman.”

  “So what did I do to change that?”

  “You made me see that riches shared are twice as rewarding. Flying Cloud never told me to rely on anyone else to find the treasure. He said the spirits would send me help but the responsibility was mine alone.”

  “It was,” Tucker agreed. “I’d have quit long ago—or at least once I would have. When I saw how strong and dauntless you were, I began to see that I’d given up on my life too easily. If I’d given up this time, I would have lost you.”

  She simply looked at him, not daring to ask what he meant. He might not have lost her, but he would leave and the end result would be the same.

  “You made me believe in the impossible—a future.”

  “I didn’t do that, Tucker. You’ve always had a future. You just had to work through the past to see it.” She took a deep breath. “When will you leave?”

  “Leave? Where would I go?” His surprise was too great. As she watched she could see a little quirk in the corner of his mouth.

  “Oregon?”

  “Now, why would I want to go to Oregon when the woman I love is going to be in Colorado?”

  “The woman you love?”

  “The woman I love. I can’t imagine leaving you. Who will protect you? Besides, nobody else knows the secret of the red berries.”

  “You’d really come with me, knowing that the land I buy will be for my people?”

  “The way I see it, there’s going to be too much land for one man to ranch. I thought we might make a deal with Swift Hand and his men. They run the tribe and give us a hand on the ranch. In return, we can deal with the government on their behalf.”

  “You’d do that?”

  “I’d do that,” he said, “if the woman I love loved me too.”

  “Oh, Tucker, of course I love you. I love you so much I think I would die if you left me.”

  “There’s something I have to clear up first, before we can find a preacher,” Tucker said in a low voice.

  “What?”

  “When I rode away from Sand Creek, I never went back. I have to square myself with the army before I can help anybody. I don’t know what they’ll do to me, but I’d like to think that there is someone who would wait for me if I have to serve some time in jail.”

  “Someone will, your wife. Remember, Mr. Farrell. Father Francis is God’s representative, and in his eyes we are already married. You have a wife who loves you spiritually, even if we aren’t legally married under your law.”

  Tucker grinned. “A wife who loves me?”

  “Of course, Tucker. I loved you before I even knew you. It just took me a while to know what that kind of love meant.” She reached out and touched his face. “I’m not sure I understand it all yet. Do you suppose you could show me some more?”

  “I wouldn’t dare refuse a spirit woman,” he said softly. “But I think it might take years to complete your education. What do you say?”

  “I say I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  Epilogue

  The following article appeared in the September 1, 1877 issue of the New York Daily Journal:

  The New York Daily Journal announces the publication of the first book by new fiction writer Lucky Smith. Only after the book, already wildly received by the public, sold out for the second time was it revealed that the writer is a member of the famous Small family, publishers of this newspaper.

  Mr. Smith, interviewed by his brothers, claimed that his material came from personal research. He went on to say, “Not many people have the good fortune to take part in a treasure hunt. Not many lost treasures are ever found. But there aren’t many people like Raven and Tucker Farrell left in the world.”

  Lucky Smith’s book is a fictionalized account of the search for ancient Spanish treasure by Raven Alexander Farrell, an Arapaho from Colorado, her husband, Tucker Farrell, and Swift Hand, the current leader of the Arapaho tribe.

  The treasure hunters faced the greed of Mexican bandits and the forces of nature to find the Lost Spanish Treasure, only to lose the majority of it in an earthquake. At this time, the location of the treasure is unknown. The seekers managed to retain enough gold and jewels to secure the future of a small band of Indians who only wanted land that was rightfully theirs.

  But according to Mr. Smith, his story isn’t about the search for treasure. It’s about two people who believed in the impossible and each other. This is a story of destiny, of commitment to the land, and of trust. This is the story of Raven and her cowboy, and the real treasure of love.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Bestselling and award-winning author, Sandra Chastain has written thirty-four novels since Bantam published her first romance in 1988. She lives with her husband just outside of Atlanta and considers herself blessed that her three daughters and grandchildren live nearby.

  Sandra enjoys receiving letters from her fans. You can write to her at P.O. Box 67, Smyrna, GA 30081.

  THE EDITOR’S CORNER

  Welcome to Loveswept!

  Next month, enjoy two timeless romances from Linda Cajio: ALL IS FAIR…, where a practical joke turns into a high-stakes game of love and passion, and RESCUING DIANA, in which a guileless Diana engages in a sensuous tango with a man determined to show her the ways of seduction.

  We’re also offering another book
from Debra Dixon! BAD TO THE BONE has everything you could possibly want from a romance: a thrilling plot, red-hot romance, and unforgettable characters. Don’t miss this dazzling story.

  If you love romance … then you’re ready to be Loveswept!

  Gina Wachtel

  Associate Publisher

  P.S. Watch for these terrific Loveswept titles coming soon: Here’s what we have in store for you: Judith E. French’s exciting MORGAN’S WOMAN and Katie Rose’s enchanting A CASE FOR ROMANCE. We’re also releasing six more fantastic books by Debra Dixon: MIDNIGHT HOUR, MOUNTAIN MYSTIC, PLAYING WITH FIRE, SLOW HANDS, HOT AS SIN, and DOC HOLIDAY. Don’t miss any of these extraordinary reads. I promise that you’ll fall in love and treasure these stories for years to come.…

  Read on for excerpts from more Loveswept titles …

  Read on for an excerpt from Ruthie Knox’s

  Ride With Me

  1

  COMPANION WANTED. TransAmerica Trail. Will start in Astoria, OR, on June 1 and wrap up in Yorktown, VA, by the end of August. Camping as much as possible, with the occasional hotel. I’m easy to get along with and am looking forward to a grand adventure! E-mail TransAmAlex@gmail.com.

  Tom wiped the chain grease off his hand and answered the shop phone. “Salem Cycles.”

  “I found you somebody,” his sister said.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “For tomorrow. I found you somebody to ride across the country with.”

  They’d had this argument months ago, when he’d first told her about his plan to bike the TransAm this summer, and he’d thought they were done with it. He should’ve known she was merely engaged in a strategic retreat.

  “Taryn—”

  “Just hear me out. I found a guy, Alex, through an Adventure Cycling ad. He’s taking the same route you want to take, and he needs somebody to ride with him. You don’t even have to talk to him if you don’t want to. He cooks, and he’ll pay half on the camping fees. How bad could it be?”

  It was when she started rummaging around in her tail bag for a new tube that she started to get a sinking feeling in her stomach. Because this wasn’t the bike she’d been planning to bring on the trip. She’d changed her mind at the eleventh hour and switched to the Salsa, which offered fewer hand positions but was more comfortable than her designated touring bike. She’d packed the tail bag weeks ago, though, which meant she’d brought the wrong size tubes. Which meant she couldn’t change the tire.

  Which meant she was going to look like a fool in front of Tom before they’d even managed to ride two miles.

  “Bad news. I, uh, I have the wrong tubes. I need two-niner tubes, and I don’t have them, so I can’t change the flat. But listen, you go ahead, and I’ll find a bike shop. And after it opens”—in three or four hours—“I’ll buy another tube and meet up with you this afternoon.”

  “Or you could patch it.”

  Another catastrophic failure of planning. Lexie hadn’t brought a patch kit. She’d carefully considered whether she needed one and had concluded that since she was going to be carrying plenty of extra tubes, it didn’t make sense to tote a patch kit as well. Also, there was the fact that she’d never patched a tire before. The whole process had always struck her as rather arcane, and she hadn’t seen any reason to bother learning how to do it. Tubes were cheap, after all.

  “I don’t know how,” she admitted, knowing he would frown and glare at her, and that he would be justified.

  He did frown and glare at her. But then he took the tube from her and started looking for the puncture.

  “I already did that.”

  He’d spared her months of fretting—and saved himself a lot of nagging. He’d have done the same thing this time, too, if she hadn’t caught him studying the TransAm maps at his kitchen table one afternoon and managed to worm the information out of him.

  Tom wasn’t about to let his sister’s irrational fears stop him from doing what he wanted to do, but given that she was his only nonestranged family member and pretty much his sole friend, he hated to make her unhappy. Taryn had stuck by him through the trial, and he owed her for that. She was probably the only reason he wasn’t living in an unheated cabin in the woods by now, composing paranoid manifestos about secret government conspiracies and mailing them off to The New York Times.

  Not that she’d managed to turn him into a ray of sunshine. There was a good reason why the guy who owned the bike shop didn’t ask Tom to work the counter unless he absolutely had to. Tom would be the first to admit his social skills were rusty, and he tended to intimidate the customers. He spent his days alone, getting paid to fix bikes and riding them for free, and that was the way he liked it. But Taryn at least made sure he went out to eat now and then, even threw the occasional date his way, and he appreciated her efforts to keep him connected to the land of the living. However tenuously.

  “Ground Control, Major Tom,” she said. “We’re having a conversation here, remember?”

  “Right.” Another hazard of being a loner—one tended to lose the knack for polite discourse. “There aren’t any dingoes to worry about on the TransAm. It’s thoroughly civilized. Paved, even.” He considered his options, then offered a concession. “I’ll call you from the road every few days if you want. But I’m not going to ride with a partner. It’s not a vacation for me if I have to talk to someone.”

  “Yeah, well, here’s the thing. I knew you were going to say that, so I didn’t exactly wait for your permission.”

  Bracing a hip against the cluttered workbench, Tom resisted the urge to stick the phone in the stand clamp and press down on the handle until the plastic handset shattered. No one was a more creative meddler than his sister, and her self-satisfied tone told him she’d concocted something extra special this time.

  “What did you do?”

  “Like I said, I found you a guy. Alex Marshall. You’ve been e-mailing him on and off since April to hash out your plan for the tour, and he’s really excited to start the ride tomorrow. In fact, he sent you a message this morning to confirm he’ll meet you on the beach in Seaside at six A.M.”

  “You set me up on a blind date with a riding buddy?”

  “Oh, I’d say you’re a little more committed than that. Alex is counting on you to go all the way with him. To Virginia, that is.” He could practically hear her winking over the phone. Taryn was pleased with herself.

  “So call it off.”

  This was absolutely not his problem. But he had the sinking feeling he was going to have to be the one to solve it.

  “No way. Alex is at a motel in Astoria as we speak, packing up his gear and getting totally stoked to meet you in the morning. I’m not going to be the one to disappoint him.”

  Ah, hell. She was going to play it like this. Now he had a picture in his head of friendly old Alex Marshall waiting on the beach in his best jersey, map at the ready, panniers all packed, hopes high, looking around for a riding partner who wasn’t going to show—unless Tom drove a hundred miles out of his way to meet him. Taryn certainly wouldn’t be coming to the rescue. Once his sister made her mind up, she was stubborn as a pit bull. She would be perfectly happy to leave Alex dangling on the beach as bait for Tom’s heroic impulses.

  He kicked the corner of the workbench with one boot-clad toe, causing a few boxed tubes to tumble to the floor.

  Taryn knew his weakness for hopeless cases. Achilles had that bum heel, and Tom had an unshakeable compulsion to champion the underdog. It never worked out for him any better than the heel had worked out for the Greek. If Tom hadn’t insisted on playing the hero, he wouldn’t have ended up testifying against his own father, destroying his family and his marriage in one disastrous blow. He’d still be a suit, rather than a guy with grease ground so deep into his fingertips it didn’t wash out.

  It’s not like he wished he could be that other person again. But it would be nice to feel as though he had choices.

  He sighed into the mouthpiece. “Why are you
always backing me into corners?”

  “It’s the only way I can make you do things my way,” she countered, sounding amused.

  “You’re such a pain in my ass.”

  “Ha! I knew it would work. You’re going to Seaside, aren’t you?”

  “Yeah,” he admitted. “And you’re going to drop me off. But I swear to you, I’m not riding with this guy all the way across the country. I’ll meet him and keep him company until we can find somebody else to be his riding partner, and then I’m taking off.”

  “You could change your mind,” she said brightly. “Maybe you’ll like him.”

  Tom already hated Alex Marshall. Six A.M., and he was standing around on a beach in Seaside waiting for the guy instead of sleeping in his own bed.

  According to Taryn, Marshall had insisted they needed to begin the ride by dipping the wheels of their bikes in the Pacific Ocean. The moron was actually going to be riding in from Astoria to ensure he didn’t miss any of the officially mapped miles. Which was particularly stupid because it was only just now getting to be light out. Alex must have left Astoria in something close to darkness. Tom hoped the guy had flashers and a headlight, at least.

  He’d just as soon have met up with Marshall at his own place in Salem. It was only a few miles off the route. What difference did skipping the first hundred miles make when the trail was more than four thousand miles long? No difference at all, except to people who were totally inflexible or inexcusably sentimental. He didn’t know which Alex was, but neither possibility inclined him to like the guy.

  It didn’t help that he was late. There was nobody on the beach this early but Tom and some woman who’d rolled up at the other end of the parking lot a few minutes ago. She was obviously about to start the TransAm herself—she had a sweet steel-frame touring bike and a trailer for her gear. Looked like she was waiting for someone, which made sense, since women tended not to ride alone.