Beyond The Horizon

by Connie Mason

  FORBIDDEN PASSION

  How many other women had he seduced so effortlessly with his male magnetism? she wondered. How had such a half-breed acquired such sophisticated talents? And what was she doing in his arms, responding to him with an eagerness that shocked her?

  “Don’t,” Shannon gasped. She was shaking from head to toe as she pushed herself from Blade’s arms.

  My God! Blade thought, nearly as shaken as Shannon. If he continued like this he’d be bedding her on the hard ground in another moment. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” he taunted. It took considerable effort to make his voice deliberately cruel and cynical.

  “Are you trying to humiliate me?” Shannon struggled for breath, his cruel words fueling her anger.

  “Is this why you came out here?” Blade replied with sly innuendo. “Does a half-breed kiss any differently from a white man? Or did you pick me to experiment on because I’m only half tame and the thought excited you?”

  Other books by Connie Mason:

  PIRATE

  BRAVE LAND, BRAVE LOVE

  WILD LAND, WILD LOVE

  BOLD LAND, BOLD LOVE

  VIKING!

  SURRENDER TO THE FURY

  FOR HONOR’S SAKE

  LORD OF THE NIGHT

  TEMPT THE DEVIL

  PROMISE ME FOREVER

  ICE AND RAPTURE

  LOVE ME WITH FURY

  SHADOW WALKER

  FLAME

  TENDER FURY

  DESERT ECSTASY

  A PROMISE OF THUNDER

  PURE TEMPTATION

  WIND RIDER

  TEARS LIKE RAIN

  THE LION’S BRIDE

  SIERRA

  TREASURES OF THE HEART

  CARESS AND CONQUER

  PROMISED SPLENDOR

  WDLD IS MY HEART

  MY LADY VIXEN

  BEYOND

  THE

  HORIZON

  CONNIE

  MASON

  © 1990, 2011 Connie Mason. All rights reserved.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Prologue

  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

  Epilogue

  A LETTER FROM THE AUTHOR

  About the Author

  Prologue

  Twin Willows Plantation, Georgia—March 1867

  “Damn Yankee,” Shannon Branigan whispered, hating the sight of Harlan Simmons lounging insolently on the elegant veranda as she twisted her head for one last look at her beloved home and family. Then she tightened her grip on the buggy reins and clucked the horse into a quicker trot down the long lane. Nothing remained for the Branigans now in Georgia, Shannon thought sadly as she dashed a tear from the corner of her eye. The old life was gone. Twin Willows belonged to that yellow-bellied carpetbagger now; her father was dead by his own hand, driven to the deed by the Yankees; and her brother Grady had been slain on the battlefield, sacrificing his youth for a lost cause.

  “Are you all right, dear?”

  Shannon turned her head and attempted a smile at her great aunt seated next to her in the buggy. Though Shannon had volunteered willingly to remain behind in Atlanta with Great Aunt Eugenia while the rest of the Branigans left to make a new life in Idaho, separation from her close-knit family was tearing her apart. It all seemed so final.

  “I’m fine, Aunt Eugenia, truly.”

  But was she fine? Vividly she recalled her brother Tucker’s parting words.

  “We’ll write as soon as we reach Boise,” Tucker had said.

  “Don’t worry about me, Tuck,” she had answered. “Aunt Eugenia and I are going to be fine. The Yankees haven’t beaten the Branigans. They just think they have.” But her brave words had fooled no one, least of all herself. How long would it be before she could rejoin her family in Idaho?

  Shannon wasn’t the only family member to remain behind. Seventeen-year-old Devlin had been arguing with Tucker for days about Devlin’s refusal to run from the Yankees with his tail tucked between his legs, as he so aptly put it. He insisted on remaining behind to accomplish Lord only knew what. Shannon could sympathize with Dev. Both she and Dev were famous for their tempers and were known as the hotheads of the family.

  Though Eugenia’s watery blue eyes were dimmed by age, her agile mind grasped and understood perfectly her great-niece’s anguish. A tremendous outpouring of love and compassion encompassed this special girl who had given up so much for an old lady unlikely to see the year through.

  “You should be going with your family,” Aunt Eugenia said in a dry whisper that spoke eloquently of her frailness, her inability to make the monumental journey the other Branigans were undertaking.

  “You’re my family, too,” Shannon reminded her gently. “I’m here because I want to be, Aunt Eugenia. We’ll show those damn Yankees they can’t run us out.”

  Washington, D.C.—April 1867

  “The President will see you now, Captain Stryker.”

  The man who walked through the door to the president’s office wore the blue uniform of the Union Army, but that wasn’t what set him apart from other young men his age. There was an indescribable power about him, as well as something profoundly mysterious.

  “Come in and sit down, Captain Stryker,” President Johnson invited. “As you can see, Major Vance is already here.”

  With a nod and a smile, Blade Stryker acknowledged his commanding officer and friend of many years. Then he directed his undivided attention back to the president. It was the first time he had met President Johnson, and he thought him a rather stern, unprepossessing sort of man.

  “I suppose you’re wondering why I sent for you,” the president began, “but Major Vance assures me you are exactly the man I am looking for.”

  Blade raised a black eyebrow, slanting Major Vance a quizzical glance.

  “I don’t know what Major Vance told you, but I hope he mentioned I’m mustering out of the army and returning home.”

  “Just where is home?”

  “Wyoming Territory—mostly,” Blade replied somewhat mysteriously.

  “Major Vance apprised me of your history, Captain, so there’s no need for pretense here.”

  “I hope you don’t think I was betraying a confidence, Blade,” Major Vance interjected, “but I knew immediately you were the right man for the job.”

  “Then you know I am a half-breed, sir,” Blade said with quiet dignity, addressing the president.

  “I know you are a fine officer and a credit to the army. I am curious, though, as to how and why you joined the war.”

  “My mother is full-blooded Ogallala Sioux, another name for the powerful Dakotas. My father was a French trapper. He fell in love with my mother and married her according to Indian rites. I was raised by the Sioux until my seventeenth year, when Father decided I needed to learn about the white man’s world. He sent me east to school.

  “When the war between the North and South began, I knew I must fight on the side
of freedom for all races. Few knew of my mixed blood, so it was easy to join the Union Army.”

  “An interesting story, Captain Stryker. May I call you Blade?” Blade nodded. “I am convinced you are just the man I need. Will you listen to what I have to say, son?”

  “Of course, sir, but it won’t change my mind about leaving the army.”

  “There has been increasing unrest on the plains,” President Johnson explained. “The great Indian tribes are unhappy with the treaty of’57 dividing the plains into territories and giving the Indians boundaries. Not only are the different tribes encroaching upon each other’s hunting lands but they are openly warring with whites. They are attacking wagon trains and emigrants traveling the Oregon Trail, disrupting communications, and preventing the railroad from meeting its deadline.

  “These atrocities must stop, Blade. People are dying every day, not only whites but Indians. But as long as guns are being smuggled to the Indians these unprovoked attacks will continue.”

  “Excuse me, Mr. President, but haven’t the Indians been complaining for years about being cheated, of Washington not living up to the treaty agreement? What about dishonest agents who deliberately lie and cheat Indians out of provisions due them?” Blade challenged boldly.

  “Blade, we don’t know the Indians are being cheated,” Major Vance injected in an effort to disarm Blade’s criticism.

  “I won’t deny there are dishonest men out there, but that is not the point. Guns are what I’m talking about,” President Johnson continued. “Illegal weapons delivered into the hands of hot-blooded young men of the tribes who use them to raid and kill indiscriminately.”

  “I don’t see how I can be of help,” Blade said carefully.

  “We think someone at Fort Laramie in Wyoming is arranging for the guns to be brought west by wagon train. Whoever this man is takes delivery, then sells the weapons to renegade Indians.”

  “You suspect an army man?” Blade asked.

  “Not necessarily. It could be one of the townspeople, but all the information we have thus far indicates the involvement of someone directly connected to the army.”

  “And you want me to find out who that man is,” Blade surmised. “I’ve already turned in my resignation.”

  “All the better,” President Johnson replied. “We’ve already lost one man, a special agent sent to Fort Laramie to investigate, who was never heard from again. What I’d like you to do is carry out an investigation as an Indian, someone least likely to be suspect. Go back to your tribe. You’re bound to learn who is dealing in guns from the young braves of the tribe. They are the ones to watch. But it is vitally important, Blade, that no one, absolutely no one, knows you are a special agent or connected to the army or office of the president. I’ve enough trouble on the homefront without answering to charges of concentrating on far-flung frontiers.”

  “I understand, sir. If I decide to accept, is there some special way I’m to travel to Fort Laramie?”

  “Major Vance has made arrangements for you to travel with a wagon train as guide. You’ll take them as far as Fort Laramie, where they will pick up a new guide and continue on to Oregon.”

  “The train captain is a man named Clive Bailey,” said Major Vance. “He runs the trading post at Fort Laramie. We think he is one of those transporting illegal guns across the plains. Your first priority will be to learn if our suspicions are correct. This Bailey could very well be the man we’re after.

  “I know you are familiar with the territory,” Vance continued, “and it would be essential for you to rely on your Indian instincts. The train captain will be informed you are a half-breed.”

  “I see,” Blade acknowledged stiffly. “A half-breed who is considered barely human; a half-savage whom people fear and despise.” He couldn’t keep the note of bitterness from creeping into his voice.

  “It is the only way, Blade,” President Johnson said by way of apology. “Life as you know it will cease to exist if you accept this assignment. Your only contact will be Major Vance, who is being sent to Fort Laramie as second in command under Colonel Greer. Do you have an Indian name?”

  “Among the Sioux I am known as Swift Blade.”

  “When you reach Independence you will become Swift Blade. All your Indian upbringing must be utilized if you are to survive. Forget the ten years you’ve lived as a white man and rely solely on your Indian instincts. Will you accept the assignment? A reward goes along with the capture of our man.”

  Blade looked at Wade Vance for guidance. They had been friends for a long time and he respected the major’s views. Besides, Blade wasn’t a rich man and the reward would come in handy. “You would be doing the country a great service, Blade,” Major Vance reminded him.

  It was enough.

  “I’ll do it, sir,” Blade replied, answering the president’s question.

  Chapter One

  Atlanta, Georgia—May 1867

  Golden daffodils bloomed on the hillside and the gentle breeze was fragrant with the promise of spring, yet Shannon saw nothing but the fresh mound of earth at her feet where Great Aunt Eugenia had just been laid to rest. Who would have thought a little over a month ago when the rest of the Branigan family left for Idaho that Eugenia would die so abruptly of heart seizure? Though she had been too frail to survive the long overland trip by wagon train to Idaho, Eugenia wasn’t in ill health when one considered her great age of eighty-nine.

  Not once did Shannon consider herself exceptional for selflessly volunteering to remain behind in Atlanta with Aunt Eugenia instead of joining her family on their trek West. To Shannon it was an act of love, for she cared deeply about the old woman. Sense of family was strong in the Branigan clan and Shannon had inherited more than her share. She had planned sometime in the future to join the rest of the Branigans in Idaho, traveling by train, for it was only a matter of a year or two before the railroad would stretch from coast to coast.

  But Eugenia’s sudden death had changed everything. There was still a possibility, albeit a slim one, that Tuck, Mama, and the little ones hadn’t left Independence yet. It was that small chance that had provoked Shannon into selling Aunt Eugenia’s house to a despised Yankee and using some of the money to purchase a train ticket to Independence, hoping to catch up to her family before they started West with the wagon train.

  “Come on, Shannon. Standing here staring at Aunt Eugenia’s grave won’t bring her back.”

  Venturing a watery smile, Shannon turned and followed her brother Devlin from the cemetery. He was right; Aunt Eugenia wouldn’t want her to grieve. Thank God Dev had heard about Eugenia’s death. He’d arrived just in time to lend Shannon the support she needed. Dev had a penchant for turning up at the right moment. Hard telling where he’d be a week from now, but at least he was here to help her with the funeral and her travel arrangements.

  “Are you certain you won’t come with me, Dev?” Shannon asked hopefully. “There is still a good chance we can catch up with the family.”

  “Positive, Shannon. I’ve already had it out with Tuck, so don’t you try to persuade me when my mind is made up. I wish you all well, but I’m taking charge of my own future.”

  The funeral had been a large one, for Aunt Eugenia had been well loved in life. But sadly, nothing Shannon could do or say stopped Devlin from leaving shortly afterwards. He hugged her fiercely, wished her well, and departed. Her aunt’s passing and Devlin’s leaving created a void in Shannon’s heart that nearly defeated her. But Shannon knew Eugenia’s philosophy wouldn’t have allowed for maudlin sentiments. She recalled their last conversation.

  “Once I’m gone, get on with your life, Shannon,” the astute old woman had advised. “Don’t let the horrors of war and the loss of loved ones stunt you emotionally. You’re an exceptionally strong young woman with beauty and brains to match. Love will come one day when you least expect it, and I suspect you will embrace it with the same courage and selflessness that made you volunteer to remain in Atlanta with me.”
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  Those were the last words Eugenia had spoken, for that night she had suffered a seizure and died. They were words Shannon would have cause to remember time and again.

  Before Shannon left Atlanta she posted a letter to her mother in care of her cousin, Keegan Branigan, who lived in Idaho City and had urged the family to settle in the West. If she wasn’t able to catch up to her family, the letter would reach them shortly after their arrival.

  Dear Mama,

  I’m on my way to Idaho! I’m sorry to report Aunt Eugenia died peacefully a short time after you left Atlanta. I’m leaving for Independence tomorrow in hopes of catching up to you, but if I don’t, this letter will reach you soon after you arrive in Boise,

  Devlin came to the funeral, and I tried to persuade him to come west with me, but as usual he was being obstinate. The Yankees are making Atlanta a living hell, and I’m glad to get out of here. I can’t imagine why Dev refuses to leave. One day he’ll show up when we least expect it.

  I’ll see you soon, Mama. Give my love to Tuck and the little ones.

  Your devoted daughter,

  Shannon

  Independence, Missouri—June 1867

  “I’m sorry, lady, the Branigan party left Independence over two months ago. By now they are well on their way along the Oregon Trail.”

  Weariness etched deep lines across Shannon’s brow and profound disappointment dulled the sparkle of her deep blue eyes. With a toss of her rich chestnut curls she quelled the urge to vent her famous temper at God for allowing this to happen. Still, it wasn’t the end of the world, Shannon thought, squaring her narrow shoulders.