by Sharon Ihle
Recipient of Romantic Times’ Best Western Historical Romance (for The Law And Miss Penny) and Bookrak’s Best Selling Author Award (for The Bride Wore Spurs) and nominee for Romantic Times Career Achievement in Love and Laughter, as well as several other Reviewer’s Choice Award Nominations.
RIVER SONG- Nominee, Best First Indian Historical Romance, Romantic Times.
Copyright © 1991 by Sharon J. Ihle. All rights reserved. With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the author.
First published by the Berkley Publishing Group, a Diamond Book published by arrangement with the author.
Other Electronic Books by Sharon Ihle
The Bride Wore Spurs
Maggie’s Wish
Spellbound
Marrying Miss Shylo
Untamed
The Law & Miss Penny
Wildcat
Tempting Miss Prissy
Gypsy Jewel
Wild Rose
The Marrying Kind
Dakota Dream
River Song
E-Books available for download at:
http://www.backlistebooks.com/?author=52&submit=view
Dedication:
To: Marge Campbell and the Thursday group: Audrey Austin, Helen Barkdoll, Maureen Brown, Marilyn Forstot, Kate Higuera, Juanita Kline, Diana Saenger, Jan Toom, and Billie Wade— for the encouragement, the honesty, and most of all, the friendship
AND
Ruby Brucker, with love and many thanks.
River Song
Sharon Ihle
PROLOGUE
Arizona City—1866
She kept her silence.
In the way of her ancestors, the Indians of the Quechan nation, Moonstar suffered the agonies of childbirth with a stoic heart. But unlike other Quechan women, she suffered alone.
Droplets of sweat began to pour down her bronzed cheeks and blazed a path across her heaving breasts. She arched her back as the final stages of labor tore through her exhausted body and struggled to bring forth her third child.
During a precious moment of calm, that coveted segment of time she likened to the stillness just before a sudden storm, Moonstar glanced out through the door of the hut. She cast lusterless black eyes on her two young sons as they drew stick people in the sun-baked earth of their desert home and noted how waves of heat distorted their images. Early April, and already the sun was high and relentless. It would be a very long and dry summer.
Another, stronger contraction pulled her up on the straw mattress into a sitting position. Soon it will be over, Moonstar thought. Soon there will be another child brought into this strange world of many cultures, a child who will belong to none of them. The most powerful contraction yet obliterated all thought, and she focused her energy on the emergence of her newest child.
When it was finally over, after Moonstar had severed the cord and disposed of the afterbirth in a crockery bowl—all things an Indian midwife would have done for her had she remained a true Quechan—she wiped the baby clean and placed it at her breast. Then, exhausted, she beckoned her husband with a high, thin wail. "Patrick?"
The restless father burst into the hut, too concerned about his wife to inquire about the child first. "Are ye having a wee bit of trouble, Star? Shall I try to find ye some help?"
The dusky-skinned woman shook her head and pushed a length of damp hair off her broad cheekbone. "We're healthy, my husband. See what I have brought you this time." Moonstar opened the blanket to reveal a plump, raven-haired daughter.
"For the love of sweet Jesus," the ruddy Irishman proclaimed, "I finally got me a flower to bloom amongst the cactus."
This brought a warm smile and a sudden vision to the new mother. She looked back out the doorway, past the saucer-eyed stares of her sons as they peered into the hut, and let her gaze linger on her favorite crop. This daughter would bloom under the desert sun, open her petals, and sprinkle the earth with the seeds of her multifaceted heritage.
Her smile more serene now, she said, "You have your Mike and Sean, my husband. I wish to name this child Sunflower."
"Sunflower Callahan?" Patrick Callahan's booming laughter threatened to crack the mud cementing his pole and brush home. "Now there be a name to keep the little dickens on her toes."
CHAPTER ONE
Yuma, Arizona—1886
Sunny dipped her small, tapered fingers into the cool spring water and painted her copper-colored arms with its moisture. This was her spot, a secret place in this arid land where vegetation grew without soil, where soil lay barren.
And she waited. Hoped, in the way of her mother's ancestors, for a vision, that elusive dream showing her the path she would follow in the next phase of her young life. But it didn't come, wouldn't come. Had that part of her heritage been left in her mother's womb, the void filled by a healthy dose of her father's blarney?
Sunny chuckled at the thought, then craned her neck until the heavy mass of her waist-length hair fell into the pond. After squeezing the excess water from her tresses, she flipped the long coal-black strands across her shoulders and sighed as the coolness penetrated her checkered shirt.
Patrick Callahan wouldn't approve of his daughter's attire. She could hear him bark in his faint Irish brogue that his little Sunflower didn't belong in her brother's shirt, breeches, and wide-brimmed hat. Guessed he would take a mesquite shillelagh to her backside if he knew of this place, this strange oasis of cool spring water shaped by one lone palm tree in an area surrounded by nothing but sand and cactus. But then, he wouldn't have permitted her to ride off in search of a vision, either.
Moonstar understood her need. She had encouraged Sunny's journey to the secret spot shortly after Patrick and his eldest son Sean left on yet another search for an undiscovered vein of gold in La Paz. Her mother knew she hoped for a vision, some sign at least, to tell her in which world she belonged or what the future might hold. Of course, one had to be in a trance or asleep in order to have a vision. Sunny had never been able to accomplish the former, and the latter only served to confuse her further. Her dreams, when they came at all, were always cloudy and obscure, filled with a hunger she didn't understand.
She regarded the copper hue of her skin, a creamy blend of her mother's berry-brown and her father's ruddy pink. She was neither red nor white, Indian or Irish. A half-breed, she thought with a shudder, remembering the ugly snarls of those who would call her by that name. What would become of her if she didn't have that vision soon? Moonstar said the marriage time was upon her, that she must choose a husband. How could she when she couldn't even embrace a culture to fit her needs?
"A husband," she muttered through a bitter laugh. "Now there be a kettle full of malarkey."
Sunny checked the position of the sun, noting the late hour, and picked up her moccasins. She would have to search for this vision another day. She peered inside each leather shoe then shook them, making sure an enterprising scorpion hadn't used one as a refuge from the sun. What would she do with a husband even if she found one, Sunny wondered as she covered her bare feet. She could fish, hunt, and shoot as well as her brothers. Her father, hell-bent on education, had taught all his children to read and write from an early age. What could a husband do for her that she couldn't do herself?
That mating thing, Sunny remembered as she dusted off her breeches and launched her agile body onto the back of her pony, Paddy. She'd observed breeding practices among the desert creatures near her home and at neighboring cattle ranches on several occasions, and had no intentions of allowing some man to spend ten seconds slamming against her soft body. Her vision, when it came, would show her something far better—something that wouldn't include marriage or men.
After tucking the bulk of her raven hair up inside the hat, Sunny leaned forward, pressing her thighs and heels into the pony's rounded sides, and urged him into a slow gallop. Her course back toward Yuma zig-zagged throughout the rocky, sandy terrain as she sought the less-populated trails and kept one eye out for outcast warriors or lone drovers. An unescorted woman in these parts, especially a lowly half- breed, would make a tasty morsel for many a lonely man, regardless of his lineage.
An hour later she reached the Callahan farm situated near the green ribbon-like banks of the Colorado River. She slowed Paddy to an easy trot, then abruptly reined him in as her senses warned her all was not right. It was too quiet. There was no beckoning aroma of corn flour cakes roasting in her mother's new cook stove, and no movement of any kind, not even the whisper of an early evening breeze.
Then a sudden movement from overhead caught her attention. Sunny jerked her chin up and scanned the heavens. A sense of foreboding twisted in her gut when she spotted several turkey buzzards circling the farm in their eerie, ghostlike spiral down towards her home.
Suppressing the strong urge to call out her mother's name, she slipped off Paddy's comfortable back and quietly inched her way towards the adobe brick dwelling. Skirting the creaky wood porch, Sunny crept silently to the side window and stole a quick glimpse inside. The scene turned her veins to ice.
Sunny dropped to the ground and slapped her hand across her mouth. Her throat convulsed, but she managed to keep her silence.
Trembling with shock, her eyes focusing through tears, Sunny forced her shaking hands and knees to move in a soundless crawl around to the back of the house. Then she gave up the remnants of her midday snack to the sandy earth.
Where was her brother Mike? And what of the animals who'd ravaged and bloodied her beautiful mother's body? Did they hide in her home, awaiting her arrival, still hungry for Quechan blood? Or had they done their murderous deed, then ridden off in directions unknown?
Taking great gulps of hot dry air, Sunny stood up, straightened her strong shoulders, and crept around to the front of the house. She kicked in the door, then stood back listening for sounds of reaction. When there were none, she cautiously entered her desecrated home and quickly checked the two bedrooms and curtained closets and pantry.
Satisfied she was alone, Sunny hurried to where her mother lay and sank to her knees beside her. So much blood, she thought, reaching a tentative hand toward her.Too much blood.
"Mother?" she choked out in a feeble voice. "Oh, please, please be alive."
But Sunny knew she couldn't be. Not with all that blood. Grief swelled in her breast, crowding her heart, and fingers of pain seized her windpipe as she gathered her mother into her arms. "Oh,kw'ailee, my mother,quoann kn'aait," she cried, pressing Moonstar's brown face to her breast. "Oh, God and please allow the Seven Saints of Ireland to accompany her on her journey into heaven."
Later—it might have been hours or minutes, but in her aggrieved state Sunny couldn't be sure—she finally stopped rocking her mother's bruised body and ceased wailing bits of Quechan chants mingled with Irish prayers. Her features, painted with tears, were wooden and filled with hatred.
Rising from the plank floor, Sunny surveyed the scene with cold calculation. The Irish twinkle in her midnight-blue eyes dimmed, fading like the last sparks of a campfire as she put the pieces together. Although she was unfamiliar with the mating act, the raised skirt, grotesque angle of her mother's legs, and pool of blood beneath her exposed buttocks, told Sunny the intruder had violated her mother in the worst possible way.
Another crimson stain spread beneath Moonstar's shoulders from the bullet that had pierced her loving heart. Sunny prayed it had entered her mother before the man, then spotted another trail of blood. But this life's fluid did not connect in any way with her mother's.
Then Sunny saw the reason why. Near Moonstar's body lay her favorite carving knife. The shiny blade was mottled with drying reddish-brown flakes. For the first time since she'd ridden away from her secret spot, a tiny smile flickered at the corners of Sunflower's rosy mouth. Her mother had managed to gain some measure of revenge against her attackers before she'd been given up to the heavens.
Sunny followed the trail toward the doorway, and by the time she reached the porch, the stains had become clear enough to identify. Her mother's killer wore a bloody boot on his right foot, which left a perfect outline of the heel with each step he took. He was bleeding badly, she surmised— probably from a large gash in his calf muscle, or even across his thigh. She crossed the steps and examined the dusty ground, confirming her first suspicions. Her mother's visitors were white men. And there were two of them.
The murderer's mounts wore horseshoes, something of a rarity among the inhabitants along the Colorado River. Indians didn't shoe their horses, and neither did most farmers in this region. The intruders were probably miners, ranchers, or maybe outlaws. She shaded her blue eyes from the afternoon sun and followed the impressions as far as she could. The men had ridden south toward Yuma, and hard.
How could this have happened? Sunny's heart cried out. Where had her oldest brother been during the vicious attack on their mother? In town selling Moonstar's carefully woven blankets? On the reservation visiting the comely daughter of the tribe's shaman? The sudden rustle of the turkey buzzards' great flapping wings and screeching provided Sunny with a clue.
"Mike?" she called with a sliver of hope. But when she turned her gaze on the young crop of corn and spotted the depression amongst the budding green stalks and a glimpse of blue plaid, Sunny gasped. Heartsick, she hurried through the flooded field and collapsed in the mud at her brother's side. Robbed of life's shining luster, Michael Callahan's ebony eyes stared towards the heavens as hard lumps of charcoal.
"No," Sunflower cried, throwing her arms and head across Mike's rigid chest. "It can not be. This can not be true."
But it was.
She slumped in despair. After the final bitter tear burned its way across her dusky cheek, when hatred's acid began to eat away at the hurt, Sunny lifted her head and turned eyes as cold as death on the landscape.
Her father and remaining brother, Sean, were busy navigating the upstream waters of the Colorado to the northwest. The animals who'd murdered half her family had ridden southeast.
In which direction should she travel? North, fighting the current, fending off the lonely miners she was bound to encounter as she searched for what was left of her family? Or south, tracking and identifying the killers? Sunny glanced down at Mike, then towards the farmhouse. Her first priority had to be the building of a funeral pyre.
Maybe then, as she stared into the flames and smoke that would carry her fallen family's souls to their reward, she would finally have that elusive dream. A vision would tell her in which direction to travel.
Several miles to the northeast, near the Gila River, Cole Fremont leaned back against his saddle and positioned his bedroll in the hollow at the back of his neck. With a grimace that spread his mustache beyond the width of his jaws, he raised his injured leg and propped his boot heel on the stump of a dead mesquite tree.
After carefully rolling a cigarette, Cole lit it in the campfire and regarded the rabbit roasting on the makeshift spit. He glanced at the dimming sky, drawing a deep breath of tobacco.
"Dammit all, anyway," he complained. His injured leg would have him eating in the dark and had rendered him nearly incapable of hunting for his own supper this evening. Maybe by tomorrow the pain would ease enough for him to get around in his usual fashion.
He sat listening to the cry of a lone coyote and pondered his future, Arizona's future, and the many reasons for his long trek to Yuma. He had finally sold his last herd of cattle on behalf of the family ranch. From now on, Cole would center his thoughts and actions on his ideas for the future, not on his father's. Grinning broadly through his thick mustache, he reflected on the new direction he'd taken, and the order he'd placed for his unusual livestock. He laughed
thinking about the bizarre creatures, and as he did, several other coyotes joined the first, creating a musical celebration of the night's kill. Then he heard something else.
Cole sat straight up and pulled his rifle from the nearby gun boot, listening. Somewhere, off to the left behind a stand of mesquite and palo verde trees, something or someone crept in the darkness. Ignoring a fresh stab of pain in his right calf, Cole quietly got to his feet and circled down further into the arroyo. Then he began the return journey.
Halfway back to his camp, Cole's hunting instincts were rewarded with a glimpse of a shadowy figure just ahead. As he watched, the figure moved toward his fire with great stealth, stole through the night like an Indian. One of Geronimo's small band of dissidents?
Adept as any savage in moving through thorny bushes and cactus without a sound, Cole advanced on the intruder and caught up with him as he squatted at the edge of the empty campsite.
Pointing the barrel of his Winchester at the back of the wide-brimmed hat, Cole cocked the lever.
"Hands up, mister, and be quick about it."
With a gasp, Sunny instinctively leapt forward and slithered across the sand like a sidewinder.
"Stop, you little bastard."
But startled and frightened Sunny continued to snake her way across the sand.
"Dammit all anyway," Cole muttered as he tossed his rifle aside and launched his six-foot frame across the back of the smaller man. Although the intruder struggled valiantly, he was no match for Cole's superior strength. The angry rancher buried the man's face in the sand with one hand as the other hand, well-trained by his years of bulldogging, quickly bound the tiring renegade's wrists behind his back with the short length of rope he wore tied to his belt.
When the struggling ceased, Cole released his grip on the man's neck and slid down across his rounded buttocks to his feet where he secured the slender ankles with his belt.
