CASSIE EDWARDS,
AUTHOR OF THE SAVAGE SERIES
Winner of the Romantic Times
Lifetime Achievement Award for Best Indian Series
“Cassie Edwards writes action-packed, sexy reads!
Romance fans will be more than satisfied!”
—Romantic Times
* * *
DESTINY
“I do not like that word ‘hostage,’ or ‘captive,’” High Hawk said. “It is not my habit to take either. And I do not see you as my captive. You are with me for a specific reason. The moon’s glow showed me to you. Destiny made it so.”
“A specific reason?” Joylynn gasped out. “Destiny? The moon showed me to you? What sort of nonsense is all of that? You heard my horse and came for it, to steal it, and then could not pass up the opportunity to take a woman to your lodge with you to do . . . to . . . do whatever you plan to do with me.”
“Plan to do with you?” High Hawk said softly. He reached a hand out for her, to touch her face, only to have her slap it away. “In time you will understand why I had to find you and bring you to be among my people.”
“I will never understand why you abducted me,” Joylynn cried. “It is wrong. All of what you have done tonight is wrong.”
Other books by Cassie Edwards:
TOUCH THE WILD WIND
ROSES AFTER RAIN
WHEN PASSION CALLS
EDEN’S PROMISE
ISLAND RAPTURE
SECRETS OF MY HEART
The Savage Series:
SAVAGE BELOVED
SAVAGE ARROW
SAVAGE VISION
SAVAGE COURAGE
SAVAGE HOPE
SAVAGE TRUST
SAVAGE HERO
SAVAGE DESTINY
SAVAGE LOVE
SAVAGE MOON
SAVAGE HONOR
SAVAGE THUNDER
SAVAGE DEVOTION
SAVAGE GRACE
SAVAGE FIRES
SAVAGE JOY
SAVAGE WONDER
SAVAGE HEAT
SAVAGE DANCE
SAVAGE TEARS
SAVAGE LONGINGS
SAVAGE DREAM
SAVAGE BLISS
SAVAGE WHISPERS
SAVAGE SHADOWS
SAVAGE SPLENDOR
SAVAGE EDEN
SAVAGE SURRENDER
SAVAGE PASSIONS
SAVAGE SECRETS
SAVAGE PRIDE
SAVAGE SPIRIT
SAVAGE EMBERS
SAVAGE ILLUSION
SAVAGE SUNRISE
SAVAGE MISTS
SAVAGE PROMISE
SAVAGE PERSUASION
CASSIE
EDWARDS
SAVAGE TEMPEST
DORCHESTER PUBLISHING
Published by
Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.
200 Madison Avenue
New York, NY 10016
Copyright © 2006 by Cassie Edwards
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Trade ISBN: 978-1-4285-1805-6
E-book ISBN: 978-1-4285-0409-7
First Dorchester Publishing, Co., Inc. edition: October 2006
The “DP” logo is the property of Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.
Printed in the United States of America.
Visit us online at www.dorchesterpub.com.
Contents
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
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
I lovingly dedicate Savage Tempest
to a darling friend, Joylynn Pratt, who is no longer
with us, but who will be remembered forever in this book,
whose heroine is named after Joylynn. Before God took her
away, Joylynn was aware of her name being used in
Savage Tempest, and that the book would be,
in part, dedicated to her.
I also include some other special people in this dedication:
Bob and Kay Ostermiller of Colorado, and also Sandy
Harkcom, who was Joylynn’s loving caretaker.
My soul whispers softly,
A heart cries out loud.
Do you hear it?
Is it not loud enough?
A spirit abandoned,
A soul betrayed.
My soul whispers softly,
Our past but blood in the earth.
The only drums, my heart pounding
in my chest.
The only pride, that which is hidden
deep beneath my breast.
My heritage, I will never lay to rest.
—Mordestia York,
poet, fan, and friend
CHAPTER ONE
Nebraska Territory—August l86l
Westward, the horizon swallowed the sun, belching red skyward, turning everything in its path a lovely violet color. A village of one hundred tepees sat in a horseshoe shape beside a winding river, everything peaceful at this early evening hour. The children ran and played, sending laughter into the air. The elderly men of this Wolf band of Pawnee sat around a huge outdoor fire, smoking their long, feathered pipes. The women were cleaning up after the evening meal, some taking their baskets of wooden dishes to the river, some washing their dinnerware in small wooden basins in the privacy of their lodges.
High Hawk, a young warrior of twenty-six winters and son of the band’s chief, Rising Moon, sat with his father. Beside the lodge of his ahte were thick, rich pelts where they could rest comfortably. They were talking of serious matters, man to man, while High Hawk’s ina, his mother, was at the river with the other women.
Although it was August, the evenings had a coolness to them, and a soft wind stirred the entrance flap behind High Hawk.
“High Hawk, again I remind you that you are the last of the bloodline of our family who can be chief, until you yourself have a son,” Chief Rising Moon said. He rested the bowl of his pipe on his bare knee, smoke spiraling in tiny wisps from it. “Your brother, Sleeping Wolf, who is three winters older than you, can never be chief. He is crippled and cannot even fire an arrow from a bowstring.”
Rising Moon placed the stem of the pipe between his teeth and, sucking on it, br
ought the rich aroma of the tobacco into his mouth and down his throat, gazing with proud admiration at his younger son.
While Rising Moon wore beaded moccasins and a warm buffalo robe decorated with colorful quills, his son, who could bear the changing temperatures better, wore only a brief breechclout and moccasins.
Rising Moon wore a lone eagle feather secured in a loop of his raven-black hair that hung down at the right side, as did his son.
When Rising Moon too was stripped down to only a breechclout, it was scarcely evident that the older man had once been as muscled as his young son. Now his chest caved in, and the skin was wrinkled across it.
It was not only the muscles of his son’s young body that attracted women to High Hawk, but also the sculpted features of his face. He was admired as a noted hunter and warrior, an energetic young man who would one day work as tirelessly for the good of the Wolf band as his chieftain father.
Thus far High Hawk had ignored such attention from women, for he had not yet found a maiden who made his heart pound inside his chest, as Rising Moon’s had when he had first laid eyes on his wife of thirty winters, Blanket Woman.
It was Rising Moon’s deep desire that this son would find a woman soon, for as old age now claimed Rising Moon, he was afraid he might never see his grandchildren. He longed for a grandson whom he could teach—how to shoot an arrow, how to ride a pony. When a son was born to his second-born, Rising Moon did not plan to be chief any longer. He would pass that responsibility on to High Hawk. The new chief’s duties would take him from his son, leaving the boy in the care of his grandfather to learn things only a man could teach him, as it had been when Rising Moon had first had a son.
Rising Moon’s ahte had tried hard to teach Rising Moon’s first-born, Sleeping Wolf, the skills of a young brave, but to his sorrow he learned that Sleeping Wolf would never be able to do anything that normal young braves did. He had been born with his affliction.
High Hawk, on the other hand, had been born with a straight back and was a quick learner. Rising Moon had been determined that his second son would be everything his first son was not.
And, ah, how High Hawk had brought pride into the heart of his chieftain father.
But Rising Moon loved his first-born no less, for it was not Sleeping Wolf’s fault that he came from his mother’s womb with a twisted back.
Even now, as Sleeping Wolf walked in the moccasins of an adult, he could not ride a horse or even hold a bow straight, much less fire an arrow from its string.
But even so, this son was loved as much as the second-born, and was shown that love in every way that a father and mother could demonstrate it.
“Ahte, your mind seems to have drifted from what you were saying about my being the last of our family’s bloodline,” High Hawk said. He studied his father’s expression as it changed quickly from contemplative to serious.
“Ho, yes, my mind wandered, as it is prone to do too often of late,” Rising Moon said. “That is proof, in itself, why your attentiveness to what I say this evening is important.”
“What do you want of me that brings such seriousness into our conversation?” High Hawk asked, searching his father’s eyes. Those midnight-black eyes had faded as his age progressed, something that seemed to be happening much too quickly of late.
It sorely pained High Hawk to think of the topics they were discussing, yet he understood why they must be broached. Because of his father’s age and inability to think as clearly as before, it was time for such talks.
And it was also time for High Hawk to get serious about finding a woman for himself. He would be chief one day soon, and the chief of the Wolf band should have a wife and son to share the honor with him.
Thus far, High Hawk had paid little heed to the maidens of the nearby villages. They had given him special notice with flirting smiles and presents of beautifully beaded moccasins, and other things women made as they sat beside their lodge fires. Perhaps some even dreamed of being the one chosen to be the wife of the young and virile Pawnee chief.
These women, who came with their parents from other bands of Pawnee to have council, would make good wives for him. It was not the custom to marry someone of his own Wolf band.
Yet he had yet to see any woman who fit his idea of an ideal wife.
But he must stop being so particular.
“My son, since your duties as chief await you when I choose to step down, you do not have much time left to prove to the people of our Wolf band that you are worthy of being chief,” Rising Moon said solemnly. “Ho, although I am almost certain that everyone already sees you as our next chief, it is up to you to give them more reasons to want you as leader.”
“And what do you ask of me that will please our people?” High Hawk asked, his spine stiff. “What more can I do beyond what I have already proudly achieved?”
“You have proven yourself, time and again. You are worthy of being our people’s leader,” Rising Moon said. “But I would feel more confident about the matter if you were to prove it one more time by taking on the challenges I ask of you now. I would prefer that there is no doubt whatsoever in our people’s minds and hearts about you when the time comes for you to step into my moccasins as chief.”
Rising Moon leaned closer to High Hawk and gazed into his eyes. “My son, there are two things I ask of you tonight,” he said solemnly.
“And what are these two things?” High Hawk asked. “What would you have me do?”
“Go. Steal horses. Steal enough to impress our people, and . . .” Rising Moon paused.
“And?” High Hawk prompted, lifting an eyebrow at his father’s suggestion that he steal more horses. High Hawk already had more than enough from his many raids on their enemy, the Sioux. “What else, Ahte, would you have me do?”
His father’s gaze wavered, and he took several puffs from his pipe, then rested the bowl again on his knee.
Yet still he seemed uncomfortable about what he wanted to say.
High Hawk scarcely breathed as he continued to wait. If his ahte was so hesitant to name this new challenge, then surely it would be something that would make High Hawk even more uncomfortable in the doing.
“My son, the pride of my life, this thing I ask of you is very important,” Rising Moon said, his voice tight. “Although it will be something I know you will not want to do, it must be done.”
He leaned even closer to High Hawk and looked more intently into his eyes. “Do you understand?” he asked.
“Ahte, please just say it,” High Hawk replied, trying to hide his mounting frustration from his father. “Then I can make my own decision about the importance of what you want of me.”
“You must abduct a white woman,” Rising Moon said all at once, causing High Hawk to flinch as though he had been shot.
Rising Moon eased slowly away from High Hawk, yet his eyes remained fixed on his son’s.
“Abduct . . . a . . . white . . . woman?” High Hawk gasped, the words sounding unreal as they came from his mouth. Never had white captives been brought into this village of Pawnee.
That his ahte could even ask such a thing of High Hawk was shocking; he could not envision himself ever carrying out this command.
“Ho, a white woman,” Rising Moon said. He laid his pipe on the piece of soft white doeskin that he used as a wrapping for it. “There are two reasons for the abduction. It is not only to show our people that you are capable of meeting any challenge you might face as chief, but also so that this white woman cannot bear sons who will only grow up to kill red men and women. And I remind you, my son, that many of our own women have been abducted by whites. Stealing a white woman will be an act of vengeance against those who do not think twice about the cruelties they visit upon people of red skin.”
Still stunned by what his father asked of him, High Hawk was not sure what to say. He had always obeyed his father’s wishes.
But . . . this?
No. It seemed neither right nor logical.
“Ahte, horse stealing is a simple enough challenge, for I am well known for my skills and cunning,” High Hawk said. “I agree to add more horses to my corral. But . . . I . . . cannot agree to abduct a woman. It does not seem an honorable thing to do. A mere woman taken by such a strong man as I? What challenge is there in that?”
Rising Moon’s eyes narrowed angrily. He leaned closer again to High Hawk and again gazed into his eyes. “Is this son of mine challenging his ahte, and worse, challenging his chief?” he growled out. “Would you truly rather choose to disobey your chief than abduct the woman?
High Hawk had rarely seen his father so angry with him. For a moment, he was again at a loss for words. But to show that he would stand up for what he believed, High Hawk held his chin high as he challenged his father with his eyes.
“And after she is abducted?” he asked, not allowing his father to win this battle.
“What do you mean?” Rising Moon demanded. He leaned slowly away from his son. He was taken aback that he had actually shown anger toward High Hawk for the first time in their lives.
This, too, proved that it was time for Rising Moon to step down as chief, for it was not normal for him to get angry at High Hawk for any reason. They had always talked through any disagreement with civil tongues and love in their hearts.
Yet despite his dismay at the turn the discussion had taken, Rising Moon would not change his command.
“Our Pawnee women will resent a white woman’s presence,” High Hawk said, hating to seem disobedient to the father he had admired and loved since he was a small child. “You know that if a white woman is here, she will have to work alongside our women, for the more hands there are to plant and harvest and bring in wood and water, the better it will be for all our people.”
“My son, do not concern yourself about what our women might think or do,” Rising Moon said tightly. “Only worry about what your chieftain asks of you tonight. Abduct a white woman and steal more horses. Then you will have passed the final test . . . you will have proven yourself worthy of being chief after your ahte.”
Realizing that nothing he might say would change his father’s mind about this particular challenge, High Hawk knew he had no choice but to abduct a white woman. If he did not, he might lose his father’s respect, possibly even his love.
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