Wolf Shadow

by Madeline Baker

  Wolf Shadow

  Madeline Baker

  Ellora's Cave (2008)

  * * *

  Rating: ★★★☆☆

  Tags: Literature & Fiction, Erotica, Romance, Historical, Romantic Erotica

  Blush: This is a suggestive romance (love scenes are not graphic). Kidnapped by Indians ten years ago at the age of seven, Teressa Bryant has no memory of her parents or her life in San Francisco. Known as Winter Rain by the Lakota, she is on the verge of marrying a Lakota warrior when a handsome stranger rides into the village.Half-breed Chance McCloud, known as Wolf Shadow among the Lakota, has been hired by Teressa’s parents to rescue their daughter from the Indians. The attraction between Chance and Teressa can’t be denied and soon he’s torn between his need for the reward offered by Teressa’s parents, and his need for Teressa.

  From Booklist

  Baker's thirty-seventh book will delight her legions of readers. After the stage she is riding in with her wealthy parents is attacked by Lakota warriors, seven-year-old Teressa Bryant is adopted by a Lakota couple and becomes Winter Rain, eventually forgetting her white family. Ten years later, Chance McCloud, the son of a white rancher and a Lakota mother, is desperately in need of money to keep his late father's ranch from foreclosure, so he accepts the Bryants' generous pay to recover their daughter. Chance, also known as Wolf Shadow, has always refused to fall in love because of his need to avenge his mother's murder, but when he meets Winter Rain, he remembers his mother's wishes for him to be happy. The two brave a torturous trail to be together, surviving capture by the Crow after a deadly attack, imprisonment, and Teressa's return to San Francisco society. Baker's depiction of Native Americans is respectful, and her Old West setting rings true. Diana Tixier Herald

  Copyright © American Library Association. All rights reserved

  Review

  "Baker is justly renowned for her portrayals of American Indians."

  -- Publishers Weekly (Publisher's Weekly )

  An Ellora’s Cave Romantica Publication

  www.ellorascave.com

  Wolf Shadow

  ISBN 9781419919312

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

  Wolf Shadow Copyright © 2003, 2008 Madeline Baker.

  Cover art by Syneca.

  Electronic book Publication MM 2008

  The terms Romantica® and Quickies® are registered trademarks of Ellora’s Cave Publishing.

  With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the publisher, Ellora’s Cave Publishing Inc., 1056 Home Avenue, Akron, OH 44310-3502.

  Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded or distributed via the Internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the publisher’s permission. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000. (http://www.fbi.gov/ipr/). Please purchase only authorized electronic or print editions and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted material. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

  WOLF SHADOW

  Madeline Baker

  Dear Reader:

  I hope you enjoy reading the story of Wolf Shadow and Teressa as much as I enjoyed writing it. I always fall in love with my hero, and I hope you did, too.

  I can’t believe this is my thirty-seventh book. I remember when I was writing stories and hiding them under the bed! For those of you who have dreams of being published, hang on to that dream and make it come true.

  I want to thank all of you for your letters and support. I love it when I get a letter from someone who tells me they hated reading until they picked up one of my books. I’ve always loved to read and it makes me feel good to know that one of my books helped someone else discover the joy of reading.

  God bless you. God bless America.

  Madeline

  DarkWritr@aol.com

  http://www.madelinebaker.net

  Prologue

  The Indians came boiling out of the timbered hills like angry ants whose nest had been disturbed. Teressa Bryant stared at them out of the window of the stagecoach, her eyes wide with delight. Mama had said they might see Indians on their way to San Francisco, but Teressa hadn’t expected anything like this.

  As the Indians drew closer, she saw that they wore pretty feathers in their long black hair. There were streaks of paint smeared on their faces and chests. Some of the Indians carried bows and had quivers filled with arrows slung over their shoulders, some carried long lances with feathers tied to the shaft. A few of them waved rifles in the air. She noticed that the Indians painted their horses, too. One had a red handprint painted on its rump, another had white circles painted around its eyes, still another had zigzaggy lines painted on its legs.

  She felt a shiver of unease as some of the Indians drew alongside the coach. She could see their faces now, hear their cries, and they didn’t sound friendly.

  As more Indians surrounded the coach, Teressa turned to look at her mama for reassurance, but Mama looked as scared as Teressa felt.

  “Venuto qui, bambina,” Mama said, and Teressa scooted into her mother’s lap.

  Papa patted Teressa on her arm. “Don’t worry, Teressa mia,” he said in his big booming voice. “Everything will be all right.”

  She nodded, her heart pounding with fear.

  Mama pressed Teressa’s head against her shoulder. She could hear Mama praying, asking the blessed Virgin to protect them, could hear the sound of arrows whizzing around the coach like angry hornets.

  Teressa heard the driver shout at the horses, heard the crack of his whip. The coach picked up speed and for a moment, she thought they might get away. And then, to her horror, the coach began to tilt to one side.

  With a shriek of fear, Teressa threw her arms around her mother’s neck. The coach balanced precariously on two wheels for what seemed like a very long time before it slowly toppled over on its side.

  Teressa cried out as she was thrown off the seat, along with Mama and Papa. Stars exploded in front of her eyes as her head hit the side of the coach. She heard Mama groan softly, heard Papa swear as they tumbled inside the coach, arms and legs flailing. Hearing Papa swear scared her almost more than anything else because her Papa never said those words in front of Mama.

  The coach skidded to a stop in a choking cloud of dust. Outside, the Indians were shouting to each other.

  Moments later, the door, which was now where the roof should have been, was wrenched open and an Indian peered down at them.

  “Teressa,” Papa said, “get behind me.”

  Teressa stared at the gun in her father’s hand, covered her ears with her hands when he fired at the Indian and missed.

  With a low cry, the Indian shot two arrows at Papa. One arrow pierced his right shoulder, the other his left thigh. With a cry of pain, her father fell backward.

  Teressa stared in open-mouthed horror at the arrows quivering in her father’s flesh.

  Mama screamed Papa’s name as she pulled him into her lap and cradled him in her arms.

  Teressa stared up at the Indian, her eyes filling with tears. “I hate you!” she shrieked. “You killed my Papa!”

  The Indian looked at her through narrowed eyes, then dropped lightly inside the coach.

  Teressa tried to duck out of his way, but he grabbed hold of her with one b
ig hand and pushed her up through the doorway and into the arms of another Indian. She saw three other Indians cutting the horses free of the broken traces and leading them away. The driver lay face down a few yards away. She wondered if he was dead.

  “No! No! La non mia ragazza piccola! Non prendere la mia ragazza piccola! Teressa!”

  Teressa heard Mama screaming her name as the Indian lifted her onto the back of his horse and vaulted up behind her, one arm settling around her waist.

  “Mama! Mama!”

  Teressa scratched the Indian’s arm, trying to get free, and when that didn’t work, she bit him as hard as she could, but he only laughed and urged his horse into a trot.

  “Mama.”

  Sobbing and hiccoughing, she stared over the Indian’s shoulder, crying for Mama and Papa, but the Indian ignored her and kept riding.

  With tears rolling down her cheeks, Teressa stared at the coach, watching it get smaller and smaller until it was out of sight.

  Chapter One

  Sitting back in his chair, his face impassive, Chance McCloud regarded the cards in his hand. A full house, aces over jacks. He laid his cards face down on the table and tossed five dollars into the pot.

  He glanced around the room while he was waiting for the other players to decide whether to stay or fold. The Red Dog Saloon was large and square and pretty much like every other saloon he had ever seen, from the picture of the voluptuous nude hanging behind the bar to the sawdust on the floor and the heavy layer of blue-gray smoke that hung in the air. A wizened old man wearing a black derby hat sat at the piano in the corner, plinking out an off-key tune on the yellowed keys.

  Returning his attention to the game at hand, Chance glanced at the men sharing the table with him. Joe Remington sat to his left. Remington published the local newspaper. He was a tall man with thinning gray hair and a thick gray moustache. Pete Wright was one of the local ranchers and a long-time resident of Buffalo Springs. He sat at Chance’s right, his stubby fingers drumming on the tabletop. He was an average-looking man in his early twenties, unremarkable except for a shock of white hair. Vince Salazar, the town blacksmith, sat across from Chance, his slouch hat pushed back on his head, his shirt sleeves rolled up, revealing arms as thick as tree trunks.

  Remington regarded Chance through narrowed brown eyes, nodded to himself, and tossed five dollars into the pot.

  “Did ya’ll see that new rig over to the mortuary?” Wright remarked. He tossed his cards face down into the center of the table. “I hear tell it cost old man Jensen near eight hundred dollars over in Dodge City.”

  “Right fancy for our town, I’d say,” Salazar replied. “I’m out.” He tossed his cards onto the table.

  “Bought himself a new team to pull it,” Wright added.

  Remington grunted softly. “Business must be good. When I’m dead and gone, I don’t imagine I’ll be caring one way or another what they use to carry me away. All right, McCloud, let’s see what you’ve got.”

  Chance turned his cards over, one at a time.

  Remington muttered an oath as he tossed his own hand onto the table—a pair of kings, a pair of nines, and the fourth ace.

  Chance raked in the pot, then sat back while a new hand was dealt. Lady Luck had smiled on him. He figured he was ahead by about three hundred dollars. Another hand or two, and he’d go check on his horse and call it quits for the night.

  He was picking up his cards when he felt a shiver down his spine. Someone was watching him. He pushed his chair back from the table and dropped his right hand onto his thigh, close to the butt of his Colt, and casually glanced around the room.

  He frowned as his gaze settled on a man standing at the bar. The gent didn’t look like trouble, quite the opposite, actually. He wore a natty blue pinstripe suit, a boiled shirt, and a black bowler hat. A neatly folded white handkerchief peeked out of his jacket pocket; a diamond stickpin winked in his cravat. His hair was brown with a heavy sprinkling of gray in his sideburns, his eyes were a deep, dark blue.

  The man’s gaze met his, and then he pushed away from the bar. He leaned heavily on a stout wooden cane as he threaded his way between the tables.

  “McCloud, are you in?”

  Chance glanced at his cards and tossed five dollars into the pot. “I’m in.”

  “Mr. McCloud?”

  Chance looked up at the man with the cane and wondered what a gent of such obvious wealth and good breeding was doing in a backwater town like Buffalo Springs. “Who wants to know?”

  “My name is Edward Bryant. I would very much like to have a few moments of your time, if I might.” The man’s voice betrayed a slight New York accent.

  “I’m busy.”

  “Yes,” Bryant said dryly. “I can see that.” He reached into his coat pocket, withdrew five crisp one hundred-dollar bills, and laid them, one by one, on the table in front of Chance. “Do you think that might buy me twenty minutes of your time?”

  Chance glanced at the greenbacks spread on the table in front of him, then looked up at Bryant again, wondering who the man wanted him to kill. Chance wasn’t into hiring out his gun but, hell, for five hundred bucks, he was willing to listen to almost anything.

  Rising, Chance tossed his cards face down on the table. “Deal me out.” He picked up his winnings and the five one hundred-dollar bills and shoved them into his pants pocket. “Let’s talk.”

  He followed Edward Bryant across the dusty street and into the plush lobby of the Windsor, the town’s finest hotel.

  Bryant gestured at a sofa covered in a dark green damask print. “Please, make yourself comfortable.”

  Chance sat down, his gaze moving around the lobby. He didn’t have much call to frequent the place, but it was every bit as fancy as he remembered, with spindly-legged furniture that didn’t look strong enough to hold anyone who weighed more than fifty pounds. There were a dozen or so fancy lamps with fringed shades, and a sparkling crystal chandelier. Potted palms provided a touch of greenery in the corners. There were low tables of shining mahogany in front of the sofas, thick carpets on the floor, and a number of discreetly placed brass spittoons. A clerk in a dark brown coat and starched collar stood behind the desk, idly thumbing through a copy of the local paper.

  Chance turned his attention back to Bryant. “So, what’s this all about?”

  “I was told that you sometimes go into Indian Territory to search for people, that you…” He ran a finger inside his collar. “That you have a certain…ah…inside track with the Indians.”

  Chance lifted one brow. “Is that right?” It was true, but only a few people knew that he occasionally went looking for whites believed to have been captured by the Indians. With distrust and tension running high between the whites and the Indians, it was something he preferred to keep to himself.

  “I did not mean to offend you,” Bryant said quickly.

  Chance grinned. Apparently Bryant feared he had somehow insulted him by referring to his obvious Indian heritage. “I’m not offended. If I was, I’d be on my way out the door. Let’s cut to the chase. What is it you want?”

  Bryant laid his cane aside and pulled a folded piece of paper out of his coat pocket. Unfolding it, he handed it to Chance.

  It was a flyer, similar in size and shape to a wanted poster. His gaze skimmed over the words:

  Fifteen thousand dollar reward

  For the return of

  Teressa Elizabeth Bryant

  Kidnapped by Indians

  The same reward will be paid for

  Information that leads to Teressa’s recovery

  Teressa, now 17 years old,

  has blue eyes and dark brown hair

  Contact Edward Bryant c/o Wells Fargo

  Chance grunted softly as he studied the pen and ink drawing above the description. It showed a pretty little girl with large light-colored eyes and long dark curls. But it was the reward that held his attention. Fifteen thousand dollars. That was mighty sweet, and he could sure as hell use the mo
ney.

  “My family and I were on our way to San Francisco when our coach was attacked by Indians. They left us alive, though I don’t know why. The men who rescued us said the Indians were probably Sioux.” Bryant regarded Chance curiously. “Why didn’t they kill us?”

  “Most likely they were just after the horses. If it had been a war party, you’d be dead now.”

  “If all they wanted was horses, why did they take my little girl?”

  Chance shrugged. “Indians have a soft spot for kids. Any kids. A lot of theirs die young.”

  Bryant stared at him a moment, then went on. “Be that as it may, they took my Teressa. I have hired several men to find her over the years. They have all given up.”

  “Go on.”

  “Teressa was…is our only child. My wife has been understandably heartbroken. We have been told our daughter is most likely dead. If that is true, then I want…” His voice broke and he took a deep, steadying breath. “I want to know. I need to know, one way or the other.”

  Chance glanced at the flyer again. “How long has she been missing?”

  “Ten years.”

  Chance whistled under his breath. “Ten years and no one’s found her? How old was she when they took her?”

  “Seven.”

  Chance shook his head. “You’re wasting your time and your money.”

  “It is my time, Mr. McCloud, and my money. Will you help me?”

  “If she’s still alive, she’s one of them by now. You’ll never find her, and if you do, she won’t want to leave.”

  “I don’t believe that.”

  “Doesn’t much matter what you believe. That’s how it is.”

  Bryant started to reply, and then gained his feet, his expression softening.

  Chance looked over his shoulder to see a slender woman clad in a modest dark gray dress, a matching hat, and white gloves walking toward them. She had dark brown hair, an olive complexion, and a figure that was slender but well-rounded. But it was her eyes that caught his attention. They were dark brown, fringed with thick dark lashes. And filled with so much sorrow he felt it like an ache in his own soul.