by Barbara Goss
A sleepy-eyed Aunt Emily opened the door, finally. Still in her nightgown, she peeked around the half-open door.
"Oh, Sarah, it's you! Come in!"
"Sorry to bother you so early—but this is an emergency." "You're welcome anytime. Hurry in, dear," she invited, opening the door wide. "Sit here," she pointed to the rustic wooden table with four hand-carved chairs neatly arranged around it. "I'll make us some tea. You just missed Manny. He left ten minutes ago."
When comfortably sipping tea at the cozy kitchen table, Sarah confided her discovery, then asked bluntly if Emily had known about her father's parentage the whole time.
"Absolutely not! I wonder if your father even knew!" Emily exclaimed. "And if your mother knew, she never confided in me."
"Do you think father knew and that's why he hardly spoke of my gran—I mean Wilson Clarke?" asked Sarah.
"Could be. No way of knowing. Does this mean you must give up the ranch?" Emily asked, setting her shaking teacup back into its saucer.
"I don't know what to do," Sarah cried, wringing her napkin tightly as she spoke. "If you promise not to tell anyone, even Manny, I'll tell you another secret." When her aunt nodded, she continued. "Dawn and I found the second will. It does exist. Wilson Clarke did leave the ranch to his son, his only son, Storm."
"Oh, dear!" exclaimed Emily, hands flying to her face.
"But," Sarah said quietly, "Dawn made me promise not to tell Storm that we found it. She doesn't want Storm to marry Little Bird either."
Sarah sighed. "Now I don't know what to do! Should I keep the ranch and Storm? Or let them both go? I can't do one without the other."
"Well," said Emily knowingly, "it not being your secret alone, you had better talk it over with Dawn as soon as possible. ‘Never put off till tomorrow what can be done today’," she quoted, making Sarah smile despite her woes.
"There is, however, a good side to this, my dear," her aunt clucked. "It means Storm is not a blood relative of yours. Your children won't be—"
"Aunt Emily! I hadn't even thought about that! Though it does me no good, for Storm still believes I am, and if I tell him otherwise, I not only lose the ranch, but most importantly, him. I lose to a loveless marriage," she said, pounding her fist upon the table in desperation.
Then Sarah grabbed her aunt's hand. "Promise me you won't tell Manny. Not yet, please?"
Sarah had noticed a change in Little Bird lately. She seemed warmer to Sarah and sought her out often. Sarah didn't know what had brought on this sudden friendliness, but as Aunt Emily had told her when they'd discussed it, "Never look a gift horse in the mouth."
Sarah thought that Little Bird's turnabout might be due to their interest in her baby. She and Aunt Emily had made a full basket of clothing, and Little Bird cooed over each tiny garment.
Because of Little Bird's now being underfoot constantly, Sarah hadn't yet spoken to Dawn about her discovery from the diary. She had to be sure of Little Bird's whereabouts before discussing anything so crucial.
Sarah also had few personal confrontations with Storm. Even when he helped with the books, he stuck to business. It seemed to Sarah that whenever his eyes grew soft and she thought their romantic relationship would reopen, he would excuse himself quickly on some pretense of an errand.
Storm and the crew continued their hard work on the fence that they boasted would be two miles long when completed. Storm explained it as the newest method for ranchers to keep their herds together for easy roundup and to keep them safe from rustlers.
Sarah and Emily finally sat and carefully worded a letter to Sarah's mother. If Agnes Clarke stopped home after her European trip instead of going directly to the Centennial Exposition in Philadelphia, which she had planned to visit, she would receive the letter in a few weeks. Of course they hadn't mentioned Wilson Clarke's secret or Storm. But Emily's marriage story had to be told. They wondered how Agnes would respond to that!
Surprisingly, writing to Agnes Clarke and thinking of home hadn't given Sarah or Emily an ounce of homesickness. Firmly rooted in Texas were Emily's life and Sarah's heart.
Sunday soon became Sarah's favorite day at the ranch. She enjoyed the services and later the fellowship of the others, who could enjoy light socializing, unhurried by their usual duties.
As Storm had promised, no one at Arrow C worked on Sunday. Even Rosa, who prepared Sunday's simple meals on Saturday, relaxed in a rocking chair on the front porch each Sunday.
Yet Sarah grew restless. The more she read her Bible, went to church services, and sang praises to God, the more her conscience nagged her.
She knew she was doing wrong, yet because of her love, couldn't do otherwise. She also knew if this strain continued, she'd soon buckle and give up everything. But how fond she'd grown not only of Storm but also of the ranch, Dawn, Rosa, and the whole crew. How could she leave all this?
Fortunately, keeping busy helped Sarah keep her mind from her dilemma. She and Aunt Emily continued making baby clothes, and Red Moon made a wooden cradle. Little Bird often sat for hours, smoothing the wood and rocking it gently. She would fondle each nightgown and sweater made for her baby. Sarah often caught Little Bird gazing at her strangely, as if puzzled by Sarah's benevolence, yet other times Little Bird's looks toward her revealed barefaced contempt.
One evening Little Bird's biting sarcasm and poison-arrow glares became too much for Sarah, so she decided to retire early. She climbed the stairs, feeling the stabbing pain in her back from Little Bird's sharp, hateful black eyes. A quick glance behind her, when she reached the landing, confirmed the sensation. She couldn't get to her room fast enough, it seemed. Finally, she slipped soundlessly between her door and frame, resting her head back against the closed wooden portal.
Eyes closed, she sighed. A sound caused her blue eyes to fly open and anxiously scan the room by the orange light of the fast-fading evening sunset. A stooped figure at the foot of her bed straightened slowly and turned toward her in embarrassment.
"Storm!" she gasped. "Whatever are you doing here?" Noting that the quilt's corner had been lifted, the bureau drawers left partially opened, and that the closet door stood ajar, she came to her own conclusions.
Sarah tapped her foot impatiently. "So you're finally hunting for the will. I can assure you, I've searched this room completely. Is Little Bird becoming impatient for her husband?"
"I wasn't looking for the will," he stated firmly.
"What then?" she demanded, foot still tapping, arms akimbo.
He approached her, placing his hands on her shoulders. "I was making sure your room was—ah—safe."
"Safe? Oh, come on Storm. You can do better than that." Probably because of her own guilty conscience, she blurted an accusation at him. "You think I found the will and have it hidden here!"
Moving his hands from her shoulders to his pockets, he said softly, "No. I know you'd never do anything like that."
Sarah gulped and prepared to confess everything. He trusted her! How could she do this to him? On the verge of confessing the truth, her mind suddenly fled from her guilt and focused on his explanation.
"I guess, having been caught in the act, I owe you an honest answer." He shuffled his feet uncomfortably. "Several of the crew have spotted Black Feather on the property, and that worries us. They say he likes revenge. He's one Indian I've not been able to get through to at all."
"You were looking for Black Feather here? In my room?" she asked, disbelief apparent in her impatient tone.
"No, silly." He cuffed her chin lightly. "I thought he might put something harmful in here. Something deadly, like a poisonous snake or spider. The crew hinted at some of his methods."
Sarah gasped fearfully. "You think he might? Did you look all over?"
"The room is safe. But if you don't mind, I'd like to sleep in the next room for a few nights. Mother can sleep in the room Emily left." He walked to the door. "If you need me, just holler."
"Storm…," she faltered contritely, "I'm—"
>
"No apologies. I would have thought the same in your place. Good night." He winked and was gone before Sarah could thank him.
~ C H A P T E R 9 ~
Dressed in the borrowed pants and a soft, Victorian- collared white blouse, Sarah mounted Red early the next morning and headed for her favorite spot. Breathing in the fresh, crisp morning air, she sighed—she would miss this place!
As they loped toward the stream, a sudden noise stunned her into halting Red. Something had whizzed by her head. She heard the sound again and swung her head around. Flame- tipped pain seared through her forehead. Her hand shot to her temple. It felt wet—blood! Dazed, Sarah fell from her horse into soft, cushioning bushes.
The sound of hoof-beats approaching caused her to freeze in her awkward position. Was her attacker coming to finish the job?
As the rider came into better view, Sarah sighed with relief and threw her head back on the flowering mattress that had caught her. Storm!
Bounding off his horse, he ran to her. "Are you all right? What happened?"
"It's just a scratch. I was hit with something, by someone."
Touching her bloodied temple lightly, her face twitched in pain.
"Sure you're all right?" Storm asked, his worried gray eyes inspecting her anxiously.
She nodded.
He remounted. "Stay right there. Don't move!" He rode off in the direction in which she'd been traveling.
Being immobile and having little choice in the matter, Sarah obeyed. Her middle had sunk so low into the bush that she couldn't get enough leverage to hoist herself out of her haven anyway.
Soon Storm returned, frowning. "Your attacker left no trail. Definitely an Indian! Probably Black Feather. I knew he was up to something. That's why I followed you." He sighed. "This is all my fault."
"If you'll just help me out of this shrubbery, I'll forgive you," Sarah quipped impatiently.
Strong hands gripped her trim waist, lifted her effortlessly, and set her down upon her feet. She swayed slightly. His hands tightened, steadying her. Whenever they were this close, she felt drawn to him as the livestock were drawn to the Cimarron River after four days without water.
She searched his eyes. Yes, he felt it, too. Would the power of their magnetism overcome them yet again? But no, he donned his disciplined look. Holding her at arm's length, he asked brusquely, "Will you be all right, or are you going to faint on me?"
"You can let go of me," she snapped. "I won't faint. I know my nearness repulses you, which is probably why you've been avoiding me. Go ahead, let go!" She shrugged his hands from her shoulders.
"You know that's not true, Sarah. Quite the contrary. But one of us has to be strong."
"Why? Why, Storm? Why can't you let things fall into place? Can't you simply tell Little Bird—“
"Sarah, we've been over this. Now let's get you to the house. That cut needs attention. Looks like you were clipped by a small rock."
She planted her feet firmly, crossing her arms across her chest. "I refuse to go with you. I can be stubborn, too!"
With an amused look Storm said, "And you think I can't move you?" Stepping toward her, he swept her up and placed her on his horse. Climbing up behind her, he said, "Now, let's find Red."
She leaned back, snuggling playfully against his broad chest.
"This is much better than walking!"
"Sarah! What am I to do with you?" he sighed, gently pushing her forward. "My mother is sure God sent you to me, but I'm thinking it's Satan's doing, the way you act! The Bible warns: 'For the lips of a strange woman drip as an honeycomb, and her mouth is smoother than oil: But her end is bitter as wormwood, sharp as a two-edged sword.' "
"You think that about me? I belong to God, Storm! Does Little Bird share your God? Perhaps she's the strange woman with honey dropping from her lips! Stop this horse," she fumed. "I prefer to walk!"
Sliding off the nearly halted horse, she stomped off on foot, without a backward glance.
"Sarah," he called, riding after her. "I'm sorry."
She forgave him instantly but was reluctant to let him out of his noose so quickly. She kept walking.
When she heard his horse running behind her, she wondered what he intended but refused to turn and look.
Suddenly, with one strong arm, he scooped her off the ground and placed her in front of him on the saddle. "I want you here," he whispered, nuzzling her ear, "where you belong."
"Then, why…?” she asked. Tears stung her eyes.
He stopped the horse. "I want to be fair with you." He tenderly wiped a tear from her cheek with his index finger and spoke in a gentle, low voice that instantly soothed her. "Come, let's sit down somewhere and talk."
Helping her off the horse, he asked attentively, "Are you sure your head is all right?"
She nodded. "I'd forgotten all about it."
"Come then." He led her by the hand to a large shade tree.
While she made herself comfortable beneath the large, leafed branches, Storm wet his handkerchief from a canteen hanging from his saddle.
"Here." He held the cloth to her head gently. "This may help."
"You said you'd be fair. That will help more," she replied.
He dotted her wound with the fabric, making her wince. "What I'm doing is good for this wound, yet it hurts, doesn't it?" His voice was low and gentle but insistent. "It's the same with what I have to tell you. It'll be best in the long run, but it's going to hurt now. Do you understand, Sarah?"
She nodded, mesmerized by his soothing tone and sincere eyes.
Like a velvet murmur, his voice continued. "I don't find putting my arms around you repulsive. Just the opposite. Whenever I'm near you all I think of is holding you, kissing you, and making you mine. I think of the sweetness we've shared and the honest expression of your heart. How easy it would be to give in to my desires, but that wouldn't be fair. I have nothing to offer. I'm bound by a promise I must keep.
"You're a beautiful, vibrant young woman, and if things were different…. But they aren't. Stolen kisses here and there aren't fair to you, Little Bird, or me. I'm pledged to her and have no right romancing you or any other woman. You see, it's a dead end for us, Sarah. Please, help me keep my word and my honor."
"Giving me up isn't so difficult for you, is it, Storm?"
"Sarah," he whispered gruffly, tilting up her chin, his eyes piercing hers, "it's the hardest thing I've ever had to do."
The love in his eyes made her heart glow with warmth.
"Why does that make me feel better? It shouldn't. I want you happy." Sarah sighed and searched Storm's eyes. "I love you, Storm." Tears choked her voice. "I'll never love anyone the way I love you."
"Sarah, I want to speak words of love, too, but that would only make things harder." He held her face between his hands. "But I will tell you this much. Since returning from Dodge, I haven't been searching for the will, though I know it's in that house somewhere. Do you know why?"
She shook her head.
"Because, now I'm afraid I'll find it."
"Storm!" Her tear-laden eyelashes flew up.
"Stalling, giving God more time is all." He spoke in a matter-of-fact but gentle tone. "And you said something in anger a moment ago that may be the key I'm looking for in knowing for sure what God wants for me. I don’t know if Little Bird belongs to God. God wouldn't want me to marry an unbeliever. Little Bird goes through all the motions, yet . . . I don't know. The baby's due anytime. I can't wait much longer. But remember, God will always come first in my life. If only I knew for sure what He wants me to do. I thought I knew before, but now…." He shook his head in helpless confusion.
"I think I understand," she whispered compassionately.
Storm patted her hand, and his face softened with concern.
"Will you go back to the house with me now and have that cut fixed?" he asked, stroking her hair lightly.
"Storm," she faltered, gazing up into his warm, gray eyes. "I understand . . . now. I promise no
t to tease, but could we have one more intimate moment to remember for all time?"
Storm's answer was immediate. His lips descended on hers gently. Though the kiss was urgent and desperate, being their last, it remained untainted by any emotion or motivations other than pure, unadulterated love.
They returned to the house with an unspoken agreement, one that had been sealed with a kiss to remember forever.
Thanks to Storm, Sarah now had a bodyguard. Her faithful servant—and proud of the honor—Snakebite, now followed her wherever she went.
Entering the sun-filled dining room that first morning with her bodyguard, she found Dawn alone and greeted her.
"I heard about your companion." Dawn smiled.
"I'm flattered by Storm's concern." Sarah helped herself to coffee and toast from the sideboard.
Dawn stared thoughtfully at Sarah. "It pleases me, too, but--” her eyes darted furtively about the room for unwelcome ears—“we must do something about Little Bird! Her time draws closer. Storm is determined to…”
"Wait!" Sarah whispered. "Let's take a walk in the meadow. I, also, have something to discuss that mustn't be overheard."
Dawn nodded. Sarah finished her coffee, rose from the table, and lead the way, with Storm's mother following and Snakebite hurrying to keep up.
Strolling casually across the field of gently waving wild growth, Sarah stopped and looked about. She was glad Snakebite lingered behind them. Now she could talk to Dawn.
Standing in the middle of the field, Sarah felt like a ship at sea, surrounded by an ocean of flowing weeds and wildflowers. "So what's your news?" Dawn prompted, hands on hips.
"I read my grandmother's diary; I found her secret," she admitted, the breeze gently blowing loose tendrils of her fair hair.
"Oh, that!" Dawn disregarded her confession with a wave of her hand.
"You knew that I wasn't Wilson's granddaughter?"
“Of course. Wilson and I kept no secrets. He asked me not to mention it; I didn't."
"Not even to save the ranch for your son?"