Dark Warrior: To Tame a Wild Hawk

by Lenore Wolfe

  Be careful, child, the Grandmothers warned. You are in danger.

  The voice of the Grandmothers sounded clearly to her. They had always spoken to her this way, from beyond the veil. This had been the way of it since she had spent four years with the Lakota tribe. They had called her the gift of spirit and taught her their ancient ways. They had said her path was destined, and she was given to their brother tribe, the Cheyenne, to be returned to her people. They had said, one day your visions would help their people to cross into an unknown land to escape the white eyes, saving thousands of their men, women and children.

  They warned her now, and this danger she already knew very well. What she did not know, what she could not see—was how to stop it.

  She held the steady gaze of the man standing outside, and she knew her only hope lay in breaking free.

  Therein was the danger. Breaking free would probably mean her life.

  You hold the shields, child. They will keep you safe. Listen and you will know.

  Know? Know what? How to fight the most powerful man in Wyoming territory? How could she fight him? She knew what her father could never have known—what he could never have seen. She knew that behind the kind, gentle eyes he’d shown her father, lay a man who would do anything, go to any length, to get what he wanted—and he wanted her father’s ranch. For it lay between him and the railroad he was bringing to town.

  Her father had only seen a powerful man. “Why would he need this small ranch?” her father had argued. “He already owns half the land from here to Colorado!”

  Because of the railroad, papa. It’s the railroad he wants—and you’re in the way.

  This same man, who would take what he wanted if she couldn’t stop him, stalked through the doors below, shaking her out of her thoughts. She glanced once more towards the stranger who now watched him go, and then looked—directly at her.

  She backed into the shadows of her room, not taking her eyes off him. Goosebumps swept up her back, causing the little hairs to stand on end.

  The man appeared to have a face—yet, no face—rather his face appeared to be a mask.

  She wanted another look, but he turned away, his face now hidden in the shadows beneath his dark hat.

  The front door slammed, reminding her of who was heading her way, and she jumped. She scrambled for her shoes, listening as he stormed his way up the stairs. Taking a deep, cleansing breath, she tied the laces of one shoe. His heavy tread led to her door, where he violently banged until the hinges threatened to tear from their foundation. She tied the laces of her other shoe and stood. But he wasn’t waiting. He stormed into her room, sending the door crashing against the wall.

  Mandy swallowed her frustration. “Well, hello, McCandle, nice of you to wait to be invited in.” She used a calm tone she knew would frustrate him. She had to keep him off-kilter, off-balance. It was the only way.

  He strode across the room in purposeful steps, stopping directly in front of her, his pale, green eyes cold. His gaze traveled the length of her, leaving the promise of retribution in their wake. “I was just at your ranch.”

  He’d had the stage stop by her ranch. Why didn’t that surprise her? He had always wielded his power in such a way. She raised a brow at him. “Yes?”

  “Your men met me at the gate with shotguns,” he sneered. “Do you really think you can stop me?” He grabbed her chin. She knew there would be small finger-marks from the force of his grip.

  She clenched her teeth. “Let go of me, McCandle.”

  He lowered his head to just above hers. She didn’t look away but held his gaze.

  “Where are the old bats?”

  “Bats?” She raised a brow. “You mean my teachers?”

  He snarled at that, and she held back a smile. She really shouldn’t irritate him this way. But she couldn’t help herself.

  “Teachers. You mean witches.” He raised his brow, his eyes narrowing. “You will not see them again,” he said, his voice low and mean.

  Mandy couldn’t believe his gall. He’d always talked to her this way, as though he had a right to, as though he owned her. It threatened her, how certain he was, how sure of her surrender.

  She fought to keep her center, to stay calm. The room slanted and transformed. Mandy no longer saw McCandle but the vision before her.

  Blinding rays seared a scorching path of hot dust. A pony picked his way amongst the stones, leaving little of his trail in his wake. With each unshod step the dust rose and settled, nearly obscuring his path. Mandy knew the pony remained unshod because no sound of steel hitting stone rang out.

  An unshod pony and a man...

  The room came sharply back into focus. She met the disconcerted, pale-green eyes of McCandle, and knew...

  A man.

  A man, clad in the buckskins of the Lakota—who rode an unshod pony...“I will not need your help, McCandle.”

  McCandle’s gaze narrowed on her. “What the hell! Where were you just now?” He reached behind her head. Grabbing a handful of her locks, he twisted until he held her head painfully angled back, his eyes mere inches from her own. “Answer me, damn you.”

  She met his green eyes, boldly. “The Grandmothers have shown me the way. You seek retribution—and retribution there shall be.” She sensed the stillness from her center. Let its calm radiate upward, and envelope her. “But,” she enunciated, “it will not be yours.”

  He let go of her as if stung, not breaking contact with her gaze even as he backed his way out of the room. She looked away, and he stood for a moment just beyond the door; close to escape, yet something stopped him. She hoped he would not realize what it was that allowed him to regain his senses so easily. His lips turned up in a sneer. “Witch.”

  She looked at him but did nothing more this time. Contact with him had left her weak. It was all she could do not to let it show. He held power, and his power would have to be squashed before he realized what it was he held. It was not the power of the railroad or his money that made him dangerous. With some patience, perhaps he would never know where his true power lay.

  To her relief, he stormed back down the hallway, slamming out of the building. She sank to the bed.

  When she opened her eyes again it was dark. Deep shadows lay around her. The promise of something unknown hung suspended in time, like a prism out of her reach.

  She sensed his presence in the room, this buckskin-clad man wearing the designs of the Lakota and closed her eyes. Quieting her thoughts, she went still, so she would know where he crouched. After a moment of trying, she gave up. He would not reveal himself unless it was what he wanted.

  “You came,” she whispered this.

  “Did you think I would do anything else?”

  “You are not Lakota, but white eyes. Yet you carry the design of the Lakota.”

  “They are my people,” his voice was quiet.

  He had moved closer to the bed, and she had not heard or sensed his movement. He would make a dangerous enemy. But he would not be her enemy. They carried a destiny of a different sort, the two of them.

  She bit her lip, trying to stop the trembling. “I have seen you for many years in my visions, in my dreams, but I have not known what they meant.”

  “Do you,” he paused, “not know? Did you not ask the Grandmothers?”

  She went still. “No.”

  “Why not?” He whispered this close to her ear.

  She could feel his breath on her hair. She could smell the scent of him. It was intoxicating.

  She sucked in a breath at her thoughts.

  She moved, sensing more than feeling a deep loss—a longing that sat at the edges of her life, just outside the reach of her memories. She missed him, missed him so much it tore through her heart and raged through her soul, leaving her in tatters. “I—I do not know.” She was unaware of what it was she’d answered. She couldn’t even remember the question.

  She knew he smiled.

  He’d moved away. She missed him here, too, now;
her mind—sharp with how much, as though she’d lost him again. She’d known him in her dreams, it was true. She could remember past lives they’d shared, but not the man who’d caused her such pain. Her dreams were so pure and rich, she sometimes had difficulty telling which was the lie—and which the dream.

  “Perhaps one day, you will know.”

  She centered her breathing and changed the trail he’d taken. “You still seek a warrior’s revenge.” It wasn’t a question, and she did not question how she knew. The Hawk was well-known in these parts as the boy who grew up with the Lakota, and it was rumored that wherever he went, a gunman followed.

  “Life is a continuous circle, and many paths are entwined.”

  She sensed his pain. The cry of his people rang in her ears. “The path crossed, crosses between you... and me.” She nearly sat up. “So the man you seek—is here.”

  He did not answer. Her eyes flew wide. “McCandle.”

  She closed her eyes, sensing his affirmation. “How is it you are to help me?”

  “Do you not know?”

  She opened her eyes, staring into the dark. “No,” she said simply.

  “Your father has stipulated in his will that you will marry or lose the ranch?”

  She sucked in her breath. “My father threatened as much, but I have not listened to the will to know that he stipulated anything.”

  “You shall marry,” he stated as though it were fact.

  “McCandle?”

  “No.”

  “Then whom?” She asked this, though she knew the answer. She waited to hear it anyway, holding her breath. And for reasons she couldn’t fathom, the answer terrified her more than McCandle.

  “Me.”

  She sat straight up in the bed. “What!” It wasn’t a question.

  The room slanted, once again. The buckskin-clad man stood before her. This time, she saw her own wedding.

  “Know your destiny, child.”

  She shook her head. “I cannot Grandmothers.”

  “You must. For in it lies the future of the people.”

  “That is so unfair, Grandmothers.”

  “You will not be unhappy.” He stood so near her, now, that his words were whispered against her lips. “In fact, I would say you will be most happy.” The last was pressed against her lips.

  “Hawk?” But even before she could regain her senses, she knew he was gone.

  Mandy scrambled from the bed, grabbing a cloak.

  Outside, she didn’t bother to stop to light a torch; a full moon lit her way. She followed the path out of town on foot, not stopping to saddle her horse. She had to see the teachers—now.

  Dawn streaked the sky in pale, rose lights by the time Mandy reached the little village, caught in a beauty of spirit next to a serene, flowing river. She made her way to the tipi setting near the edge. She passed several of the people, and smiled in greeting as they hurried this way and that to start a new day. The teacher pulled back the flap and came out, even before Mandy reached her tipi.

  Mandy stood before her, tears in her eyes, and greeted the frail, old woman with respect.

  “You fight with a primitive fear,” her teacher said after a moment.

  “How can I do this?”

  “Would you rather you married McCandle?”

  “I would rather I didn’t marry at all.”

  “It is not the way of your people that you run a ranch on your own. You would have many enemies seeing a woman as prey, stealing what they want, as your people are wont to do.”

  Mandy fought back the tears. “I do not know him. He does this for his revenge.”

  “Child—you have always known him. Listen with your heart—you will know.”

  “How soon?”

  “How much time did your father give you? How much time will McCandle?”

  Mandy sighed in frustration.

  “This is your destiny, child.” The old woman turned back to go inside. “We must return to the people. It is too dangerous now. Listen child—hold your personal crystal and listen with your soul. You have known him since the beginning of time.” She closed the flap behind her, leaving Mandy to make the long journey back.

  Dawn still streaked the sky when Mandy reached a place sacred to her. She had found herself drawn here—to this place of peace. She went to her sacred space, a medicine wheel known only to her. She went in through the east door and sprinkled tobacco behind her to symbolically close the door. She sat in the north and listened with her soul. Finding the center of her being, she sat in the manner she had been taught; where life could carry a continuous circle around her. Light filled her—healing light—the light of understanding. Once again she saw her own wedding, and she sensed a deep peace. She knew she would help to protect the secrets of the people. She saw the way to protect the teachings. She saw her children around her.

  But the way of the Hawk remained unclear.

  Chapter Two

  It was late in the afternoon when Mandy returned to town. The town remained quiet, just as the day before; laboring too hard under the heat wave to want to resume its usual, bustling activity. The tiny bells in her skirts trilled as she walked, her thoughts deep in the center of her being lest she give way to the urge to panic. She let her thoughts remain there, quiet and near her soul.

  She walked past the little, white church at the end of town. A cemetery lay peacefully sheltered in the shade at its side. She stopped for several moments, gazing towards her father’s headstone, absorbing the love he’d held for her in the memory of his smile, before heading for Cord’s Mercantile to pick up supplies for when she would return to the ranch the next day.

  The bells on the door sang out as she entered the store, and she smiled in greeting to Cord. Meg stood before the bolts of fabric, picking out one for a new dress. Seeing Mandy, she set down the fabric and hurried to her friend.

  “Where have you been?” she whispered. “I was worried.”

  Mandy hugged her friend. The scent of spices and sachets stuffed with flowers wafted throughout the store, giving her a slight sense of melancholy. “I had to see the teachers.” She reached out and squeezed Meg’s hand. “I am sorry I worried you.”

  Meg smiled her acceptance of the apology. “What are you going to do about McCandle?”

  Mandy moved to the rows of canned and jarred goods. The cans lined the shelves from the top to the counter. Heavy legs supported the open counter to take the weight off the shelves, and the skillets and china plates lay in front of them. Underneath the counter lay an assortment of butter churns, canning jars, milk pails and tools. Herbs and spices lined the shelves nearby.

  Mandy picked out a can of peaches. Looking at the can, she frowned. “The Grandmothers tell me I will not marry McCandle.”

  Meg sagged against the counter in relief. She looked down at the iron pots, but Mandy knew she didn’t see anything. Her thoughts were as busy as a runaway freight train.

  “Did they say how you are to escape him? I wish I could be as sure as you are of the Grandmothers’ predictions.” She put a hand on Mandy’s arm. “How can you escape him? How will it ever be all right?”

  Mandy met Meg’s blue eyes—the depths were much like shards of cracked glass. She loved the color. Looking into her friend’s eyes, she always remembered the crystals. She saw the worry Meg held for her, shining clearly there. “I am to marry someone else. I cannot explain, but McCandle will not win this time.”

  Meg wasn’t fooled. “I can see you’re not completely at peace with this.”

  Mandy picked up the cans of peaches, two at a time, and set them on the counter. “I’m completely at peace with the Grandmothers’ wisdom,” she said, “but I cannot reconcile what it is I am supposed to do.”

  Meg picked up a couple cans and helped Mandy carry them to the counter. “Would this have anything to do with Hawk being in town?”

  Mandy stilled and looked directly at her friend; as always, unsettled by her friend’s innate insight. “Yes,” she answer
ed simply, watching Meg’s face.

  “He is the boy raised by the Lakota. The boy they call ‘white Indian.’” Meg looked down. She raised her eyes and met Mandy’s gaze. “The man in your visions.”

  Mandy sighed. “Yes.” She resumed her quest for supplies, this time starting in on cans of baked beans.

  Before Meagan could retort, the bells on the door rang again, announcing another customer. Mandy turned to greet the new arrival and gasped before turning away.

  The man’s eyes were sharp with cruelty, unmistakable here in the west. She could only pray the trouble he sought did not lay here, in Cord’s Mercantile, for evil rolled off him. Cruelty and evil were close, but different. Cruelty could be fought on a physical plane. Evil, however, was another matter.

  His hair was long. He wore a close-cut beard and a suit, currently layered in trail dust. She looked at Cord, but his eyes were on the cruel ones of the intruder. Her own widened in amazement at how calm he appeared and, in some way, his calm reached out to her.

  When the stranger’s eyes swept the store, Cord glanced at her, trying to warn her, with a slight jerk of his head, to run.

  But the stranger’s deep, gravelly voice growled, “She stays.” And despite the quiet way he’d stated it, something told Mandy not to put him to the test.

  Cord tried a different tack. “Can I help you?”

  “Yeah.” The man answered so pleasantly, Mandy glanced at him in surprise.

  A southern-bred gentleman, she thought. Somehow, she questioned whether the southern-bred manners extended beyond the tone of his voice.

  “I want tobacco and new clothes to replace these...” He gestured at his dusty suit. The stranger’s icy, blue eyes lifted and moved between Mandy and Meg before settling on Mandy’s face. “Oh, yes,” his gaze narrowed on her, “and add her to the list.”

  A chill ran up Mandy’s spine, and she stared at him. The danger she’d sensed lay at odds with his quiet voice. Something told her they were standing in the middle of quicksand, and someone was going down. His eyes remained like slices of the cold, blue sea. His hand snaked out and yanked her to him.