Love's Serenade
Madeline Baker
Ellora's Cave (2010)
* * *
Rating: ★★★★☆
Tags: Literature & Fiction, Erotica, Romance, Historical
Blush: This is a sweet romance (kisses only, no sexual content) Loving Sarah When Indians raid Sarah’s homestead, killing her husband and kidnapping her son, her world is shattered. She’s sure she can’t survive on the plains alone, but someone is looking out for her, bringing her baskets of food and clothing, keeping her safe. Sarah finally meets her benefactor, an Apache warrior called Toklanni who was sent to kill her, but who has fallen in love instead. Together they begin to build a life, but it’s incomplete without Sarah’s son. As Christmas approaches, Toklanni sets out to find him, determined to reunite their family. Loving Devlin After rescuing Sarah’s son from the Indians, Sarah and Toklanni—now known as Devlin—thought their hard times were over. Their farm was doing well and Sarah was nearly seven months pregnant with their child. Then a gang of Indians swept through, burning their homestead and kidnapping Sarah. Devlin heads after them, but getting Sarah back requires a journey deep into enemy territory. Far from the comforts of home, they find themselves creating their own Christmas miracle. Publisher’s Note: Both Loving Devlin and Loving Sarah were previously published elsewhere.
An Ellora’s Cave Romantica Publication
www.ellorascave.com
Love’s Serenade
ISBN 9781419924217
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Love’s Serenade Copyright © 2010 Madeline Baker
Edited by Meghan M. Conrad
Cover art by Dar Albert
Electronic book publication August 2010
The terms Romantica® and Quickies® are registered trademarks of Ellora’s Cave Publishing.
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 publisher, Ellora’s Cave Publishing Inc., 1056 Home Avenue, Akron, OH 44310-3502.
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This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.
LOVE’S SERENADE
LOVING SARAH
LOVING DEVLIN
Madeline Baker
LOVING SARAH
Chapter One
New Mexico, 1869
It was there again, a large oak basket filled with fresh meat and wild vegetables. Sarah Andrews stared at the basket for a long moment as if it might tell her where it had come from. There were no other white people in the immediate area and she was certain the Indians were not in the habit of providing for their enemies. It seemed to be a riddle without an answer.
Her heart filled with gratitude, Sarah carried the basket into the kitchen, quietly blessing the unknown giver who had put fresh food on her table once again.
As she sliced the venison, Sarah wondered anew who it was that brought her food several times each week. Without her unknown provider, she would have died of starvation long ago, for there weren’t enough vegetables left in the garden behind the cabin to sustain life and she’d long ago eaten all of the dried and tinned food Vern had brought from town. The only thing left was a sack of dried apples.
In the beginning, she’d considered trying to walk to Pepper Tree Creek, but the thought of crossing over fifty miles of the desert alone and on foot, defenseless against snakes and predators, frightened her almost as much as the very real possibility of encountering Indians along the way and she always changed her mind. Sarah quietly cursed the savages who had killed her husband and kidnapped her son. The Indians had burned the barn, stolen their horses and cattle, taken Vern’s rifle and all their supplies. To this day, Sarah didn’t know why her life had been spared.
She’d been in the root cellar when the attack had occurred.
She had heard gunshots, a bloodcurdling war whoop. And then she’d heard Danny’s terrified scream, the same scream that haunted her dreams. “Mommy! Mommy, help me!” Filled with dread, she’d hurried toward the stairs only to find an Indian blocking her path, a war club adorned with feathers and what looked suspiciously like a scalp clutched in his hand.
Terror had frozen her in mid-stride. She had stared at the Indian, repulsed by the weapon in his hand, by the hideous war paint that covered every inch of his face, distorting his features so that he looked like a demon from hell. In that instant, she’d known she was looking death in the face.
But nothing had happened. The Indian had looked at her as if he were seeing a ghost and then, to her surprise, he had scrambled up the ladder and disappeared.
By the time Sarah made her way outside, the attack was over, the Indians were gone. She had found her husband’s body sprawled face down in the dirt, a single arrow protruding from his back. Her six-year-old son, Danny, was nowhere to be found. She had searched for him for over an hour, refusing to believe what she knew to be true. The Indians had taken her child, her only child.
Resolutely, she had set out after them, but a late-summer shower washed out the tracks, forcing her to give up the chase, and she’d returned to the cabin to bury her husband along with her dreams.
Sarah fried the venison and boiled the vegetables, grateful to have something to do. Sitting at the small raw plank table in the narrow kitchen, she ate without tasting the food, automatically lifting the fork to her mouth until her plate was empty.
Occasionally, she thought of not eating, of just curling up in bed, closing her eyes and waiting for death, but she didn’t have the willpower to starve herself when food was available and she didn’t have the courage to slit her wrists. She’d never had any courage at all. And now all she had to sustain her was hope. Hope that the cavalry would find her next time they made a sweep through the area. Hope that they’d find the savages who had taken Danny.
After dinner, she put the basket outside the front door, knowing that tomorrow or the next day it would be gone and the following morning it would be there again, filled with food.
She hadn’t expected it to be refilled the first time she set it out on the porch. She’d emptied the basket and put it outside simply to get it out of the way. It had been gone the next day. For a little while, the mystery of the basket had helped take her mind off her troubles. She’d wondered who had left it in the first place and who had taken it. Two days later, it had appeared on her doorstep again, filled with food.
For a time, Sarah stood at the front window, staring at the charred ruins that had once been the barn. It was a blackened shell now, cold and empty, like her life. She lifted her gaze toward the sky, watching the late summer sun set in a riotous blaze of crimson that reminded her of blood…Vern’s blood.
Turning away from the window, she went to the homemade calendar that hung beside the fireplace and crossed off another day. Three months, she thought. Three months without Vern, without Danny. Three months of no one to talk to, no one to care for. Three months of solitude. How long would it take before she went mad? How long before the Indians came back?
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Going into her bedroom, she gazed at the small tintype of her son that stood on the narrow table beside her bed. Danny, her baby, at the mercy of godless savages. How frightened he must be! Did anyone comfort him when he cried? Was he getting enough to eat?
Thoughts of her only child being ridiculed and abused brought quick tears to her eyes. He had never known anything but kindness and love in his short life, never been away from her for more than a few hours. If only she could see him for a moment, assure herself that he was alright, that he was still alive. She’d heard stories of children being raised by Indians. It sickened her to think that her son might be forced to become a warrior, to ride against his own people, to commit the terrible atrocities she’d read about in the newspapers back home. She thought of her son, her own flesh and blood, taking a scalp…
“No!” She shook the horrible thought from her mind, refusing to dwell on it any further. Surely a merciful God would not allow such a thing to happen.
Later, kneeling at her bedside, she prayed for the soul of her husband, comforted by her belief in an afterlife and her conviction that Vern had been a good man who would be welcomed into heaven. Poor Vern. Theirs had been a marriage of convenience. He had wanted a wife and she had wanted a way out of her father’s house. When Vern had proposed, she had accepted, so eager to get away from home she’d never stopped to think what it would be like to be married to a man almost old enough to be her father, a man she didn’t love.
During the eight years of their marriage, she had developed a genuine fondness for her husband. Vern had been a kind and gentle man, thoughtful of her needs, her likes and dislikes. When she took a liking to a high-backed sofa she saw in a mail-order catalog, he had ordered it for her, even though they couldn’t really afford it at the time. In the good times, he had surprised her with gifts: a fancy blue bonnet she had no occasion to wear, a pretty apron, a hand-painted fan. In the bad times, he had promised her that things would get better. And he had given her a son…
She was sorry now that she had never loved Vern. He had deserved so much more than she had given him. She had tried to love him, but she’d never been able to give him the heartfelt devotion and affection a man deserved from his wife. The fact that he’d never complained only made her feel more guilty.
Blinking back tears of sorrow and regret, she prayed fervently for a miracle that would return Danny to her arms. And then, as she had every night since the attack, she asked God to forgive her for hating the heathen savages who had ridden out of the foothills early one summer morning and taken away everything she’d ever loved.
Chapter Two
Toklanni squatted on his heels, his hands resting on his knees, as he watched the white woman. She was washing her clothes in a big wooden bucket, scrubbing them on a board, then rinsing them in another bucket filled with clean water. When she finished washing the last garment, she stood up and began hanging them on a line strung between two trees.
She was a pretty woman. Her hair was as yellow as the sun, bright and shiny. She wore it in a knot at the nape of her neck. Her eyes were a vibrant shade of blue, like the sky in mid-summer. Her features were dainty and well-shaped, from the delicately arched brows to her finely sculpted lips.
When she finished with the wash, she began chopping wood. He wondered how such a small woman could lift the heavy axe and even as he watched, he knew she would be exhausted before she managed to cut enough wood for a single fire.
His mouth curled into a wry smile of admiration as she kept at it, worrying the log like a puppy worrying a bone, until, finally, the axe sliced through the log and she had a good-sized chunk of firewood.
Wiping her hands on her apron, she picked up the wood and carried it into the house.
When she didn’t come outside again, Toklanni stood up, one hand massaging the back of his neck. He had watched the woman every day for the last three months, seen her grow thinner, more pale, seen the lines of pain and fatigue around her mouth and eyes deepen. Sometimes, she spent the day sitting at her husband’s grave. Sometimes she talked to him as if he could hear her. Sometimes she put flowers at the base of a small wooden cross.
He did not understand her need to be near her deceased husband. The Apache buried their dead as soon as possible, never speaking the names of the deceased lest they arouse or anger the ghost of the departed, never returning to the grave site. The wickiup of the deceased was burned, along with everything the departed wore or came into close contact with before he died. The surviving family members immediately moved out of the area and built a new wickiup. Those who had buried the body also burned the clothing they wore at the time and then purified themselves with the smoke of the sagebrush.
But the woman carried flowers to her husband and spoke to him.
She was very brave, he mused, or perhaps just crazy.
But he could not stay away from her.
He was baffled by the hold she had on him. Was it because she looked so much like his mother, the same wheat-colored hair, the same vibrant blue eyes? Or was it because he’d failed to do his part when the Apache raided the homestead? He was to have killed the white woman and burned her house. Instead, he’d let her live. He brought her food. He camped nearby to make sure no harm came to her.
With a grunt of self-disgust, Toklanni made his way to the foot of the hill and quenched his thirst in the narrow stream that watered the white woman’s land. Soon, it would he dark. He would take the basket and go home.
He told himself that he would go back to the village in the morning. She was a white woman, the enemy. If she lived or died was of no consequence.
But he was lying to himself and he knew it.
He would continue to prowl around her house like a wolf protecting its den because she was alone and helpless and he felt responsible. Tomorrow or the next day, he would refill the basket with fresh meat and vegetables. And to ease his conscience, he would throw in the colorful skirt that had been part of the spoils from their last raid against the Mexicans.
It was the least he could do for her, he thought bitterly, since it was his brother who had killed her husband and taken her child.
Chapter Three
Sarah woke with a start, not knowing what had awakened her. Slipping out of bed, she drew on her wrapper and padded into the parlor, her gaze searching the dark corners of the room. It was times like these, when she was scared without knowing why, that she missed Vern the most.
Going to the window, she peered outside, gasped as she saw a dark shape walking quietly toward the door. Fear coiled around her insides, stealing the strength from her legs so that she sank down into the rough-hewn chair in front of the window, her gaze riveted to the dark figure approaching the cabin.
A scream rose in her throat but sheer terror choked it off and then she saw the basket in the man’s hand and her fear left her. He hadn’t hurt her in the last three months, she thought, please God, don’t let him start tonight.
She stared at the Indian as he drew closer. In the dark, all she could see was that he was tall and broad-shouldered and that his hair fell to his waist.
The Indian gazed at the house for a long moment before he placed the basket on the porch, then turned and walked away. She couldn’t help staring after him. He walked with an odd kind of grace, his strides long and effortless, as silent as the sunrise. With a start, Sarah jumped to her feet and ran to the door. What a goose she was, sitting there staring after him. He was the only soul she’d seen in months. Maybe he could tell her where the Apache camp was, maybe he’d take her into town.
Flinging open the door, she ran into the yard. “Mister! Hey, there, wait!”
At the sound of her voice, the man darted to the left and disappeared from sight behind a stand of scrub brush.
Tears of frustration welled in Sarah’s eyes. Why had he run away? She was so tired of being alone, of feeling helpless. If she only knew where the Indian camp was, she’d go there and beg them for Danny.
She turned b
ack toward the house, staring at the basket beside the door. Why did an Apache warrior bring her food? Why wouldn’t he speak to her? How could she go on accepting his charity knowing Indians had killed her husband? How could she refuse?
With a sigh, carried the basket inside. She had to keep her strength up, had to go on living for Danny. She had to go on believing that she would see him again.
In the morning, Sarah went through the contents, surprised when she found a multicolored skirt wrapped in a piece of doeskin.
She held it at arm’s length, her gaze moving over the vibrant colors. Red and green, bright blue and yellow. It should have been gaudy, ugly even, and yet it appealed to her as nothing had before.
But she couldn’t wear it. Taking food from an Indian was one thing; taking a gift of clothing was something else entirely.
She would have to give it back. She picked up the skirt, intending to refold it and place it in the basket. Instead, she went into the bedroom, removed her nightgown and stepped into the skirt.
“Just to see how it fits,” she told her reflection in the mirror.
It fit as though it had been made for her. She took a few steps, then twirled around, delighting in the way the full skirt swirled around her ankles. Rummaging through her meager belongings, she found a white shirtwaist with short puffed sleeves, the perfect complement to the multicolored skirt.
Sarah found herself humming that afternoon as she carried water from the stream to her garden, hoping to infuse some life into the last of the vegetables. Humming and her husband hardly cold in his grave! She should be ashamed. She knew her cheery mood was because of the skirt swishing around her ankles, because it was new, because it made her feel different, somehow. Her dresses were all drab—dark blues and greens and browns—except for the skirt and just seeing the brilliant colors had brightened the day.
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