by Gorman, A.
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Crazy Woman Creek
By Ryan Jo Summers
The Legend of Crazy Woman Creek
Back in the days when horses ran wild and Native Americans shared the land, a great river stretched between two tribes, the Comanche and the Kiowa.
On one side lived Bear Paw, a promising young warrior. He stood tall and straight among his people. On the other side was Red Feathers, the prettiest maiden of all. Every brave wanted Red Feathers, but Bear Paw loved her. He brought ponies and furs, and they planned to marry.
Then a great war broke out among many different tribes. Bear Paw kissed Red Feathers and promised to return soon, but an arrow pierced his heart and he died. Word came back to Red Feathers.
She rode her pony into the great river, wailing her song of mourning. She lifted her arms high to the skies, her screams of grief echoing off the rock walls and towering trees. Her true love was gone, and her heart bled.
Both tribes could hear her screams and cries all that day, and all that night, and through the following day. She was senseless in her grief. Then in the darkness of the second day, her mourning silenced. Her pony returned alone. They went to search for Red Feathers, but she was never seen again. The river now was colored red.
To this very day, on still nights and foggy mornings, when you go near the water, you can hear the anguished cries of a woman—crazy with grief. Sometimes folks still see her footprints along the shore, leading into the water. And sometimes, depending on the moon, the water turns red.
Chapter 1
This place would give a strong man chills, even on the brightest day. Stretching out from the dark foothills above and winding along the valley thick with pines and scrub trees, the waters had a way of mocking. Brave travelers swore they heard the scream of a woman, especially on full moonlit nights. Maybe there was something to the old legend: a grief-stricken woman and her endless cries of crazy sad pain. And red water was just plain creepy.
Dawson Lonigan shivered and yanked his denim jacket tighter, drawing the collar up. Trust those stupid cows to wander into this god-forsaken place. The wind picked up, howling with a dreadful wail, setting Dawson’s teeth on edge. Sensing his unease, his buckskin gelding beneath him flattened his ears, snorted, and shied.
“Easy, boy.” He tightened the reins. “Just the wind.” He patted Ben’s neck reassuringly. How had such a warm day turned into a dark, cool, and windy maelstrom simply by riding into the dismal Crazy Woman area? Life’s mysteries, he supposed. Or the legend. A chill slithered up his spine. Bawling reached his ears, and he almost whooped for joy. Gratefully, he reined Ben toward the scrub trees the sound came from. “C’mon, Ben, let’s go round up those fool critters.” Personally, he couldn’t get out of there fast enough.
He could just make out the white, black, brown, and brindle patterns of the cows when Ben snorted and shied again. Nearly unseated, Dawson tapped his heels against the horse’s flanks.
“Ben! What the hell?” A new sound, a low moan, surfaced, distinguishing itself from the bawling of the cows. He followed Ben’s nervous eye rolls to a low bush, full of thick green boughs. He squinted and made out…cloth, not cowhide. Cold shivers raced over him at the sight of a shoeless, slender foot.
“It’s a human!” Jumping from the saddle, he removed his pistol from its belt sheath—just in case—and approached the prone figure on the ground.
Dawson dropped to one knee and parted the branches. His eyes widened, and his breath hitched at the sight of the unresponsive woman dressed in ivory slacks and a ruffled peach blouse. Bruises and red scratches marred her face and arms. Twigs and leaves tangled in her long, dark hair. His heart beating fast, he scrubbed his jaw, swallowed hard, and tapped her shoulder.
“Ma’am? Can you hear me? Are you all right?” He never understood why one was supposed to ask that last question when the answer seemed obvious. Hell no, she wasn’t all right, you dummy. “Ma’am?” He gave her another—less gentle—shake.
She moaned softly, and her eyelids fluttered open. She blinked rapidly and finally settled on him. He smiled at her confused, coffee-brown eyes.
“Howdy.” He tipped his hat. “My name’s Dawson Lonigan.” When she failed to answer, he jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “That’s Ben, my horse.” She gave a nod, stopping as if it hurt. Fresh spikes of fear raced over Dawson. “Ma’am, is anything broken? Can you get up?” He looked around. “And where is your horse?” Poorly trained critter to take off after losing its rider. He holstered his weapon and searched around for her missing shoe. This was going to be tricky. He rocked back on his heels and pushed his hat back. “Can you tell me how you ended up way out here alone?”
She slowly scooted to a sitting position, and he could tell it hurt. She clenched her teeth, and the spark in her eye told him she had a fire in her soul. Instantly, he found himself drawn to her spirit and her grit. All great qualities he admired. Then he noticed the dried trail of blood behind her right ear.
“Where is this?” she asked, her voice a faint whisper.
Startled, Dawson stared a moment. “Are you saying you’re lost? This is Crazy Woman Creek.” He gestured toward the sound of the river flowing nearby. “I’m hunting my cattle over yonder. Hear ’em bawling? My ranch, the Tica, is just over that ridge there.”
She followed his hands blankly as he directed and drew her knees to her chest, wrapping her arms around her knees as if cold. Immediately, he shrugged off his jacket and draped it around her slender shoulders, not helping but to inhale her perfume. Flowers and fruit. He liked it.
“That better, Ma’am?” At her stiff nod, he settled back on his heels again, studying her. What a predicament. “So what can you tell me about how you came to be out here?”
She looked out at the landscape, drew her lower lip in, and gave him a sad shake of her head. “I don’t know.”
What did she mean? Thunderbolts shot through him. “Was anyone else with you?”
This time tears formed in her eyes, and she blinked them away. “I don’t know.”
Dawson’s heart thumped fast, like when Sierra told him she had something to tell him and she knew he wasn’t going to like it. That same dark feeling of foreboding. Dread. Oh shit. He wet his lips. The cattle bawled. A coyote howled. “Ma’am. Will you please tell me your name?”
She huddled closer into his jacket, shivering a little and casting an anxious look around. Fresh tears misted on her eyelashes. “I would if I knew it myself.”
Her words, softly spoken as a whisper in the wind, punched Dawson in the gut, leaving him weak. Damnation! Amnesia! That sure explained a lot. But how the devil did a lone woman get the hell out here, afoot, missing her shoe, and injured? It was probable her mount spooked at something, threw her, and took off. Except where did she come from? She wasn’t a local, and she sure wasn’t dressed for a ride in the mountains.
Better yet, now that he’d found her, what was he going to do about her? As Sierra was fond of saying, finders keepers. That hardly applied in this case, but it was a starting point. Swallowing his many misgivings, he pasted on a smile he hoped looked friendly and reassuring, because he reckoned she sure needed friendly and reassuring about now. His rogue cattle would just have to wait. He pulled in an unsteady breath.
“Ma’am, like I said, my name’s Dawson. Do you reckon you can sit up there on top of Ben with me?”
Her bewildered gaze traveled to the grazing horse before returning to him. Long enough for him to think of a plan.
“To where?”
“My ranch, the Tica.” He nodded northeasterly. “You can clean up, rest, and get a bit of grub.” He shrugged. And hopefully remember who you are. “Decide if there is
anyone we can call to come and get you.”
She seemed to consider his offer, as if she had others to compare it against. He smiled, amused at her grit even now. Most folks would have jumped at the offer of a rescue with both hands waving. Little Miss Tough-As-Nails would take his rescue—probably—but she’d also make sure he knew she would not be beholden to him. Oh yeah, he liked her a lot.
“All right. Fine.”
Yep, he sure liked her plenty. Likely too much. Especially for a lady who didn’t even know who she was.
Chapter 2
She gazed at the big horse as it cropped grass by the trees. A shiver involuntarily stole over her, despite the warmth and hay smell of the jacket. She returned her attention to the man and his question. Rugged. In a word, that would be how she would describe him. Ruggedly built. He appeared as solid as the trees around them. Ruggedly handsome. Her fingers yearned to tug at his thick dark hair and play with his equally dark beard. Ruggedly commanding. He took charge while she failed to produce something as simple as her own name or how she came to be out here in this desolate wilderness. Both were absolute mysteries to her.
His piercing blue eyes studied her with intelligence and patience and a touch of amusement. She wondered what he found so amusing while pain racked her head and jarred most her body and frustration gnawed at her. One thing she felt certain of, however, was that she had never been on a horse.
“Ready, Ma’am?”
No, but she lacked better deals. She sucked in a painful breath and gripped his hand. She felt the gentle strength that promised a greater strength and the hardened callouses. Electricity passed between them like tiny slivers of lightning. Had he felt them too, or was she delusional as well? She met his blue eyes again, feeling her heart skip a few beats and her mouth move into an “O” of bewildered surprise.
“Ma’am?”
She shook her head, regretting the motion as fresh pain raced through her brain, followed by warm blood trickling from the wound by her temple.
“Wait a second. Here.” Dawson must have noticed it, too. He propped her against a tree trunk and unknotted the red handkerchief tied around his throat. He folded it into squares and gently pushed her hair aside. He laid the folded cloth over the wound and guided her fingers to it. “Hold that steady till it sets. I’ll fix it proper once we get to the ranch.”
She was beginning to look forward to the ranch place he called Tica for several reasons.
He studied her, eyes anxiously darting over her. Now, just inches separating them, she smelled the cinnamon on his breath. Gum?
“Lean on me. We’ll still be an awkward hobble, but we can’t have you strutting around here without two shoes.”
She wordlessly complied, wrapping her arm around his torso. Beneath his shirt, she felt his tight, corded muscles and washboard abs. She knew she’d felt slender men before but none as fit and well-developed as Dawson. How could she be so sure of that and not know her own name?
Dawson gingerly lifted her up into the saddle as though she were made of porcelain.
“Are you sure he can carry both of us?” she asked. She felt his chuckle as she curled her arms around his middle.
“Doubt he’ll notice the difference.” He clucked once. “Get up, boy.”
She felt him lean to the left, and the horse turned left. As it lurched, she slid into Dawson and tightened her grip. “Oh!” The startled exclamation spilled out as she vainly swung her feet in a pitiful attempt to find something to hold onto.
“Hold tight to me. We’ll be to Tica in no time.”
The horse had a rhythmic step once he found it, and she rested her cheek against the rough cotton of Dawson’s shoulder, closing her eyes. Muscles slid beneath the fabric as he controlled the horse, but she barely noticed. All she knew was the cinnamon scent wafting back and the soft words he spoke to the horse.
“Where did you say we were?”
“Crazy Woman Range. Henderson County, Texas.”
Texas? What was she doing in Texas? Instinctively, she knew this was not home. Vacation? Business trip? So where was home? Who was she traveling with? Or was she traveling alone? Thinking about it only made her head ache more. She focused on the rumble of his voice.
She was almost asleep when she felt the shift in stride of the horse. “Good boy,” Dawson praised. She pried her heavy eyelids open and looked around. Brown fencing stretched for miles. Horses milled along some fencing, and cows dotted others. In the center, flanked by tall, red barns, stood a two-story stone house wrapped in a long porch and multiple balconies.
“Yours?”
“Yep. Tica.” He held out his arm, and she grabbed hold to swing down. Within seconds, he joined her, searching her face. “Lean on me. You look pale.”
Exhausted, she nodded. What was his wife going to think of him bringing an unknown woman inside?
They entered through a side door. Stunned, she realized the door wasn’t even locked. Somewhere in the recess of her mind, she pictured an elaborate home security system. Was it hers? If so, what did the actual house look like? Nothing solid came to mind.
“We’re as awkward as a three-legged sack race, but we’ll get there,” Dawson said, cutting her a grin. “I could carry you.”
Her throbbing foot cried out in favor of that, and images of his strong arms hefting her like some sort of prize filled her mind. Sudden heat rushed over her, blood pumped, and she feared her wound might spring another leak. “Umm, no, this is fine. You did say we’re almost there?” Was it just her or did she sound disappointed?
For distraction, she studied her surroundings. Vaulted ceilings with wood beams, large, ample windows flooded with daylight, and overstuffed contemporary furniture in neutral colors. A few green plants spread their stalks toward the light. Photos of a blonde-haired, blue-eyed girl decorated the walls, either in school poses or playing outside in some barnyard scene. The two people completely absent from any pictures were the little girl’s parents.
“Here, the downstairs guest suite.” He reached past her and swung open the door. “Queen bed, soaker tub, television, and a private patio.” He swallowed as he turned back to her. “You might never want to leave. Umm, I’ll go see about your meal. Ma’am.” Tipping his hat brim, he spun around.
By the time she had finished a refreshingly warm soak and redressed, Dawson was back, balancing a tray. Steaming aromas escaped to tease her stomach.
“Would you like this on the patio?”
She shrugged. Why not? Wordlessly, she slid the big glass door open for him and followed him out into the fresh, pine-scented air.
“I wasn’t sure what you like, so I stuck with basic soup, a salad, garlic bread, and herbal tea. How’s that sound?”
“It sounds very good. Thank you.” Since her mouth was watering, it told her either that was her favorite dish or, most likely, she hadn’t eaten in a while. Her pinched stomach rumbled in eager anticipation as she debated where to begin.
“I wish I had some other clothes for you. And shoes.”
She smiled at Dawson’s comment and wiggled her bare toes on the cool slate stones, looking at the red nail polish. Then she picked up the buttery garlic bread, not able to ignore the rich aroma any longer. “You weren’t expecting guests with no luggage to show up. The bath and this is plenty, really.”
He grinned. “Don’t get too quick with the praise. The soup is from concentrate, the bread was frozen, and the salad came from a pre-mixed bag.” He lifted a shoulder in a shrug. “I’m not much of a short notice cook, but I try.”
She took a few more bites of bread, strong with garlic, savoring it on her tongue. “Frozen or not, it’s still good.” She licked her lips and sipped the tea. “Your, umm, wife is all right with my presence?”
His lips thinned, and he folded his arms, his body going rigid. “There is no wife, though you doubtlessly will meet my daughter soon. Sierra, she’s seven.”
“I’m sorry. Did something—”
He held his palm ou
t. “No, there’s no tragic tale to tell. She’s gone of her own accord. I have Sierra and Tica. It’s you, ma’am, I wonder about.” His tone softened, and his hand unfurled to touch her wrist. His calloused fingertip traced a pale circle around her left ring finger. Stunned, she stared at it, the implication slowly sinking in.
Married? Was she married? Engaged? That was what he was insinuating. If so, where was her husband or betrothed? Was she divorced? Widowed? The bread turned to paste in her mouth. She lifted her eyes to see the same questions mirrored back in Dawson’s eyes, and she swallowed the hard lump.
“I don’t know,” she admitted in a hoarse whisper.
He looked like she’d just slapped him. Well, she felt like she’d just been slapped. What if her husband was still out there, lost in the wilderness somewhere? Injured or dead?
Dawson patted her shoulder. “That’s okay, it’ll come. In the meantime, I’ve got to call you something besides ma’am. How do you feel about the name Faith?”
Faith. She tried the name on, mentally saying it to herself. It wasn’t familiar, but it felt comfortable. It would work. “I like it. Anyone particular?”
“No, just a name I’ve always liked. I wanted it to be Sierra’s middle name, but somehow it got switched after I left the hospital. I’ve never had another chance to name anyone, so now seems like a good time.”
Chapter 3
Dawson returned, three plastic bags looped through his fingers. Giggles floated from down the hall as he entered, and he smiled. Maybe Sierra could help Faith regain her memories. Another thought followed that one. If she were married, could she have children? What if some baby or small child was out there, somewhere, wondering where its mama was? His chest ached at the idea.
“Sierra?”
A delighted squeal responded, and he followed the sound to Faith’s room. Sierra met him at the doorway, crushing him into a little girl’s bear hug. He tugged at her blonde braid.