The camera’s flash sent her reeling back to the present and back inside the photo studio. Rio looked around, awe-struck by what she thought she’d seen and experienced. She wasn’t sure what had happened, but that didn’t hinder her nerves from making an appearance. They twisted and knotted in her gut. “What the hell was that?”
“You okay?” Billy skimmed his fingers over her shoulder. “What’s wrong? You look like you saw a ghost.”
Slowly, she let her gaze travel over to look at him. She wanted to tell him what happened, but she was too spooked.
“What happened?” Billy’s anxiety chased the curiosity out of his tone.
“It’s weird,” she said in a shaky voice. “I was with two girls and we were getting our picture taken. But we were outside…in front of the place where that deathtrap table is.” At that point, she realized she’d been posing for the same picture that Turner had given her of the Fuller sisters. “I was with Maggie’s sisters.” She could tell by the look on his face that she’d thrown him a curve he hadn’t anticipated.
Billy shook his head. “You need food.” He led her in the direction of Muldoon’s, a restaurant not too far up the street.
They strolled inside and Billy tipped his head at a couple of the waitresses and made his way to a specific table in the corner near the front. Rio dropped into the chair opposite him.
He eyed her with a scrutinizing stare. But Rio got that. She’d just told him she’d posed for a picture that was taken over one hundred years earlier. Who wouldn’t be concerned about that?
Hell, she wasn’t comfortable with it herself—indicative of the fact that she was methodically rearranging the packets of sugar and sugar substitutes.
She hadn’t given the strange chill she’d gotten while walking past the Delta Saloon much thought when it happened. But now, she was starting to make the connection that it had happened in the same place where Maggie and her sisters had posed for their photograph.
That was a little too freaky.
“This place makes great burgers,” Billy said, distracting her. “And I think you could use something to eat,” he added, in a more playful tone.
“This is all your fault.” It was going to take a lot more than humor to melt her fear. “You and your stupid ghost stories.”
Billy chucked and shook his head. “You take everything so serious. You need to lighten up.”
“Yeah—” She snorted. “Like you, huh?”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Well, you’re not exactly comfortable with your ancestry. You make a joke out of everything, so you don’t have to deal with anything.” She tossed him a knowing look. “Do you know how lucky you are to come from such a fantastic family?”
“Why?” He couldn’t help but laugh. “Because you’re in it?”
“You don’t like talking about your family, do you?”
“They’re your family, too.”
“Don’t avoid the subject,” she said. “Why don’t you want to discuss them?”
“What’s to discuss?” He’d rather avoid the subject all together. He knew where she was headed and he didn’t want to join her.
“Maggie and Tajan,” she said. “You were supposed to tell me about them.”
“I’ll tell you about them,” he said, “but I don’t like the story.” He shook his head. “So don’t ask me to.”
“What’s not to like?”
“Their great love.” He mocked the idea. “It ended up costing Tajan his life.”
“Would you rather they’d never met?”
“Well, now…if that were the case,” he said, “you and I wouldn’t be here...now would we?”
Ever since he could remember, Billy had always placed the blame for Tajan’s death solely on Maggie Fuller’s shoulders. As a direct result, he thought he should form a natural aversion for Rio too, since she appeared—physically anyway—to be the second coming of the woman he despised.
His plan failed miserably.
Instead of disliking her, he found a kindred spirit in Rio. Finally, someone had come along who was just like him.
An Indian trapped in a white person’s body.
~~~~
PART TWO
THE LEGEND
~~~~
CHAPTER 9
In the early part of 1863 the Fuller sisters had spent a lot of time in Virginia City, plotting and planning their caper. Finally the day came and they managed to get away with a shipment of gold and silver. Immediately, they took the treasure out into the hills and buried it, where they intended to leave it until the frenzy surrounding the robbery died down.
Things would have been fine, too. If they hadn’t run out of money.
The Fuller sisters were as resourceful as they were audacious. Heading down to Carson City, they robbed the bank.
The job should’ve gone smoothly. It was the same heist they’d pulled off time and time again. An early morning break-in; get in and out before anybody’s even awake. But this time, something went wrong.
Rushing through the bank’s back door, the girls mounted their horses and headed around front. They were, for all intents and purposes, well on their way out of town—until they ran into the sheriff and his deputy.
Maggie knew right away that the sheriff must have had a pretty good idea about what he’d happened upon. But she doubted he knew the well-disguised bandits were women.
The lawmen’s sudden appearance did little to dissuade the sisters. It didn’t stop them from trying to make a break for it by splitting up and heading out in different directions.
The sheriff drew his weapon. Unaware of the outlaws’ gender, he raised his gun and aimed at the closest one.
A shot rang out and Maggie’s heart leapt into her throat. She couldn’t bear the thought of one of her sister’s being shot. She glanced over her shoulder.
The deputy’s gun was drawn. He hesitated. Even with the distance between them, Maggie could easily guess that he was trying to decide who to aim for. After a few seconds of indecision, he turned his gun on Maggie.
Maggie nudged her horse Lightning with a kick of her heels and a sharp whistle. Lightning picked up speed. Shortly after, the second shot rang out. Maggie closed her eyes and sucked in a deep breath, somehow realizing what was coming.
The bullet pierced her shoulder.
She wasn’t about to let a little thing like getting shot stop her from escaping, and nudged Lightning again. They needed to move faster.
She had no idea her little sister Molly had been shot, much less killed.
Maggie’s instincts took over, driving her toward the forest surrounding Lake Tahoe. The wooded area was the only place in the barren desert that she was going to find cover.
Blood poured from the awkward injury on the edge of her shoulder, but she convinced herself to ignore it. For now. She rode several miles before she felt safe enough to stop and tend to her wound.
She hid behind a bushy Pinion Pine and fumbled with the scarf around her neck, untying it with one hand. She used it to apply pressure to her injury and within seconds blood had soaked through the scarf.
Confusion distorted her mind’s ability to think. Maggie stumbled back into the bristles of the tree, but felt nothing of the prickling pine needles. Her mind faded into deeper darkness. She fought it but the task was too great. Maggie slumped to the ground and her head a rock. She slipped into unconsciousness.
About a mile away, Tajan was riding bareback through the forest on his magnificent pony, Pico. The horse maintained a steady pace as Tajan dodged the trees. Wind whipped his waist-length hair. Pine needles scraped his bare torso. He urged Pico to go faster. He loved nothing better than riding in the forest at full speed. He never actually lost track of where he was, but sometimes he would get a little surprised at how far he’d ridden.
There was a time when he was younger that he’d misjudge his surroundings and end up tangling with the limb of a tree. Those days, the tree always won. But those days were l
ong gone. These days, he could ride through the forest with his eyes closed. And he could do it on any horse.
Tajan continued on his outing that fateful day, reining his pony to a trot as he approached a thicket. The stationary horse caught his eye. His own horse fell into a slow gait and he scanned the area.
Nothing. He saw no one hiding in the shadows—just a body lying on the ground a few feet in front of him. He gave the area another quick inspection and slid off his horse. At first glance he took the the body for a white man. But as he got closer he saw that it was a white woman dressed in the white man’s clothing.
Tajan slid off Pico easily and knelt down beside her. Her fiery hair was bright — brighter than anything he’d ever seen. He’d heard about the white man’s woman; how some of them had yellow or red hair. At first he, like everyone else in the tribe, thought that notion to be quite the tall tale. But, as more and more of the whites invaded the land, his people began to see that the strange traits weren’t myths, after all.
He wanted, but hesitated, to touch her hair. It was so much like fire. He thought it might have the capability to burn his hand. Temptation got the better of him. Gently, he pushed her hair out of her face.
Her alabaster skin was pale, drained of life. Still, she had the most beautiful face he’d ever seen. Intrigue thundered through his heart. This was a woman he had to know better.
Then it hit him. What if she was dead? Tajan touched his fingertips against her neck and felt a faint heartbeat. He let out a sigh. If she was still alive, then his father would fix her. He was sure of that.
Tajan’s people, the Washoe were native to Lake Tahoe and the surrounding valley areas in Nevada. In the winter, late fall and early spring the tribe lived in numerous small communities, each with about ten or fifteen lodges situated in the clearings around the wooded areas of the campground. Only during the summer did the people come together as a whole at the lake.
Approaching his particular tribal campground, Tajan carried the still unconscious white woman in his arms. Her horse voluntarily followed behind them.
The children caught sight of his return and, as with tradition, they scurried out to greet him. But he was much too preoccupied on this day to play with the youngsters as he usually did.
Without a word, he carried Maggie into his father’s lodge. He had confidence that his father Timeko, the Shaman of the tribe, would help her.
“She has been shot,” he told his father in their native tongue.
“Lay her by the fire.” Timeko was much calmer than his son.
Tajan stayed with the stranger he’d rescued while his father tended to her.
She didn’t move. She didn’t open her eyes.
He watched her face. He’d never held much regard for the white man. He didn’t know the white man and he didn’t want to. Until now, he would have thought he could easily leave a white woman—just as a white man—lying in the forest to bleed to death.
From the moment he’d gazed upon her flaming red hair and pulled it back out of her alluring face, something about her twisted around him and wouldn’t let him go.
He could not walk away and leave her there to die.
~~~~
CHAPTER 10
The Washoe spent their winters in the valley areas of the Lake Tahoe foothills. In the late spring they’d move up to the east shore of the lake, where they’d remain throughout the summer.
To the Washoe the lake was sacred, so desecration was not allowed. Members of the tribe fished in the nearby streams rather than the lake itself. In the spring and summer months an abundance of trout could be found in those streams. They smoked the fish and traded it to other tribes and eventually white settlers, too.
Family legends report that Timeko was not Washoe. His true heritage had been lost with time. He did bring many customs to the tribe; traditions and abilities clearly unknown to the Washoe during the 1830s when he happened upon them. The talents Timeko bestowed upon the Washoe could have tied him to any one of three tribes: Sioux, Apache or Navajo.
Known for being a man of great strength and courage, those qualities initially brought him an invitation and then acceptance into the Washoe tribe.
One fateful day the Washoe’s chief found himself cornered against some boulders by a large black bear. His survival was looking pretty dim as the bear moved in closer. But instead of mauling him, as the chief expected, the bear fell at his feet. He had a Bowie knife planted in his back.
The man responsible—a man the chief had never seen before—stayed on the other side of the bear.
The Chief was grateful and befriended the stranger who called himself Timeko. He took him back to the tribal campground and paraded him around as if he had returned with a god.
The chief soon learned his savior was also a gifted man, and once realizing the extent of his mystical abilities he quickly named him the Shaman of the tribe.
The chief had a beautiful daughter named Lela who was coveted by all the unmarried men in the tribe, and probably a few married ones as well. She’d never shown any interest in any of them, but that changed when she got one look at Timeko.
According to family tradition, she willingly married the stranger after they fell madly and instantly in love. Of all the couple’s children, only Tajan survived into adulthood.
~~~~
CHAPTER 11
Timeko mixed up several concoctions and used them in an effort to heal Maggie. He would never deny his medicine to anyone who needed it. No matter who they were. Still, he was a little surprised when his son brought home a white woman who’d been shot.
He could guess that she must be in some sort of trouble. And for some reason his son had felt a compelling need to help her.
Maggie lay unconscious in Tajan’s dwelling for the better part of a week. During that time he constantly stayed by her side, nursing her back to health. And, because she hadn’t awakened yet, he was starting to get a little anxious. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it. He didn’t know why he wanted her to wake up so badly, but he knew he needed her to.
He scrutinized her while she slept. She’d opened her eyes only for a second or two during the last few days, and he didn’t think she’d realized where she was when she did. At first, he relished watching her sleep, enjoying her beauty. But after a few days, he came to know an emptiness that grew from her inactivity. The fact that she never moved, wouldn’t wake up, left him with a hollow feeling.
Timeko entered the lodge and Tajan looked at him. “Her fever has broken,” he said in his native tongue.
“Has she come to yet?” Timeko asked.
“No, not yet.”
“She will,” Timeko said with a measure of certainty. “It’s just a matter of time.”
After his father left Tajan returned to her side.
She moaned, and her eyes crept open. Looking up at him, her eyes were void of fear—something Tajan found a little odd since he knew the wild tales the whites enjoyed spreading about the savage natives.
“You…” Tajan said in sparse English, “are good?” He hadn’t had much practice with the white man’s language, so his words came slowly and with a great deal of consideration.
She said nothing, but anxiety glazed her eyes. Yes, she was coming to because now she realized where she was—in the presence of an Indian.
Slowly, she pushed herself up and tugged his rabbit-skin blanket up against her as if it offered her protection.
She couldn’t help the bit of nerves creeping in. Where was she, and how had she come to be here—with him?
I’m going to die. But she doubted that would be the worse fate he could bestow upon her. What could be worse than dying...? Torture, without dying. Just day in and day out relentless torture.
* * *
After a few days Maggie had regained most of her strength. She spent her days inside his lodge, trying to devise a plan for escape. Not that she really felt like a prisoner, but truth be told she didn’t know why she was here in this place
.
The warrior came in carrying two dishes piled with food. A smile splashed across his face upon seeing her sitting by the fire. He took a seat less than a foot away from her and handed her one of the dishes.
Maggie accepted it with a bit of reluctance. She looked down at the bowl and studied its contents, thinking it might be some kind of fish. She still wasn’t sure she wasn’t in danger, and tried, but failed miserably, at resisting the fear mounting inside her gut. She put on her bravest front and offered up gratitude in its place. “Thank you.” She hoped he wasn’t a threat to her.
Tajan smiled and excitement tingled in her stomach. But such an attraction would be perilous. A risk she could not afford to take. Needing a distraction, Maggie concentrated on her hunger instead. She scooped up the food with her fingers and tried it. Uhm, fish...and good, too.
She ate the food he’d given her, and kept a cautious eye on him. “Who are you?” she said in English.
“I am called Tajan,” he said in battered English. “Your name?”
“Maggie, everybody calls me Maggie.” One look into his deep smoldering eyes and she was lost, unable to tear her gaze away. Curiosity wrangled with her infatuation. “How did you learn to speak English?”
“White traders,” he said. “I speak little. My mother speak little. But that is all.”
“You understand me well enough.” A relaxing wave of serenity breezed past her. “Or so it would seem.”
“Yes.” He nodded. “Understand much better than speak.”
Maggie’s gaze rolled around the lodge. Her thoughts dragged her back to him.
He’s an Indian. The need to panic shuddered through her. Was she in danger? For a split second, fear pierced her thoughts.
As if he sensed her anxiety, he caressed her hand with a soft, gentle touch.
Broken Wings Page 4
