Warrior's Embrace

by Peggy Webb

  After Jane left, Virginia called Candace, then shut herself into the bathroom for a major overhaul. In bubbles up to her bandage she fancied that she heard music, a melody that reminded her of mountains alive with birdsong and newly greening trees and spring flowers.

  She toweled her hair dry, sprayed herself with perfume that smelled like flowers in the summer sun, then put on her pink robe and shoved open the door.

  “Hello, Virginia.”

  Bolton stood in her bedroom smiling. The music was distinct now, Leonard Bernstein playing Copland’s “Appalachian Spring.” For a moment Virginia was speechless, lost in the absolute beauty of the man who had shared her bed and claimed her heart.

  “You brought the music,” she said.

  “Yes. I brought the music.”

  Bolton crossed the room in three long strides. Only when he was standing in front of her did she notice what he had in his hand, an Indian blanket, brilliantly hued in all the colors of the rainbow.

  “I’m glad you’re wearing the pink robe,” he said, draping his blanket around her shoulders. Then tenderly he lifted her into his arms. “It’s perfect.”

  “For what?”

  “For making a fresh start.”

  As he left the room and headed down the stairs, the Bernstein orchestra segued into Copland’s lusty, dashing “Fanfare for the Common Man.”

  “Where are you taking me?”

  “On a journey that has no end.”

  Music drifted around them as Bolton strode boldly through her living room, across the foyer, and out the front door. One of her white Arabians was just beyond the front porch, bridled and covered with another Apache blanket.

  Virginia didn’t even consider protesting as Bolton carefully lifted her onto the stallion then mounted in front of her. Her curiosity was aroused, and she had to find out what he was up to. But more than that, she was filled with a sense of the inevitable, of being swept along on a wave that she could no more control than she could dictate the tides of the ocean.

  “Hold on tight, Virginia. Don’t let go.”

  “I won’t.” She wrapped her arms around Bolton’s waist and leaned her head against his back. “I don’t want to ever let go,” she whispered, but her words were lost in the wind and the pounding of hooves.

  Overhead the sky was as blue as a robin’s egg, and spread out around her was her land, its hills and meadows and forests and lakes polished by the sun and strewn with the colors of autumn. Exhilaration filled Virginia. The land was solid and enduring, a continual source of strength.

  What did it matter the curves life threw her as long as she had the land? What did it matter where life took her as long as she had Bolton?

  They passed the barn and the paddocks, rounded the lake and topped a hill, and there in the distance was Bolton’s tepee, rising almost as tall as the trees around it.

  “How in the world did you get that here?”

  “Callie dismantled it and shipped it express.” He drew the Arabian to a stop and dismounted, handling Virginia as carefully as if she were breakable. “We didn’t finish what we started, and since you can’t go back to the mountain for a while, I brought the mountain to you.”

  “You’re a remarkable man.”

  “So are you—a remarkable woman.”

  He opened the blanket and stepped into its protective folds, drawing it around their shoulders so that they stood thigh to thigh, chest to chest, heart to heart.

  “I love you, Virginia Haven. I’ve loved you since the moment I saw you riding like an Apache on your white stallion.”

  She pressed closer, and he claimed her with a kiss so sweet, so tender she almost cried.

  “Bolton... there’s something I have to tell you. Something very important.”

  “Nothing is important now except this.” He carried her inside, spread the blanket on the floor of his tepee and lay down with Virginia cradled in his arms. Bending over her, he kissed her hair, her eyebrows, her nose, her cheeks. He lingered over her lips, then moved his attentions downward, caressing her throat with lips and hands. Only when he caught the sash of her robe did she remember her bandages... and the damage they hid.

  She caught the neck of her robe and held it tightly closed. He covered her hands with his.

  “I’m scarred, Bolton.”

  “The only scars that matter are the ones that damage the heart and the soul. You are whole, Virginia.”

  Suddenly Virginia realized that there would be no halfway measures with this man. If she loved him, she would have to give herself completely to him, scars and all.

  She released her hold, and Bolton spread her robe open. He touched the bandage almost reverently, and then leaned down to kiss it.

  Such love filled her that she didn’t know how one woman could contain it.

  “Do you love me, Virginia?”

  There was no hesitation in her now, only a beautiful certainty.

  “Yes, Bolton. I do.” What she had found with Bolton Gray Wolf was true love; their meeting had been no accident but destiny. Finally Virginia was free to love and to be loved as only the unencumbered can.

  “You have my heart, Virginia. Say you’ll take my name, as well.”

  The generosity and complete faith of his offer astounded her.

  “You’d marry me without knowing whether I have cancer? Without knowing whether I have one breast or two?”

  “One of the most beautiful creatures of legend has only one horn.”

  “The unicorn?”

  “Yes, the unicorn.” Bolton stroked her hair. “A creature gifted with powers of magic. Only a fool would throw away magic.”

  Virginia smiled. “Is that an answer?”

  “That’s my answer.”

  “My left breast is scarred but otherwise intact, and I don’t have cancer. Dr. Mason calls it a miracle.”

  “The Father Creator heard my prayers.”

  Bolton kissed her brow, then propped on his elbow and studied her as if she were priceless.

  “Yes, Virginia, it’s a miracle, but the greatest miracle of all is love.”

  EPILOGUE

  Virginia never tired of watching the sunset in the mountains. She swiveled her chair toward the window so she could see the sky change from blue to rose and gold then fade to a dusky pink that gave way to deep purple. Only when the shadows lay across the mountains did she turn back to her computer.

  She typed the last word of the last sentence in the last chapter of her latest novel, and then she typed the dedication.

  “To my beloved, whose love defines my minutes, my hours, my days, my years.”

  As soon as Bolton entered the room, all her attention was focused on him. His cameras were slung around his neck, and his dog Bear followed at his heels. He wrapped his arms around her from behind the chair and rested his chin on her hair as he read over her shoulder.

  “Is this beloved someone I should know about?” he said, teasing her.

  “Maybe. He stole my heart two years ago, and I’ve dedicated every one of my novels to him.”

  “He’s important to you, is he?”

  “He’s my life, my love, my heart.”

  Laughing, he picked her up and carried her outside.

  “What do you see?” he asked.

  “A barn. Horses. Trees. Pasture. A mountain.”

  “What else?”

  “You.” She ruffled his hair and kissed his lips.

  “What else?”

  She wrinkled her brow then glanced upward. “A sliver of a moon and the first pale stars of evening.”

  “Anything else?”

  “No...”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Bolton... what is all this mystery?”

  He set her on her feet and draped his left arm over her shoulder. Then with his right he pointed to the clearing beyond the first ridge of the mountains.

  “I see a house, one large enough for at least a dozen people. I see a basketball court and a swimming pool surrounded
by a running track. I see flower gardens and pets and a kind older couple with enough love in their hearts to spare for battered and abused kids.” He paused, smiling down at her. “I see a place called Safe Haven.”

  He grabbed her hand and raced back toward their house. Inside, he pulled a blueprint out of his back pocket and spread it across the coffee table. Safe Haven was printed in large blue letters at the top, and beneath was the architect’s concept of a spacious home that would shelter the children society forgot, teenagers in trouble at home, children whose parents had no jobs and no way to care for them, children battered and bruised with no place to go.

  “Just think,” Bolton said. “We can see those kids two or three times a week, teach them to play ball, to fish, to read good books, to care for the environment, to love and appreciate nature. What do you think, Virginia?”

  She cupped his face, pulled him close, and kissed him.

  “I think the same thing I thought when I first met you. You are remarkable, and I am the luckiest person in the world.”

  “The same right back at you, Mrs. Gray Wolf.”

  -The End-

  THE SECRET LIFE

  OF

  ELIZABETH MCCADE

  PEGGY WEBB

  This book is dedicated to Governor Bill Anoatubby, his wonderful staff, and all the proud people of the Chickasaw Nation.

  Author’s Note:

  Before the Treaty of Pontotoc in 1832, Mississippi was one of the homelands of the Chickasaw Nation. After that treaty and the subsequent Treaty of Doaksville in 1837, the Chickasaw Nation relocated to Oklahoma. The present seat of tribal government is Ada, Oklahoma. For purposes of this story, I have taken literary license with history and left this proud nation in its Mississippi homeland.

  I gratefully acknowledge the help of Governor Bill Anoatubby and his staff in providing a history of the Chickasaw Nation. All characterizations, incidents and history are used fictitiously.

  Prologue

  Black Hawk stood high on the ridge overlooking Tombigbee Bluff. The lights of the city beamed into the night, and on the outskirts of town, Tombigbee Forest was so silent, it appeared to be sleeping. Not a breeze stirred, not a sound gave away nature’s creatures, busy with their nocturnal errands. It might have been any other summer night in Mississippi.

  Black Hawk knew better. Straining his eyes into the darkness, he saw the silent line of Chickasaws, his people, ringing the forest three deep, keeping watch over their ancestral lands. When morning came, the Chickasaws would be facing a line of equally determined politicians and developers of Tombigbee Bluff, intent upon turning a portion of tribal land into a shopping mall.

  His people had held the barricade for two months, deadlocked with the city fathers. Tempers were high, and patience was running thin. Isolated incidents of violence destroyed a chance of a peaceful settlement. Blood had already been shed... and there would be more.

  Black Hawk left the ridge. His watch was over. It was time to go back through the forest and beyond the vast reaches of the Chickasaw tribal lands to his ranch. His stallion waited for him at the foot of the ridge.

  He vaulted onto the horse’s back and set a swift course toward home. When he reached the clearing that bordered his ranch he drew his horse to a stop. Black Hawk inhaled the subtle fragrances of the land, the rich, black earth, the scent of pine, the sweetness of honeysuckle. Suddenly he stiffened. There was another smell in the air, a smell that didn’t belong there—smoke.

  Digging his heels into the stallion’s sides, he galloped toward his house. Sirens wailed in the distance.

  Racing now, he rounded a copse of trees and saw his house blanketed in flames. Emergency vehicles ringed his yard, red lights blinking.

  Black Hawk drew his stallion to a standstill and studied the scene. Last week his car had been firebombed, and this week his house. The enemy wanted Black Hawk dead.

  Flames leaped toward the sky, crackling with a voice of evil intent. He urged his horse forward, stopping only when he was even with Sheriff Wayne Blodgett’s car. The sheriff got out and came slowly toward Black Hawk, huffing under an excess of fifty pounds and wiping sweat from his face.

  “It’s hotter than a witch’s caldron out here tonight,” he said, moving the handkerchief around his beefy neck and into the collar of his chambray shirt. When he reached Black Hawk, he caught the stallion’s bridle. “Good evenin’, Blackie.”

  “Is it?” Black Hawk stared at his house. Nothing would be saved: It was too late.

  “I’m sorry. You know that.” Wayne wiped at his face once more. “It’s that thing with the mall developers. They’re after your blood.”

  “Why?”

  “You know why. You’re the leader of the resistance. If it hadn’t been for you, this whole thing would have been over six weeks ago.”

  “And a vast section of trees would be destroyed to make way for another ugly concrete mall—the white man’s monument to civilization.” Black Hawk dismounted, then bent down and picked up a piece of charred debris that had separated from the burning mass of his house. Clutching the board in his hand, he stood up, facing his friend.

  “I’ll die before I’ll give up one tree on my ancestral lands.”

  Sheriff Blodgett swore until his face was only a shade lighter than the fire that roared in the background. Then he put his hand on Black Hawk’s shoulder.

  “That’s exactly what they want, Blackie: They want you dead.” Black Hawk was silent, watching his friend with eyes as dark as the night sky. Wayne pulled a piece of paper from his pocket. It was torn and dingy. “Read this.”

  Black Hawk held the paper up to catch the light from the flames. “You’re next, Indian. Pull that renegade band of yours back from the forest or you die.”

  “Where did you get this?”

  Wayne spat onto the ground. “Found it stuck with an arrow in that oak tree over yonder.”

  “I won’t be intimidated.” Black Hawk handed the paper back to the sheriff. “Check that out. Work with the Tombigbee Bluff police—if they aren’t already in the pockets of the developers.”

  “I want you to get out of town, Blackie. Lay low for a while.”

  “No. I stay.”

  “There’s been enough violence.

  “Nobody has been killed. It won’t come to that. The developers won’t go that far.”

  “I don’t know that and neither do you.” Wayne stuffed the paper into his back pocket. “I can’t protect you. Black Hawk. I don’t have the resources.”

  “I’ll protect myself.” He clapped his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “We’ve offered to negotiate with the city and the developers for a peaceful settlement. This will all be over soon.”

  “I hope you’re right, Blackie... or else somebody is liable to get killed.”

  “You worry too much, old friend.”

  Black Hawk’s foreman and all the ranch hands, drawn out of bed by the commotion, joined the vigil beside the blaze. The fire fight continued into the night, and at last only Black Hawk and Wayne were left beside the rubble that had once been a home.

  “Come home with me tonight, Blackie. Jane will be glad to have you, and you know how the kids feel about you. They think you’re a hero.”

  “Thanks, friend, but I’ll stay here. Somebody might come back to see how well they did their job.”

  “Be careful.”

  Wayne’s parting warning was still echoing in Black Hawk’s mind when he got a saddle blanket from the barn and spread his bed under the stars. Being careful was not his style. Boldness and passion ruled Black Hawk, ruled him to the extent that his family and all his friends declared he was a ticking time bomb waiting to explode.

  Let the enemy come. He was ready.

  The enemy came out of the night. Black Hawk lay flat on the ground, hidden by a scrub of pines, waiting and smiling. He had heard their approach fifteen minutes earlier. They were about as stealthy as a herd of runaway buffalo.

  The men filed into the clearin
g. There were ten of them, all milling around his burned-out house, looking for signs of him. Black Hawk recognized four of them; they were the most belligerent of the mall supporters, the troublemakers, the ones always ready to fight rather than to talk.

  He was more than ready to talk; he was eager. He wanted answers. He rose from his spying place with the intention of joining the enemy, when he spotted the glint of a gun barrel. He froze, studying the situation. Walter Martin, standing on the fringe of the crowd, was holding a Winchester rifle. One man with a gun could incite an unarmed mob to riot. It would be ten against one. Though walking away was not his style, Black Hawk had no intention of starting a war—or of being an easy target.

  He raced toward the wood, going away from his men and his property, his moccasins silent on the spongy forest floor. He’d been running only a few minutes when he heard the mob thrashing along behind him.

  “We’ll never catch him if we don’t spread out,” one of them yelled.

  Black Hawk stripped his shirt off and left it on a bush to confuse them.

  Behind him, he heard the commotion as the mob tried to figure out which way he had gone. Black Hawk followed a small stream north until it forked, racing into the night.

  Suddenly there was a yell from the thicket on Black Hawk’s right.

  “I got him.”

  He felt the sting as a bullet pierced his right arm. Black Hawk hunched low, clutching his arm. He could shoot well enough to part a man’s hair without harming his scalp, even with the blood warm on his own skin. But he didn’t want to resort to their brand of negotiation. If he couldn’t scare his enemies out of the woods, he would wait them out.

  Taking his knife, he cut through the thicket of vines and brambles. All at once, the earth opened up and swallowed him. He rolled himself into a ball, tumbling downward for a small eternity. Jutting stones and sharp roots pierced him.

  He was still conscious when he landed. The yelling of the mob seemed to come from a long way off.