White Deception

by Susan Edwards

  White Deception: Book Ten of Susan Edwards’ White Series

  By Susan Edwards

  Pheasant Gully, Dakota Territory, 1867

  A fire made Matilda O’Brien a widow on her wedding day, and left her blind. It also took the Sight, a gift from her mother’s people. Yet nothing will stop her from keeping her family together, not even the frightening incidents that suggest someone is trying to drive her and her siblings off their land. When her visions suddenly return, she knows the stranger with blue eyes is the one man who can help her…

  Bounty hunter Reed Robertson is in town for one reason only: revenge against the men who killed his wife. He has no intention of getting tangled up in the threats against Mattie’s family. But something about her draws him, fills him with hope, and calls to a part of himself he’s tried to bury… Can he allow himself to accept the love of a woman he doesn’t believe he deserves?

  Book 10 of 12.

  Previously published.

  71,000 words

  Dear Readers,

  I am so excited to see my White Series available in digital format and once again available to you, my readers. This series is so close to my heart—each character became my brother, sister, best friend, etc., and to see them republished makes it seem like a long-awaited family reunion. I can’t wait to become reacquainted with each character! Even the villains, for there is nothing like seeing justice served.

  I started the first book, White Wind, way back in the ’80s. These two characters just popped into my head one day. I met them at a stream in the wilderness where my honorable (and very virile) hero, Golden Eagle, was determined to rescue a very stubborn heroine named Sarah. It just seemed as though the action stopped as they turned to me and said, “Well? What now?”

  Huh? Did they think I was a writer? Not me. Never did any writing at all and had never had any desire to do so. Well, Sarah and Golden Eagle just shook their heads and let me know that despite never having written before, it didn’t matter because I was a storyteller! A vivid imagination, a love of romance and the Native American historical genre were all that were required. Okay, not quite but I got the message.

  So I thought, why not? I could write a nice scene or two. Or three. Hey, how about even just a love scene in this wonderful setting that I could see so clearly in my mind? But then I ran into the first problem. What had brought my two willful characters to this stream at the same time? What connected them? Why would this mighty warrior want to claim this white girl? What made him fall in love with her and risk everything for her?

  I found that I couldn’t go on until I had answers and that meant, yep, I had to start at the beginning. I learned who they were, what their problems were, and when we once again met at that stream in the wilderness, I just sat back and gave directions, and this time, my characters knew their lines and away we went!

  And that, dear readers, was how my writing career began. Once I started, I could not stop. I loved writing about this family. Sarah and Golden Eagle had four children and it just seemed natural to continue the series. I had so many letters begging and, yes, even demanding Jeremy and White Dove’s story in White Dove. And honestly, I was right there with each and every reader, for that was one story that just called to me. So from two people, who met by chance, eleven books were born.

  Over the years, I valued each and every reader comment: from the mother who read the books to her dying daughter, to the lonely women who found companionship, and to women who appreciated the bravery and willingness of the heroines and heroes to do whatever it took to overcome adversity.

  Each of the White books has a story that means something to me. Jessie in White Wolf is a lot like I was in my youth. I couldn’t accept “no” back then without a good reason, always looking for a chance to rebel. I could go on and on but then I’d be writing a book instead of a letter!

  Just writing this letter makes me all teary and homesick, but just as these books will be available once more to my readers, I will become reacquainted with each book and each character. Thinking of reunions, I might just have to plan a White reunion! But for now, I am just so grateful to Carina Press and my editor, Angela James, for once again making this series available.

  Sincerely yours,

  Susan Edwards

  Dedication

  To those who dared to dream. Believe!

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Prologue

  Gray shrouded the land. Silvery clouds streaked with pewter hid the pale glow of the rising sun, while below moist air rose from the river. The dense yet cottony fog rose like so many ghosts soaring free from graves to glide up and over the banks. Thinning, merging, flowing, the mists wove as one around stands of grayish cottonwoods like satin ribbons before spilling across a sea of bright green grass.

  Tendrils trailed outward as a gentle breath of wind swept across the land, molding the wispy fog into myriad images—some delicate and beautiful, others heavy and grotesque, mirroring the horrors of the world.

  From high above, the brown blur of an owl dropped gracefully from the cloudy sky and swept across the river, parting the nearly translucent wisps with each downward thrust of its wide wings. The bird allowed the breath of Tate, the wind spirit, to guide him between the trunks of two towering cottonwoods, and to carry him toward a solitary cabin enveloped by the cold fog.

  “She dreams,” Tate whispered.

  “It is time,” Owl replied.

  “Time for what?” The wind followed the small bird in its flight around the single-story dwelling.

  “Truth.”

  The darkness within the home called to Owl. He spiraled down, lifted his wings high and landed on the rough-hewn porch railing at the rear of the house. Folding back his wings, he sidestepped until he could see through the window to the bed where a woman tossed and turned.

  “She dreams,” Tate said again. He ruffled the feathers of his friend.

  Owl flapped his wings. Tate was irritated with him, but this was as it needed to be. “She must. The truth must be revealed.” Guardian of Dreamtime, Owl knew that important things often hid deep inside the mind, revealing themselves only in the solace of sleep. But the restless movements of the woman’s tossing and turning finally got to him.

  “Enough! Awake!” he cried. The tip of one wing brushed against the cold pane of glass.

  The woman, caught in the dark world of dreams, cried out. Tipping his head back, Owl sent up a shrill shriek into the morning air. It was time for the dark-haired beauty to wake.

  Chapter One

  Fire!

  Red. Orange. Yellow. Bright flam
es rose high overhead.

  Matilda’s head pounded; a trickle of blood slid down her face. She had to get out. But which way? She blinked her stinging eyes. Smoke blinded her. Choking, gasping for air, she tried to stand. Flames and smoke spun wildly in all directions. Nausea welled deep inside her.

  “Matilda!”

  Through the gleeful crackle of flames she heard her name. Opening her mouth, she tried to scream a reply: “I’m here. Help me!” A rough, rasping moan was all she managed. Around her, the deafening fury of the flames rose a notch, blocking out all sound, consuming precious air.

  Move. Get out, she told herself.

  Frightened and hurt, she crawled on her hands and knees. The instinct to survive demanded she obey. A flare of red-orange to her left revealed a stack of hay catching fire. It exploded, and a wall of intense heat struck her. Embers rained down around her head, popping with life.

  Go.

  Faster.

  Get out. Hurry.

  Her lungs burned. Desperate for air, she moved blindly.

  Smoke. Heat. Pain. Tears streamed from her eyes. Tongues of flame blazed all around, seared her flesh. She crashed into something. A saddle rack!

  She sobbed with relief. She’d made it to the back of the barn. Here, the air wasn’t so thick with smoke, and a faint glimmer of light beckoned from beneath the closed barn doors. Hope sent her heart racing. Reaching the door, she dropped her head to the space between floor and door.

  Sweet air.

  Fresh air.

  She gulped it into her burning lungs. Standing quickly, she fought the dizziness that turned her world gray around the edges. Fighting to keep from passing out, she found the heavy wood bar that secured the barn’s double doors. She gave an upward shove.

  Safety. It was so close.

  An ominous creak sounded overhead.

  Hurry!

  Around her, timbers fell in a storm of sparks and flame. A roar traveled through the barn.

  No! Too late.

  Sobbing, she heaved with all her might. The bar lifted, then fell from her trembling fingers, striking her shins. Just as she shoved the double doors wide, she felt herself fly forward, shoved out of the burning barn by the force of the collapsing roof.

  Her head exploded with pain, then everything went dark…

  Whimpering in her sleep, Matilda fought the darkness with the same desperate fury she’d fought death three years ago. A dream. This was only a dream. All she had to do was open her eyes. But icy fingers of fear left her paralyzed until a shrill cry pierced the layers of sleep and pulled her free of the nightmare.

  Awake, Mattie turned her face into her pillow. “Not again,” she moaned. Echoes of the blazing fire roared inside her head. Sweat poured off her skin. She shivered and kept reminding herself that it had been only a dream—one that for three nights running had invaded her sleep and forced her to relive the horror of being trapped in the fire that had taken so much from her.

  Rolling onto her back, she rubbed her eyes as though they still stung from smoke. She’d been incredibly lucky in her escape. By some miracle, she’d managed to open the barn doors just as the roof had collapsed, sending those timbers and planks down onto her. But at least she’d made it out alive.

  Rubbing the back of her shoulder, she felt a patch of raised, smooth flesh—one of several patches that were lifetime reminders of her brush with death. Yet while they’d been excruciating, her burns weren’t the worst of the injuries suffered that day. The blow to the head had been worse.

  As had been learning that her husband of only a few hours had died trying to rescue her.

  Most of what followed her rescue remained a jumble of pain, confusion and high emotion. So much pain. And grief, for the fire and death had come less than six months after her parents were murdered.

  Mattie curled her legs beneath her, then ran her palms down her soft, worn quilt until her fingers brushed against a thick robe of fur stretched across the foot of the bed. She pulled the buffalo robe to her chest and buried her face in its thickness, inhaling her mother’s lingering scent. That usually provided a small measure of comfort.

  Her fingers dug into the thick fur as tears spilled down her cheeks. Solace eluded her. Lifting her head, Mattie stared unseeing at the small alcove that served as her sleeping quarters.

  Standing, she pulled the buffalo robe around her shoulders. Reaching out, she found the edge of the washstand where a blue-flowered pitcher and bowl sat. A quick splash of cold water helped clear her mind. Using a cloth to dry her face, she stared straight into the mirror she knew lay beyond. But she saw only darkness. No reflection. No color. No shapes, for the fire that had left her a young widow had also left her blind.

  Drawing a deep breath, Mattie ran her fingers over the cool porcelain pitcher. Only in her mind’s eye could she see the pretty object, or any of the other familiar furnishings in what had once been her parents’ sleeping quarters.

  She turned and made her way over to the rocking chair in one corner of the room. Of all that her father had given to her mother, this rocker had been her mother’s most prized possession. Star Dreamer of the Miniconjou Sioux had spent many hours rocking here, nursing and singing to her babies. And each evening before the family went to bed, she’d tell her children stories of The People. Her husband usually joined them, sitting on the stool at his wife’s side or on the bed, surrounded by his beloved kin.

  The memory of her mother’s gentle, loving voice brought tears to Mattie’s eyes. Star Dreamer, a young widow with two children, had fallen in love with Grady O’Brien, a white soldier. She had given up her life among the Sioux for him.

  Mattie, born Morning Moon, had adapted quickly to her mother’s new world. She’d loved her new father and his two daughters. Emma, the eldest, had married Mattie’s uncle, and Renny, who was just a year older than herself, was now Mattie’s best friend.

  Closing her eyes, Mattie knew she’d have to tell Renny about the dreams. “But not yet,” she whispered. First she needed to know why the dreams had returned. Did they mean anything, or was she just reliving the past?

  Most white people shrugged off dreams, bad or good, but not Mattie. Life was a circle. The past and the future were connected. So it was to her Indian heritage that Mattie turned in the early dawn for answers to the horror plaguing her nights.

  She rocked gently as she searched for hidden meanings in the images of her dreams. The events played out exactly as they had happened almost a year ago to the day. There seemed no hidden meanings, no warnings of future dangers. Just heat and flames, fear and the surety of being burned alive. Mattie shivered and leaned her head back.

  Dreams. A reminder of the past. Not visions.

  A stab of disappointment made Mattie draw in a deep breath. Visions had been a part of her life for as long as she could remember. She’d seen all things—danger, the joy of new life, and death.

  A shard of bitterness pierced her heart. The visions were gone. Forever. They’d stopped the day of the fire, the day she’d lost her eyesight. In many ways, losing her gift had been harder to accept.

  It had been passed from grandmother to mother to daughter, and Mattie’s mother had once believed the gift of sight to be a curse. Mattie on the other hand accepted the good and the bad of what she saw. She tried to focus on the good. There were many joyous occasions like weddings and births, the return
of friends, that she could predict. Most often, her gift brought joy.

  But not always, for there could not be light without dark. Or birth without death. Such was the way of the world.

  Mattie rocked a bit faster and shivered. She understood her mother better. The gift of sight was a double-edged sword—simply knowing the future didn’t always change it. She’d known her parents were going to die, but hadn’t known when or how. She’d tried desperately to see more of those visions, so she could prevent it, but in the end death could not be conquered.

  Her mother had known she would die, too. Mattie gripped the arms of the rocker. They hadn’t talked about it, but she’d seen the knowledge in Star Dreamer’s eyes.

  Mattie fought her anger, the injustice of it all. Only when her mother died had she understood the overwhelming guilt her gift often caused. Her mother had seen the death of Mattie’s birth father and had been just as helpless to stop it.

  No, maybe having the Sight was not so great a gift after all. Part of Mattie had wanted these nightmares to be the return of that part of her, but not if it meant more lost lives she could not save.

  Frustrated, she wished for her mother’s wise counsel and comforting arms. Mattie stood and tossed her robe down onto the bed. It did no good to wish for what could not be. Her mother was in the spirit world now, and there was no time or place for self-pity.

  There had to be a simple reason for the sudden return of her nightmares. After all, she’d been free of the haunting memories for more than six months—a blessed relief. Even the blinding attacks of head pain seemed to have finally gone away. Only the raw ache of grief remained.

  Death. Her husband had died in that fire. Her gift and her sight had also been taken. Her legs shook with fear. Please, Mattie prayed, reaching out to steady herself, do not let my dreams mean more death. She couldn’t handle more loss.

  Mattie moved to the window without stumbling or hesitating and threw it open, welcoming the wave of cold, moist air that slammed into her and burned her lungs as she drew breath. She embraced that cold, used the shock of it to regain control of her thoughts and emotions.