Sacred Ground

by Rita Karnopp

  Damn, he had to get back to Wyatt's to help her, or at least back to tell someone about Gordon's madman plan.

  It became a struggle to fight the pain. He wanted to cry out, but he couldn't dismiss the fact Gordon could be sitting on top, waiting like a cat at a mouse hole for him to attempt to escape.

  Brett smelled sweetgrass. It eased the discomfort in his aching limbs. The wind howled, and he felt certain it spoke to him. The old ones of his dreams came to him, soothing his pain. Some beat on soft leather drums, others shook gourd rattles, and many chanted in the words of the ancestors.

  A warrior lowered himself on a rope and paused just above the tree, close enough to tie a rope under Brett's arms. Brett observed these things as though they happened to someone else. His rescuer was the same man who had been in his other dreams. Around his neck he wore a leather strip that held no decorations except for a buffalo stone. Brett immediately thought of the boys and the man who protected them.

  Although afraid, he looked into the dark, mysterious eyes of this Indian man. Brett felt drawn into the old warrior's mind's eye as he grasped the overhanging tree. Brett also saw several rattlesnakes had sought his warmth, and they now curled against his back, stomach, and even neck. A cold fear filled him. He needed to live for his son.

  The drumbeats increased. The rattles of the Indians joined the rattles of the snakes. The chanters increased their volume, calling out with intensity.

  Seeing through the eyes of the Indian man, Brett watched his own body sit. A rattler lashed out, biting him in the neck. He stood, raised his arms to the sky above, and then floated like a feather. He felt a bite to his arm, then leg, yet he continued to rise.

  Reaching the top of the cliff edge, he stepped onto solid ground. Looking down into the rugged drop and cave opening, he watched the warriors of the plains dancing a joyous victory.

  Brett closed his eyes and breathed in fresh air. The ground beneath him wasn't in a dream. He looked around in the shadowy moonlight. No one danced. No one drummed or played flutes. The chanters were gone. All traces that they'd been there had disappeared, except the faint scent of sweetgrass and a rope tied under his arms and across his chest.

  Brett fumbled to feel his neck, arm and leg. He had no marks where he'd been bitten by the rattlesnakes. Scrambling to his feet, he quickly remembered his hurt leg. He stared down at a heavily wrapped knee, splinted with a thick, twelve-inch branch on each side of his leg. The pain had subsided, and although grateful, he found it near impossible to believe.

  He didn't see Gordon's pickup truck, a mixed blessing. In his present condition the walk to the nearest phone, following the road, which would be considerably easier, had to be a good twelve miles. If he cut across country he'd save four or more miles, but his leg wouldn't stand the punishment of the terrain. Even if he could borrow a vehicle and drive out to Wyatt's place, he'd never make it in time to protect Willow.

  Without wasting time, Brett set out hobbling down the road at an excruciating pace. Each step brought him closer. Each step haunted him to move faster. He couldn't help imagining terrible things happening to Willow.

  Fear for Sean and Lance pressed him forward too. Sharp pains shot up his leg, but he ignored them. He thought about the Indian man who’d once again appeared in his dream. Brett felt a connection . . . he didn't want to think about it. He'd concentrate on rescuing Willow.

  * * *

  Willow raced from Wyatt's house and ran to her old truck. She pumped the gas pedal, impatient for the engine to turn over. "Damn, start, Lizzy, or I'll sell you for scrap metal on Monday," she growled. A loud grinding answered back.

  She slammed her palms on the steering wheel, then spotted Wyatt's black mustang. Rushing from her vehicle, she ran across the driveway to the garage. She swung the door open and slipped behind the wheel. "Damn, where are the keys?" She searched above the visor and the floor carpet. "Damn!"

  Quite unconsciously, her gaze settled on a large Honda dirt bike, similar to the one she owned. She felt grateful she could ride a bike every bit as good as a horse. The keys dangled invitingly at her. "Thank you, Napi." Rushing from the vehicle, Willow glanced around for a helmet. Finding none, she straddled the bike and turned the key. It purred a heavenly sound, and without hesitating, she maneuvered the powerful machine out of the garage. By the time she cleared the yard, she'd reached a dangerous fifty miles-per-hour.

  She worried that too much time had elapsed. She could only hope she'd find Brett before Gordon had a chance to kill him. She cut across country to catch the road a few miles before the turnoff and save miles of driving and precious time.

  The bike bounced, sending her crashing down, distorting the land ahead in spite of the large headlight. Narrowly missing a boulder, Willow slowed her speed. It wouldn't do any good to crash and disable the bike. She gritted her teeth and pressed on.

  She felt torn by her thoughts. Gordon is alive. Nothing could be worse than having him back, especially since finding Brett. If Gordon had any idea she'd been with Brett . . . she wouldn't think about it. She'd get a restraining order to keep Gordon away from her and Lance. Would they have to leave the ranch? She'd take her horses, and her son. Gordon wouldn't get either. If she had to give up the ranch, she'd do it, but, what about the sacred burial grounds of her People?

  Willow flashed a glance at the bright moon and offered a quick thank you to Napi. A pitch-black night would have made this ride impossible. The cycle bounced in the air and she clung to the handlebars. She eased up and worked down a steep slope, and then back up with more driving speed to take the incline. The powerful machine took it without complaining. In a bare few hours it would be light out. She'd have to find Brett soon.

  Willow couldn't help being puzzled over all that had happened lately. What on earth would Gordon and Wyatt be doing together? It had to be worth faking a murder. It also had something to do with Brett's ranch.

  She worried about the boys, hoping Gordon and Wyatt were too busy with their scheme to be concerned with kids. She and Brett had been right to send them and his mother to the Res. She felt more relief knowing her folks were gone from the ranch. The further they were away from Gordon, the better. She skidded onto the gravel road, attacking it with reckless speed once again.

  Chapter Twelve

  Brett concentrated on moving one foot in front of the other. His arm ached, and his underarm had bruised quickly from his makeshift crutch.

  He felt certain he heard a motorcycle, but it grew distant. Pressing forward, he allowed himself to ask why this had to happen, especially since he'd found Willow. It'd been so long since he had allowed himself to become close and loving.

  "Damn!" he muttered out loud. With Gordon back, he had no right to pursue Willow. Another man's wife . . . was another man's wife. His father’s return would utterly confuse Lance, that much Brett felt certain.

  The boys were good together. He and Willow were good together. They'd come close to becoming a family. Maybe, just maybe, if he could prove Gordon had killed that vagrant, Willow could get a divorce.

  First things first, Brett told himself. He'd go to the law and expose what Wyatt and Gordon were up to.

  * * *

  The rocky ledge facing Rattlesnake Cliff came into view. Early morning light cast a thousand shadows across the land. Each seemed to hold a warning. She'd be strong and ignore the fear that threatened to overwhelm her.

  Bringing the bike to an eerie silence, Willow hesitated, and then moved closer to the cliff edge. She stared at the rugged terrain below and settled her gaze on a protruding branch. Struggling for control, she drew strength. Then she noticed a strip of plaid material. She glanced down at her own as though hoping the colors wouldn't match, even though she knew they did. Tears stung at her eyes, she flicked them away with her fingertips.

  At first glance, it appeared Brett must have gripped at the protruding branch, tore his jacket before falling the distance to his death. Now that she had time to study the scene, it became obvio
us that he hadn't fallen any further.

  Moving quickly, she pulled Sean’s jacket off, then searched around for a large boulder. One large enough to break that branch, but also small enough for her to lift. It didn't take long to find the right stone. Without wasting time, Willow buttoned her jacket around it. She hoisted the stone above the extending branch and tossed it down with as much force as she could maneuver.

  It snapped off several branches, then continued downward, landing in a shuddering crack at the bottom. It now appeared a body lay crushed by a fall. A lifeless body wearing a green and blue plaid jacket. Gordon had meant for it to be Brett's fate. She'd find him. For the time being, she'd let them think they'd succeeded.

  With that thought, she turned back to the motorcycle and mounted it with as much care and haste she would her horse. She revved the bike and glanced at the ground, just past her right foot. She leaned over and wiped her fingers across a small flat rock, bringing them closer to her face. The early morning light couldn't hide the feel and smell of blood.

  With a quick gesture, she wiped her hand on her jeans and sped the cycle down the road. Brett needed her help, and she would be there for him.

  Doubts filled her mind with each passing mile. Had she ridden past him in her haste? Had he called out to her, but she didn't hear him over the roar of the bike? It tormented her. Should she go on, or turn back?

  She'd ridden nearly eight miles. He'd been injured, but how badly she had no idea. Yet, the trail of blood on the ground led her to believe it might be life-threatening. Of course, she reasoned, it could be Gordon's blood. If Brett fought him before falling over the cliff, surely no one, even in good health and without injury, could have walked this far already.

  She skidded in the gravel to a noisy stop on top the steep hill. She took a careful survey of the land behind her, making certain she hadn't left him behind. Seeing nothing, she turned her attention down the other side. She spotted a mule deer running across the road and settled her gaze on the reason for its flight.

  She gasped, realizing she watched Brett hobbling down the road at an incredible pace. No doubt each step caused him pain, yet he pressed on as though Lucifer himself chased after him.

  Willow wasted no time. Within minutes she'd caught up to him. For a second or so he acted as though he hadn't even heard the noisy motorcycle. He turned toward her and she couldn't help noticing the surprised look on his face.

  "Need a lift, handsome?" she asked, shocked at how pale he looked.

  "My, God, Willow! I've been worried. Did that bastard hurt you?"

  "I'm just fine. Can't vouch for Wyatt. I'd say he'll be sporting quite a headache once he gets up." She laughed softly. "Get on, we'll talk later." He tossed his stick crutch into the ditch and struggled to straddle the large cycle. She moved her foot forward so he had more room for his injured leg. This ride would be a jarring hell for him, but they didn't have a choice. "You did a nice job bracing that leg."

  "I didn't, but thanks.” He wrapped his arms around her waist. “How'd you find me? I mean, how'd you know where I'd be?"

  She liked the feel of him. She drew in his scent and a longing filled her. If things weren't so desperate, but they were desperate and they needed to get Brett out of sight. "I overheard Gordon and Wyatt talking at his house. I knew you were in trouble and where Gordon planned on taking you. I just don't know the why, yet."

  "I know the why. It’s the oil on my property they want."

  "What?" Willow struggled to hear, talk, and drive all at the same time. "Let's talk later," she shouted when she barely missed a pothole in the road. His silence answered her. She could tell that by the way he leaned into her that it was a struggle for him to stay on the bike.

  She approached Arrowhead with caution and considered hiding the bike, but why lie? She'd tell Wyatt she had to borrowed it when she couldn't get her own rig started, that much was true.

  Parking the bike next to the barn, Willow nudged Brett. "We made it," she said before realizing how obvious and ridiculous it sounded. He didn't seem to notice. It worried her. He never ignored a perfect opportunity to get in a few slams of humor.

  "I think my leg's broken," he said in a still tone.

  She moved his arm around her shoulder. "I'd like to take you into the house and call a doctor, but we can't chance it with Gordon back. I'll get you settled in the barn."

  "Leave the boys with my mother. They'll be safe there, don't you think?"

  She wanted to argue they were safe nowhere as long as Gordon walked the earth, but she didn't want him to worry. "They're leaving in the morning for the Res, remember?" she asked, concerned he'd forgotten. "Come." She led him inside the structure that housed the buffalo family.

  His weight made her falter, nearly sending her to the ground, but she gritted her teeth and offered him her strength. He moved slowly and his soft moans spoke of his agony with each step.

  "I've made a place to hide. I know this sounds ridiculous, but you'll be safe. I promise," she blurted, uncomfortable revealing this part of herself and her past life with Gordon.

  "Sit," she stated, lowering him to a bale. She didn't look at him, afraid of what she'd see. Instead, she concentrated on removing several stacked bales of straw. Within seconds she'd revealed a tunnel.

  "What's this?" Brett asked.

  She felt a stain of heat rush into her cheeks. "You're going to have to crawl in there," she stated, ignoring his question. "If you sit and enter backwards you can drag your leg as you go," she informed him. It surprised her how quickly he did as she suggested. His quietness bothered her.

  "Not bad," he whispered.

  She looked around the small, yet roomy square space. She'd protected the area with several rows of baled straw on all sides, insulating her from the cold in the winter. During the warmer months, she'd created gaps in the bales, allowing fresh air to enter the space.

  "Lance and I are the only two who know about this place. I haven't been here since Gordon . . . since I thought he died," she added.

  "Why? I mean, were things this bad?"

  She nodded, accepting the warmth of Brett's hand over hers. Tears threatened, and she forced them back. Lifting Brett's head, Willow slid a pillow beneath it. "I'm going to ask Doc Potter to come look at the Buffalo. Once he's here, I'll ask him to treat you."

  "I know this sounds paranoid, but I can't help thinking he's involved in this somehow. Now that I'm convinced your buffalo didn't infect my cows, I have to consider who could have.” He rubbed his face with his palms. “I'd hate to think Doc Potter would do something like that. Call Doctor Alfara. He's been our family doctor for years."

  "I'd like to, but I can't explain his coming out here. Doc Potter, on the other hand, wouldn't be suspicious. I don't think he's involved." She pulled a blanket over Brett.

  "What if you're wrong?

  Willow knew he had a point. "Maybe you're right. Either doctor will be taking a chance."

  "How do you figure it?”

  "If I call Doctor Alfara, how do I explain his coming here? Doc Potter might be one of them, and he might be tempted to finish the job Gordon started. We don't have much of a choice, do we?" She moved the backside of her fingers across Brett's forehead. "We have to trust someone."

  "Go with Doctor Alfara." Brett closed his eyes.

  "Okay," she agreed soothingly. "You rest and I'll take care of everything."

  "I'm glad the boys and my mother leave in the morning," he said, relief obvious in his voice. "You'd better tell her what's going on. If you can let her know I'm fine, you'd better. She won't . . . no, maybe you'd better not tell her anything. I'm not so sure she could lie convincingly."

  "It seems cruel to deceive her. The pain it'll cause, I can't imagine. But, I see what you mean. If she knows, her reaction won't be the same. We can't take any chances. Get some rest and I'll go get Doctor Alfara."

  “Willow . . . thanks for coming after me. I should have been there for you."

  She looked at him a
nd didn't answer. He'd fallen into an exhausted sleep. She placed a soft kiss across his lips and wondered if it would be their last. She had to get him some medical attention, or Gordon would win. Willow drew in a deep breath and straightened her back. She'd be damned if that man would destroy the happiness she had finally found.

  * * *

  Brett wanted to say more to Willow, he just couldn't find the strength. Things were out of control. Nothing made sense, not even Willow and him. Her husband was back from the dead.

  It graveled Brett to know that Gordon had been Lorraine’s lover. Even worse, Sean could be Gordon’s son. If true, Brett would move heaven and earth before he’d let Sean get wind of it. Damn, Brett muttered under his breath. He knew better than to fall in love. He knew better than to put hopes on a woman. Of course, this time it wasn't Willow's fault.

  A piercing pain shot up his leg. How the hell had he managed to get himself in this position? He felt grateful he wasn't a crumbled heap at the bottom of Rattlesnake Cliff. Another sharp pain crawled from his toes to his hip. He hoped Doctor Alfara would hurry.

  Burning sweetgrass washed over him. Brett peeked through his lashes and found what he expected. The Indian had returned. Before Brett could resist, the chanting man pressed a pasty, bitter substance into Brett's mouth.

  Brett gagged, and then swallowed. If he kept dreaming about this Indian, why did real things happen, too? Whatever the mixture was, he had no doubt it accounted for the immediate lack of pain. He felt calm and content.

  Although he'd closed his eyes to rest, he heard the renewed chanting of the warriors, drummers, and flute players. They'd joined him in his small hideout in the straw. Brett didn't need to watch them, he envisioned them in his mind's eye, and it gave him a feeling of peace. For a man who had once so venomously hated Indians, he'd suddenly found great comfort in having them around.