by HELEN HARDT
Song of the Raven
Daughters of the Prairie: Book Three
Helen Hardt
Contents
Copyright
Praise for Song of the Raven
Praise for Helen Hardt
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
The End
Message from Helen Hardt
Also by Helen Hardt
Acknowledgments
About the Author
This book is an original publication of Helen Hardt.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not assume any responsibility for third-party websites or their content.
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Copyright © 2016 Waterhouse Press, LLC
Cover Design by Viola Estrella
Cover Photos: Fotolia
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All Rights Reserved
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic format without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
Praise for Song of the Raven
Rhythm of the Drum proves love follows no formula.
~Paty Jager, EPIC Award winning author.
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Ms. Hardt did a great job of portraying the tenderness and emotion between Ella and Silver Raven. It is clear from the moment they meet, they have chemistry to burn. The love scenes between the two are very touching and well written.
~Pointsettia, Long and Short Reviews
Praise for Helen Hardt
Flawlessly written and in my opinion a work of art…
~Girly Girl Book Reviews
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Is it hot in here? I mean it’s July, the sun is blazing, but I’m sitting in an air conditioned house sweating bullets. Congratulations Ms. Hardt, you dropped me into the middle of a scorching hot story and let me burn.
~Seriously Reviewed
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Ms. Hardt has a way of writing that makes me forget I'm reading a book. It's more like slipping into a world she created and getting lost for a while.
~Whipped Cream Reviews
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I loved this book. The characters were wonderful. They each showed their vulnerable sides as well as their strengths. They are real people and have real problems but also some very loving solutions…
~Night Owl Reviews
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Ms. Hardt creates magic…
~The Romance Studio
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Helen Hardt writes as smooth as a hot knife cutting through butter. Her words take you away and you feel like you are watching the story play out right in front of you.
~Delightfully Dirty Reads
For my father, William Charles Betcher, who first encouraged me to write
Chapter One
The Black Hills of Dakota Territory, 1890
Ella Morgan threw a few more wild blackberries into her basket, paused, and turned her head toward the hills.
The drumming. Again. Rhythmic beating that was both beautiful and terrifying. Her heart thumped along, matching the cadence.
She wiped her hands, raw from the thick spiny foliage, on her muslin apron and hurried back to the dirt trail. Tonight her family would have blackberries and cream for dessert. If old Sukie felt like giving milk. Ella winced at the thought of milking the cranky old cow with her sore fingers. But milk her she would. It was her chore. Her duty to her family.
The pounding of the drums faded as she neared her family’s small cabin. She longed for the safety and security of their humble dwelling back in Minnesota, but Papa thought it important that he be here, in the Black Hills, to minister to the gold prospectors who risked going to hell because of their greed, their gluttony, and their lust. If he could convert some of the heathen red men while he was here, all the better.
Ella didn’t give a hoot about those avaricious men. Let them have their gold, their liquor, their soiled doves. As for the red men? She wouldn’t bother them. They should be allowed to live their own lives, have their own beliefs if they wanted. None of it concerned her.
What did she care if a bunch of greedy gluttons wanted to scour for riches in the Black Hills? If they were hell bound, so be it. Let God punish them. Clearly they were beyond redemption anyway. Several in town had offered Ella fistfuls of gold for an hour with her. Alone. She hadn’t told Mama or Papa. She couldn’t. The fear of what might happen to her kind father should he attempt to avenge her honor sliced into her stomach like a butchering blade.
She wanted to go back to her friends. Back to Andrew, the boy she had known since toddlerhood and who she had planned to marry.
“I’m home, Mama,” Ella said, opening the door to her family’s cabin.
Her mother stood over the wood stove, stirring a cast iron pot of stew.
Ella inhaled the meaty fragrance. “Smells good. I got enough berries for a nice dessert.”
“That’s fine, dear. Have you milked Sukie yet?”
Ella rolled her eyes. “No. Not yet.”
“You’d best get to it. The longer you make her wait, the nastier she’ll get.”
“Yes, I know.” Ella absently rubbed her shin where the cow had kicked her two days before. “I’ll do it now.” She grabbed a tin milking pail from the shelf above the pump and sauntered to the barn.
Picking berries. Milking Sukie. Listening to her father preach. Fending off indecent proposals from the gold diggers. Was that all life had to offer an eighteen-year-old woman in the Black Hills?
Maybe not all eighteen-year-old women. But for Ella Morgan, that’s all there was. She sighed. She’d never be able to leave her home. Her parents needed her. They hadn’t been the same since her older brother, David, had been kidnapped on the Kansas prairie fifteen years ago. Even her dream of marrying Andrew had been only that—a dream.
Her parents’ dependence on her was her joy. And her sorrow. Her cross to bear.
She opened the barn door, dreading the sight of that fat old cow. She edged inside. The afternoon sun cast its luminous rays through the windows on the west side of the barn. Hay rustled in Sukie’s stall.
“It’s just me, Sukie. I’ve come to let you kick me and snort at me.” She laughed to herself.
She walked toward Sukie but stopped when a low groan rumbled into her ears. “Sukie? Are you ill?”
She turned into the stall and gasped, dropping her pail with a clunk. A man sat on the ground, his back propped against the barn wall. Not just any man. An Indian clad in what appeared to be tan buckskin pants covered with hay. And moccasins. His chest was bare. Bronze and sculpted and bare. Ella’s breath caught, and she looked away. She shouldn’t stare at a man like that.
Her heart pounded. In fear? She wasn’t certain.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
He groaned again, and she returned her gaze to him. Blood seeped through the hay covering his left leg. “Oh! You’re hurt. My goodness.” What she thought might be fear vanished. Her heart churned with sympathy. She hated to see any living being suffer. She went to him and knelt down. “Can you understand me?”
“Yes
.” He panted, trembling. “I speak the white man’s tongue.”
“Good, good. What happened? How did you come to be here?”
“A bear. Attacked me. My horse… I…” He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
“Don’t try to talk.” Ella fidgeted with her skirts. What should she do now? “I’ll get my father. He’ll know what to do.”
“No!” The man jerked forward and grimaced. “No white men. Please.”
“But my father’s a preacher. He won’t harm you. I promise.”
He reached for her and grabbed her forearm. His black eyes melded to hers. “No. Please. Promise.”
Was it his tone that convinced her? The pleading in his big black eyes? The strange yet pleasant sensation of his hand on her arm? “I won’t. I won’t. Calm down. Let me take a look at your leg.”
He nodded, and Ella whisked away the soiled hay. Sukie bawled. “Yes, I know you need milking, but you’ll just have to wait.”
“Milk…her,” the Indian man said through clenched teeth.
“No, she can wait.”
“Please.” He hissed as he inhaled. “It is not right for an animal…to suffer.”
“But it’s all right for you to suffer?” Ella shook her head. “A fine thing.”
“We have a duty…to the animals we keep. To care for them.” He thunked his head against the barn wall, closed his eyes, and exhaled. “My wound can wait. Milk her.”
“If you insist.” How hard-headed could one man be? Clearly he wasn’t acquainted with Sukie. Ella picked up her pail and positioned the milking stool, sat down, and grasped two of the swollen teats. The cow bawled again. “See?” Ella gestured her head toward the Indian. “She’s not any happier now that I’m milking her. She just likes to whine.” Ella squeezed, and a stream of milk swooshed into the pail.
“She…does not know any better. She is old, yes?”
“Nearly as old as I am, truth be told,” Ella said, as more milk hissed into the pail.
“And how…old are you?” he rasped.
“Eighteen, a month ago today. You?”
“I have seen…twenty-five winters.”
She looked up from the pail. The Indian’s eyes were closed, and beads of sweat trickled down his forehead and cheeks. She whisked the bucket out from under Sukie and brought it to the Indian.
“Enough of this nonsense,” she said. “The cow can wait. You need tending. Here”—she held the pail to his lips—“fresh milk. Drink.”
“D-Don’t want it.”
“Did I ask you if you wanted it? No. I said drink. You need sustenance. When did you last eat?”
The Indian took a sip of the frothy milk. “This morning, before sunrise.”
“And it’s nearly suppertime now. Goodness. Take another.”
The Indian drank several more sips. “Enough.”
“For now,” Ella said. “Let me see your leg.” She began removing the sticky blood-soaked hay.
“You…do not fear me.”
“You’re hardly in a position to do me harm.”
“But if you came upon me. In the wild…”
“Then I’d likely run away screaming.” Ella said. “Is that what you want to hear?” She gasped at the extent of his wound. Flaps of his beautiful bronze skin gave way to blood and muck. “What on earth did you do to anger that bear?”
“It was…a she-bear. Not her fault. She was protecting her cubs.”
“And did you mean to cause her cubs harm?”
“Of course not. I would never—” He gasped when she moved his leg.
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“It is nothing. I am fine.”
“Not the bear’s fault, you say?” Ella inspected the exposed flesh. “Seems to me we might be able to blame her just a little bit.”
“No. She did not…know any better. Protecting her children, as any good mother would.”
“But you would not have harmed her children.”
“She…did not know that.”
“I see. How did you get away from her?” Ella examined the wound further. The blood was already clotting. Thank goodness. The man was in no immediate danger.
“Ran.”
“You outran a bear with a wound in your leg?”
“I believe she was more interested in her cubs than in me. And I run…fast. I am a warrior. Pain does not…stop me from doing what I must do.”
“It’s doing a pretty good job stopping you now, I’d say. And what of your horse?”
“Scared. Ran away.”
“Hmph. Fine thing. Do you inspire no loyalty in your property?”
“My horse is not…my property. We don’t own animals. Or land. We—” He coughed, and his chest heaved.
“That’s enough talking for now,” Ella snapped. “I need to get this wound cleaned and bound. I’m not sure how…” She stood and looked around. “You can’t stay in here. Papa will bring the horses in when he gets home, which could be any time now. Although I still think—”
“No. No white men.”
“Goodness.” Think, Ella think. What could she do with him? Whether she helped him or not, he couldn’t stay here in the barn. Ella paced, tapping her finger to her temple. The old soddy! He’d be warm and dry there, and she could tend him until he could walk back to wherever he came from.
But how would she get him there? On the other hand, he had run from a bear. He could no doubt walk a couple hundred yards.
“Do you think you can move?” she asked. “There’s a dugout on the property not far from here. You could stay there until you can travel back to your home.”
“Hau. Yes. I will do what I must.”
“My mother is in the cabin cooking supper. We must make haste. Come.” She leaned down and offered her arm.
“I can…do it myself.” He grunted as he attempted to rise.
“Have it your own way, then.” She looked away as he continued his ascent. His handsome face twisted into a grimace. Ella couldn’t bear his pain.
“I…go now,” he said.
She turned toward him. He was standing. A little wobbly, but he was standing. “Do you need help?”
He shook his head.
“Follow me, then.” Ella strode toward the door of the barn and peeked out. No sign of her mother or her father. She motioned to him and then cautiously walked out of the barn toward the old soddy. She walked briskly and hoped he kept up. She couldn’t tell without looking back. The Indian was extraordinarily quiet for someone in pain. When they reached the dugout built into the side of a hill, she unlatched the wooden door and pulled it open.
She wrinkled her nose at the musty odor. The room was tiny, even compared to her family’s small cabin, and had only one window. She’d need to find him a lantern or something. No, she realized. A lantern would draw attention to the soddy after dark. He’d have to make do with no light.
“Here we are,” she said. “I’ll bring you a blanket and tend to your wound after I finish supper. I’m sorry there isn’t much I can do now.”
“You have…done plenty. Many thanks.” He sat down on the dirt floor, braced his back against the wall lined with straw, and grunted. “What are you called?”
“You mean my name?”
“Yes.”
“Ella. Ella Morgan. You?”
“I am called Mazaska Kagi Taka.”
The melodic sounds of his language, in his deep and husky voice, melted over Ella. “That’s beautiful. Does it have a translation?”
“I am sorry. I do not…understand.”
“What does it mean?”
“In white man’s language, it means Silver Raven.”
“Oh.” Ella breathed. “That’s lovely. How did it come to be your name?
“When I was born, I had very thick black hair. But in the back there was a”—he winced—“streak of silver. My mother called me Silver Raven.”
“I didn’t notice the silver streak.”
“It is gone. My inf
ant hair fell out and grew in again, without the silver. But the name…it stayed.”
“I’m glad. It’s a beautiful name.”
“When a Lakota boy becomes a brave, he gets…a new name. I did not.”
“Why?”
“I was—” He grimaced.
“You don’t have to talk.” Ella patted his forearm but then whisked her hand away. She should not be touching him in a friendly manner. What would her parents say?
“I am…fine. When I was a young brave, I played…what is the word?” His forehead wrinkled. “Jokes. I played jokes on my friends. The raven is known to be…clever…and filled with…mischief. So my name…stayed.”
“What a nice story.” Ella wiped his forehead with the edge of her apron. “But no more talking now. You need to rest, and I need to join my family for supper. Later I’ll bring you some food and a blanket. And some water to clean your wound.”
“Many thanks. Ella Hopa. Lila Wiya Waste.”
Ella started to ask what he said, but stopped. His eyes were closed and his breathing had become shallow. He had fallen asleep. No doubt the best thing for him. She smoothed his thick black hair, slick with sweat, away from his troubled face. “I’ll return soon,” she whispered, wondering why her heart was beating faster than normal.
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The Lakota drumming pounded in Raven’s dreams. The roll, the fast drum beat, thumped in his ears, in his veins. His eyes flashed open, his heart pulsating in time with the nocturnal drum.
Where was he?
Trickles of sweat meandered down his cheeks and his bare chest. His right leg throbbed. He gasped as he tried to move it. Yes. The bear. He had run, had found shelter in the small barn on a white man’s homestead at the foot of the woods. Bits and pieces fogged his mind. The cranky cow. The woman. The beautiful woman with hair the color of the soft earth beneath him, her tresses pulled back in a long braid that fell below her waist. What would it look like unbound, cascading over her milky white shoulders and full breasts?
