Golden Roses

by Patricia Hagan

  She delighted in her quiet walks along the creek, especially in the early morning light, when a lavender mist kissed the earth before rising and dispersing. She never failed to marvel at the hundreds of colorful birds that flitted about: white-throated swifts, goldfinches, little violet- and green-colored swallows, tiny hummingbirds, and the gloriously blue-and-brown-feathered birds which no one had a name for. Dancing in the creek could be seen grebes, kingfishers, green-winged teals and the great blue herons.

  There was beauty here, and peace, and as she stared on out at the vast canyon beyond, cutting its ribbons of rocks through the earth, she could understand Cord’s hunger to explore.

  She walked over to where buckskins were stretched to dry in the sun, touching the glorious white color. They would, she knew, make warm and beautiful coats for her and Armand and the others, to ward off the cold winter ahead.

  Winter. A knot rose in her throat. Would she spend her winter here? Was this to be her future? With each day, the fear that Cord was not coming back became stronger. Once, she had voiced her trepidation to Noahax, who had told her that the big white man had left something with their leader, saying that he was to use it if the leader did not return. Amber had asked the leader about it, but he had stared at her stonily and refused to answer.

  She stared longingly at the creek, and lovely young Noahax, tending the turtle stew, saw her and said, “Bathing is not allowed during the ritual of death.” The young woman nodded toward the bluff below where they were standing.

  Amber heard a sudden, howling wail of grief and knew it was the women keeping watch over the body of old Hutegu, who had died two days before. He had been taken to his hut while a coffin was made of split logs and mud, and, his family hoped, give ample time for the dead man’s son to return from the hunt he and so many of the other warriors had been on for almost a week. The hunt was for deer and antelope to dry for winter.

  She admitted freely that she would miss these gentle people who had taken her under their wing and made her feel as though she truly belonged, and she knew Armand would miss them badly. He had been made to feel loved, even wanted. Perhaps, she realized with trepidation, he might not want to leave.

  Amber was standing beside Noahax when the midwife, Tuilate, called out to them.

  “Go to her,” Noahax said, without turning to Amber. “I must tend the stew. The other women are all mourning.”

  When she hesitated, Noahax snapped uncharacteristically. “You should want to learn all you can. One day, you will need to know the ways of birth,” she added with a sly wink, “for when your man returns, he will sleep with you, and you will become fat with his child.”

  Amber sputtered indignantly, “He…he will not. I won’t!” Sometimes she regretted the ease with which she and Noahax had learned to talk.

  The young woman laughed and waved her away. “Go! You will make old Tuilate angry. Go. I will come in soon.”

  Amber had no choice, not really. They treated her well, and she did not dare insult them. Warily, she approached the midwife, who was waving her to hurry, a frown in the time-ravaged lines of her face.

  Amber stepped inside the hut and winced at the sight of the woman thrashing painfully on the floor. Her hands were stretched up behind her head as she pulled on the rope there. Her body pushed downward in the agonized thrusts of birth.

  In a minute, Tuilate grunted with satisfaction and stooped to retrieve the wet, bloody infant who slid into her hands. She motioned to Amber to kneel beside her and follow her gestures. Amber held the writhing baby while Tuilate tied the umbilical cord.

  She tied the cord about an inch and a half from where it entered the infant, then cut it and dusted the stump with a powder of red ocher. The powder came from a secret place known only to the Indians. As she worked, Noahax entered silently.

  Tuilate took the baby from Amber’s outstretched arms and ran her fingers over its face, head, and body. This was to ensure that the boy-child would be handsome and well formed when he grew to be a warrior. Next, she wrapped a cloth around the stump of the cord. When the stump dropped off, she would wrap it once more and fasten it to his cradle.

  “Why do you want to save that?” Amber asked Noahax.

  “When a baby boy reaches the age of one year, what is left of the stump will be ground with red ocher and deer fat. The root of his birth will then be returned to him in three lines of painted drawings, lines drawn on his body. The ritual ensures that the child will not grow up to be troublesome and absentminded.”

  Amber kept quiet. It was not her place to argue with their beliefs.

  Together, she and Noahax tended the new mother, and when her newborn infant was asleep at her breast, they stepped outside the hut into the warm late afternoon sun.

  “I wonder if Armand is still hurt because the men wouldn’t take him hunting with them,” Amber mused as they walked toward the simmering pot of stew. “Every morning since they left, he’s gotten up to wander off by himself with that bow and arrow, and he never comes back till sundown.”

  Noahax nodded with understanding as she dipped a wooden spoon into the stew and tasted. “He is too young in body to hunt with the men, yet too old in spirit to play with the other children. He enjoys exploring by himself. I think he would have preferred being with your man in the deeper canyon.”

  Amber smiled wistfully. “Yes, he would have.” And so would I, she thought.

  Some of the men came up from the mourning area and helped themselves to the bubbling turtle stew. The women would eat after they had washed Hutego’s body one last time.

  Amber sat off to the side, keeping out of their way, dreading the burial ceremony. She had no choice but to attend.

  As the sun continued to sink, making dancing shadows of scarlet and purple, Amber became more and more gloomy. As it grew dark, Noahax held out her hand. “We go to mourn Hutego before he is taken to his final rest.”

  They made their way down to a flat, rocky ledge deeper in the recess of the canyon. Amber mused silently that only a few hours before, she had been part of a birth. Now she was going to a funeral. Life. Then death. But, somehow, only that time in between the two was mysterious.

  Beside her, Noahax lovingly fingered a faded, drying flower, which she had braided with a willow frond and hung about her neck. Amber knew how much it meant to her, for the handsome young warrior Sanakaja had brought it to Noahax from the dangerous inner reaches of the canyon below. Noahax had explained that when an Indian man loved an Indian woman, he proved his love by making the dangerous descent to the special place where a delicate golden flower bloomed. The flower grew only in very deep places. Some men died in the attempt to reach it, for the way was treacherous.

  Amber had been fascinated by the delicate golden blossom, so like a rose with its satin petals. A golden rose. Unlike any she had ever seen. A symbol of love. True love.

  Noahax caught her staring, and Amber whispered, “I am happy for you. Maybe I’ll still be here when you are married. I’ve seen birth here, and death, but not a wedding.”

  “I would like you to be here.” Noahax touched her briefly in a gesture of friendship. “Perhaps one day you will have a symbol of your own to cherish. Perhaps a gift from the one who is journeying now.”

  Amber said nothing. Cord was not thinking about loving her. She understood why he had gone with Major Powell, wanting to be part of the expedition and to learn about the hearing held in his absence.

  She recalled all she could of the nights on the trail when they had slipped into the woods after Armand fell asleep, feeling the night wind against their faces. How lovely those nights had been, the moon bathing the forest in amethyst light. They had made sweet, passionate love, and he had held her naked in his arms, kissing her body all over.

  The nights had passed too swiftly. They made love so many times Amber lost count. She knew she would always remember those precious nights, and she wondered if memories were all that were left to her.

  Chapter Thirty-Five />
  On a plateau overlooking the Indian village, Valdis Alezparito stood beside his horse and stared down, the blazing sun scorching him. His eyes narrowed; he removed his wide-brimmed sombrero, jerking the kerchief from his neck to rub at his sweaty face. He cursed in a low whisper.

  Beside him, Gerras watched silently, as he had been doing since early dawn, knowing it was not the time to speak. Never had he seen his leader so furious, so intent upon revenge.

  Tracking the woman Valdis desired so fiercely had been hard and dangerous. Too, there had been much to take care of at home. Valdis had been delighted to know of Maretta’s shrewd purchase of the Mendosa land he so coveted. For a flicker of an instant, he was uncomfortable about taking her to a life within the walls of the convent. But pity quickly faded. Pity and compassion, those were what cowards were made of.

  Now, after traveling countless miles over mountains and deserts, they had found Amber. Valdis’s other men had settled down to await orders while Gerras stood nearby, watching Valdis grow angrier with each passing hour. Finally, he dared to say, “It is foolish to think you can take her from Indians. Leave her. Let us return to the ranch. It is a certain death for us. There are only eight of us against all of them.”

  But Valdis seemed not to hear.

  Gerras said, “The men are getting angry. They wish to know how long you intend to remain here.”

  “Until darkness,” Valdis replied. “Then…I take what is mine.”

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  On the rocky ledge, some of the Indians were dancing a slow, rhythmic dance around the coffin. Now and then, one of the women would wail and others would join in. The eerie sounds echoed far into the canyon, to bounce back and ring round them.

  When it was dark, the coffin was opened, and all filed by for a last look.

  Amber did not want to see the cold, stiff body, but reminded herself once more of her duty. She tried not to stare at what was in the coffin—blankets, food, tools, and jewelry that had belonged to the dead man.

  With a shudder, she stumbled away.

  Noahax appeared at her side again and said, “We will remain here until dawn. Then we make the journey below, to where Hutego will be buried, near the waterfall, and—” She broke off, turning to look behind her.

  Amber followed her gaze, refusing to believe what she saw. She was asleep. She had to be. “Dear God, no,” she whispered, her hands clutching her throat. “It can’t be!”

  “Ah, but it is.” Valdis chuckled, delighted, pointing his rifle at the gathering of mourners. “Querida, it was senseless for you to think you could ever escape me. You belong to me.”

  All around the bewildered Indians, Mexicans stepped from their hiding places. Caught in the dancing and wailing, they had not heard them slipping up to surround them. They could only stare silently, fearfully, for the young men were away and the old people and women saw the angry, determined Mexican men were more than they could fight.

  Valdis did not take his eyes away from Amber. “Well, querida? Have you no word of welcome?”

  “What do you want?” she cried in a voice braver than she felt.

  Valdis asked coldly, “Will you go peacefully, or must we kill all your friends?”

  “You’re a brave man, aren’t you, Valdis? You have a gun and all your bandits. We have only old men and women and children here.”

  He hissed, “Do not provoke me. You have much punishment coming. Once I have had you all I want, then I will have you tortured until you scream for mercy. Now come. We have a long way to travel.”

  In that moment, all she could think of was Armand. Would he have the sense to stay out of sight, or would Valdis send a man to search for him? So distracted was she that she barely heard the swishing sound. Suddenly Valdis screamed, his hands going to his face, blood spurting through his fingers. Amber watched, stunned, slowly taking in the horrible sight of the arrow protruding from an eye. Valdis fell to his knees, writhing in agony.

  The Indians scattered, terrified, and Valdis’s men, assuming they were being attacked, also ran.

  Only Amber remained, frozen, watching as Valdis cried out as he rolled in anguish upon the ground.

  A movement on a nearby ledge caught her attention, and she looked up in wonder to see Armand standing on the rock, silhouetted by the rising moon beyond him, a grim expression on his face…and a bow in his hand. Armand had shot the arrow!

  “Run!” she screamed, fearing Valdis’s men would return. “Run, Armand!”

  He looked down at her solemnly, then turned and silently disappeared into the night.

  Amber quickly found Valdis’s rifle, which he had dropped when he fell. He had lost consciousness by then and lay very still. Spotting one of the old Indian women peering from the scrub, she motioned her over. Noahax also crept forward. A few moments later, she called to Amber, “We have removed the arrow. We will pack the wound to try to stop the bleeding, but the eye is lost.”

  “Will he live?” Amber asked, not really caring.

  “Maybe.”

  Amber knew that if there was one among Valdis’s men who would not desert him, it would be Gerras. She called to him again and again, her voice ringing out to echo in the canyon.

  Finally, he appeared, holding his hands above his head. “Do not shoot,” he said apprehensively.

  “Don’t make me,” she warned, then nodded to Valdis. “Take him and go. Tell his men not to dare come back. The other warriors will return any moment, and they will be waiting for you if you come back here.”

  Amber asked Noahax to have a signal fire built at once. It would bring the hunters back. Then she left the scene and went into the forest alone.

  She watched as the sun rose over the mountains to kiss the world awake, a gentle pink mist rising from the canyon depths. She stared down at Armand, who had come to her during the night to sleep, curled up with his head in her lap. Touching his tousled hair fondly, she smiled. He was going to be as brave and courageous as his father. He had saved her from Valdis, perhaps saved all of them.

  Staring into the mist surrounding them, she knew the time had come to leave that peaceful place. Cord had obviously met his destiny elsewhere. It was time for her to do the same.

  “Amber,” a husky voice called.

  Her head whipped around. She must have imagined that beloved voice, she decided, then stared in disbelief at the vision of Cord striding toward her.

  “I…I don’t believe it,” she cried, gently laying Armand aside and struggling to her feet. “Is it you?” she gasped, “or an apparition of the mist?”

  He wrapped strong arms around her and tightly held her to him. “It’s me, Amber. I wish I’d gotten here sooner. Noahax told me what happened. Thank God for the boy. If I had come back and found you gone again…”

  He moved back to gaze down at her, his hands framing her face gently. “I love you, Amber. I always will,” he said simply.

  Stepping back, he reached inside his jacket and withdrew something, placing it in her hands.

  She stared down in wonder at a golden rose. “You knew…” she whispered. “You knew about the legend?”

  “I knew, and I believe in it. I hope you believe in it too.”

  With a cry of joy, she flung her arms fiercely around him. Their lips met in a pledge of love, a pledge that was theirs at long, long last.

  There would be no more doubts, no fears, for the golden rose sealed their devotion for always and ever.

  About the Author

  Patricia Hagan might be the New York Times bestselling author of 38 novels and 2500 short stories, but she can also lay claim to being among the vanguard of women writers covering NASCAR stock-car racing. The first woman granted garage passes to major speedways, she has awards in TV commentary, newspaper and magazine articles, and for several years wrote and produced a twice-weekly racing program heard on 42 radio stations in the south.

  Patricia’s books have been translated into many languages, and she has made promotional trips to Eur
ope, including England, France, Italy, Norway, Greece, Turkey, Croatia, Spain and Ireland.

  Hagan’s exciting eight-book Coltrane saga, which spans from the Civil War to the Russian Revolution, has appeared on every major bestseller list and is one of the most popular series published in France, never having been out-of-print in that country in nearly 30 years.

  Born in Atlanta, Georgia, Patricia grew up all across the United States due to her father’s position as a federal attorney, finally settling in Alabama where she graduated from the University of Alabama with a major in English. She now resides with her husband in south Florida where she volunteers as a Court-appointed Guardian Ad Litem for abused children.

  But of all her accolades and accomplishments, Patricia most of all loves to boast of being the proud mom of a Navy SEAL.

  Look for these titles by Patricia Hagan

  Now Available:

  Souls Aflame

  Passion’s Fury

  This Savage Heart

  The Coltrane Saga

  Love and War

  The Raging Hearts

  Love and Glory

  Love and Fury

  Love and Splendor

  Love and Dreams

  Love and Honor

  Love and Triumph

  Coming Soon:

  Love’s Wine

  Midnight Rose

  For April Jennings, betrayal by her own blood leads to the love of a lifetime.

  Passion’s Fury

  © 2012 Patricia Hagan

  After her father’s death at the start of the Civil War, April Jennings is stripped of her inheritance by her spiteful twin, and sent to a strict convent in the Georgia Mountains. But on the way to the convent, her captors agree to a horse race with dashing rogue Rance Taggart…and April is the prize. He wins easily, and April becomes his. And despite her anger and rage towards Rance, she finds her heart cannot resist the desire and love that smolder within.