Wild Dawn

by Cait London

Before he could stop them, his men had torn a half-grown girl apart, raping her after winning a minor skirmish. He’d killed a good fighting man over the incident and took a flogging himself.

  He closed his eyes, listening to his son’s smacking noises and sleeping sighs. Jack had eased the nightmares somehow. MacGregor didn’t understand the comfort his son had given him; he just knew the boy needed him. The woman sleeping with her dog needed him, too.

  Shifting his shoulder to ease his healing wound, MacGregor slid his Bowie hunting knife through the cooked venison haunch. Bringing the meat to his mouth, he bit off a chunk, chewing it slowly and washing it down with hot coffee.

  The meat’s nourishment seeped into him, and for the first time in years MacGregor allowed himself to relax fully. Beside him Jack slept, healthy and warm, and a woman to care for him rested nearby.

  Wiping his sleeve across his mouth, MacGregor stared at the fire. The wind howled, threatening him with winter, the sound reminding him of the screams of dying men on the battlefield. Wanting to see the world, he’d gone East to be caught in a war that tore families apart. He’d wanted to run back to the mountains after his first taste of the bloodied fields.

  But he’d stayed and killed until his hands were red. Was it four years or an eternity until the war ended?

  He ran to the mountains like a lost lover, losing himself in the sweetness of the pines and the clear streams.

  But death lurked there, too. The Cheyenne and Arapaho who were his friends had fallen before howitzers at the Sand Creek Massacre. Settlers had died by Indian and renegade hands.

  He’d had his share of death. Caught between the bloods, Jack’s Indian heritage was a dangerous one, and MacGregor wanted to protect the boy. A man could cut out a safe spot in the high country and live quietly as the red and white wars swirled through the lower lands. Renegades on both sides ripped at the survivors like buzzards tearing at a fallen buffalo calf.

  But he had to have a woman for Jack. The Englishwoman with her soft skin and husky lilting voice belonged to him now; she would come to trust his care.

  Closing his eyes, MacGregor leaned his head against the logs, trying to remember the Indian woman who had been his wife. Drinking whiskey until he couldn’t stand, he’d allowed the Indian marriage and spawned his son that cold October night.

  Waking with an aching head and a woman he didn’t remember, MacGregor left camp before the others. He’d headed out for the rugged mountain peaks to hunt and trap. He needed the cleansing streams and the wind keening through the pine boughs. He needed to find his soul.

  Upon MacGregor’s return to the Indian camp thirteen months later, Pierre had greeted MacGregor heartily, then cleared his throat. Stepping inside his tepee, the Frenchman had emerged to hand MacGregor a squalling baby. “He is your son, mon ami. Singing Bird, she is gone.”

  The handsome trapper had spit out a stream of tobacco as though to rid himself of a bad taste before he continued. “Followed the English dogs for whiskey. That one, Jack Ryker, he take her.... They killed her. I, Pierre, your friend, say this is so. The boy, he is yours. Pierre watch when she leave him for wolf bait. Pierre take.”

  Because of pride, or maybe it was the war still waging in his blood, MacGregor had tracked the English hunters. They had a mountain man with them, an experienced guide selling his country for money. With Jack Ryker as the leader of the pack, they had slaughtered a swath through the mountains, killing enough game to support the entire Indian nation.

  Then just before MacGregor had decided to call the tracker out, he saw something he wanted. The woman....

  ~**~

  In the cabin the fire crackled, and tossing a broken limb into the fire, MacGregor turned his head to look at the woman. She was rightfully his now....

  He’d been in the woods two weeks ago, surveying the camp that day when the Englishman and woman had raced to the crest of a small knoll beyond the aspen trees sheltering him. Riding sidesaddle, the woman had slid agilely from the horse before it stopped completely. Ripping her gloves from her hands and tossing them to the ground, she faced the Englishman, who had dismounted more slowly, his rifle in hand.

  MacGregor had straightened away from his tree, watching the man’s thin face twist in anger. Listening closely, the mountain man couldn’t understand the words, but the argument was no light matter. The man had missed a trophy bighorn sheep because his horse had shied, and he wanted to kill it.

  Her head back, anger ran through the lady like a taut bow string ready to snap. The prairie wind swept her clothing against her taut breasts, her petticoats a white ripple against the dark green velvet skirt. Beneath her large hat, her long hair had caught the fall wind. The heavy mass lifted around her like a rippling flag catching the sun in a blue-black sheen. Then she had struck the man, dashing his ornate rifle to the ground.

  A sour taste rose in MacGregor’s mouth when he remembered the way the fancy-dressed man had slapped her with his open hand. Her hat sailed away in the wind as she fell to the ground, the massive plumes tearing free. Scampering to her feet, the woman had jerked a pistol from the man’s waist to point it at his face. With her free hand she had soothed the greyhound nestling now at her side. Then, taking the man’s riding quirt away, she’d beaten him to his knees.

  A woman of steel and velvet, he’d thought as she tossed the quirt away and motioned for the dog to run to camp.

  Admiring her steel, MacGregor had watched the fine line of her shoulders and breast, the way the velvet strained across her taut, uptilted breasts.

  An eye for an eye, a woman for a woman, MacGregor had decided when the woman had mounted and raced away, leaving the man to follow on foot. The woman pleased him, her untamed blood could equal the wild mountain country.

  He rubbed his hand against his thigh, remembering the soft feel of her breast in his palm.

  Woman-hunting wasn’t his best skill. As a breed, they were too treacherous, wanting pay for their services.

  But this one had fought for a horse, faced a man down with a gun, then whipped him to his knees. Eventually MacGregor had found the horse with its throat slit, and then he’d heard of the offer to kill the woman.

  By the end of the first week he’d decided to take the woman.

  Now he watched her settle deeper within the folds of the robe. Sipping his coffee, MacGregor studied her face intently.

  Nestled in the lush fur, her features seemed childlike. Her lashes were lush crescents across her pale face, shadowing the warm flush of her cheeks. Her mouth looked moist and velvety soft.... MacGregor felt something odd turn inside him. He’d never held with men who needed young girls.

  But she wasn’t a girl. He’d seen her up close earlier, saw the lines of fatigue run along her cheeks and between those fine brows that lifted like wings. Her hollowed cheeks had caused her purple eyes to seem large as a child’s, but there was a fierce look about her that only a woman could have.

  The woman had forged steel running through her, and MacGregor liked that. When a man chose a mate on the frontier, he’d better get one who wouldn’t run from bad times.

  Her breast was so soft, barely filling his palm. He’d wanted her badly then. Wanted to sink into her woman’s flesh and forget his pain in the hot, sweet fever.

  He chewed on the cooked deer meat, his body slowly absorbing the nourishment. The woman needed time to mend. Time to set her mind to the new life with his son and himself.

  MacGregor ran his hand across the hair on his chest, frowning. He liked the way she’d taken to Jack, nestling his small body against her. He had tested her then, watching her carefully handle his son. MacGregor had seen white women captives turn from their half-blooded children. But Regina cuddled Jack as though he were hers.

  MacGregor rubbed the ache in his shoulder, glancing at the woman hidden by the fur.

  Mothering was a female instinct, and that was what Jack needed now. But the woman needed someone to do her thinking, to take care of her, MacGregor decided firmly.r />
  He drew a fur over him and half turned on the floor, curling his warmth around Jack.

  He watched the flames and let himself slowly relax, thinking about the woman. She disturbed him like a breeze riffled the dead leaves clinging to a tree. He didn’t understand why, but when her slender fingers lay upon his open hand, the touch had locked him in place.

  He rubbed his palm roughly against his thigh, trying to erase the lingering brush of her fingers. They were soft, he remembered, pale and fragile lying against his palm....

  “Don’t reckon I’ve ever had a woman touch me there, Jack,” he muttered softly to his sleeping baby. “Unless she wanted to be paid.”

  With his right hand on his son’s back, and his left on the handle of his pistol, MacGregor allowed himself to sleep.

  ~**~

  The mewing sound awakened Regina, and she snuggled deeper into the glorious warmth of her bed. She allowed herself to sink into the security of the dream.... The family’s country estate was marvelous in the winter, blanketed by snow. Huge blazing logs filled the wide stone fireplace. Laden with plum puddings, roast pheasant, and hams, the dining table gleamed with a fresh coating of beeswax.

  With plum puddings and hot mulled cider, the holidays would soon begin, filled with guests and presents—

  Jennifer, her beloved nanny....

  Jennifer crying, begging Hawkes to be gentle to his child.

  Jennifer, whispering on her deathbed, “Take the jewels, my child, and run for freedom. Never be owned as your mother was. Never... be... owned by a man. Be your own woman... Own yourself...”

  The mewing sound grew louder, demanding. Her dog whined at her side, sharing the bed with her.

  Venus whined again, nuzzling her hand free of the coverings. Rubbing the dog’s ears, Regina listened as a baby began to wail.

  A baby!

  She swallowed, listening to the odd noises enter her drowsy warmth. A man spoke quietly, sleepily. Outside the wind howled, and the hard floor was not her feather mattress. Forcing her lids to open, Regina watched as the tall mountain man rose out of his bedding.

  Talking quietly to Jack as the baby’s cry became a frantic demand, the man sank a thick blade into a tin of milk. He placed the tin into a pan of water beside the blazing fire.

  Noting the morning light skipping through the thinly scraped skins covering the window, Regina watched the man who had entered her life last night. MacGregor.

  In the dim light of dawn and fire, MacGregor’s tall body dominated the room as he moved around in his buckskin-fringed shirt. During the night he had drawn off his leggings, and the yellow stripe slid down the length of his blue trousers.

  He crouched beside the baby and talked quietly in that low comforting drawl. If she hadn’t known he was a madman, the drawl would have soothed her back to sleep. “You’re wet, Jack. You run a steady stream from your mouth to your drawers.”

  MacGregor changed his son’s clothing, then lifted the baby at the same time he lowered himself to lean against the wall. Pouring the tinned milk into a cup, he cradled his son in the crook of his other arm. A tiny arm flailed about and caught the mountain man on his nose. He chuckled deeply, tugging the tiny hand with his lips.

  “You’re a tough old bear, boy. Should have named you Ephraim for mountain bear. Mr. Bear—leaky britches,” he soothed in that raspy, deep voice as he reached for a spoon.

  At first the baby sucked frantically, then slowed to a drowsy acceptance of the spoon nudging his lips. After the baby fell asleep, MacGregor eased wood into the fire and, watching it, leaned back to rest.

  “You’re awake. I can feel you think, woman,” he stated without turning from his task. “It’s warmer here. Drag your pallet to the fire,” MacGregor ordered quietly.

  Regina longed to stay where she was, but the cold began to slide into the robe. When she hesitated, MacGregor glanced at her. “If you’re wanting to step outside to pi—ah, take your ease—slip on my boots,” he finished roughly, turning his attention to the baby again.

  Regina lay still for a moment, thinking of his horses. Once she left the cabin, she could steal one of his horses—

  “Easy now, Jack,” he murmured, his gaze skipping across the shadows to her. MacGregor’s raspy voice clawed at her, the tone deeply masculine and laden with male authority. How she resented that tone.... And she resented his ability to make her feel like a girl fluttering over her first love.

  “You’re hatching some plan to run off,” he said, as though he owned her, flesh and blood, heart and soul. She let the hatred simmer within her, the old scars opening anew. “I’d catch you,” he said quietly. “Tie you up if I had to. Just do your business and get some more sleep. You’re not fit to travel now.”

  She shivered, as the cold slipped deeper into her robe. How dare he try to understand how she thought!

  “You’re arrogant, MacGregor,” she managed finally across dry lips. “You couldn’t possibly know what I’m thinking.” Rising to sit, Regina wrapped the robe about her shoulders.

  A dog whined at her side, and Regina turned to see her greyhound. Pleasure rippled through her like sweet spring rain. “Venus! Oh, my love, my beautiful—”

  Running her hands along the dog, Regina giggled as the dog’s tongue lapped at her cheek. “Steady on, my beautiful—”

  Her fingers discovered the ridges on the dog’s smooth pelt, and looking at them carefully, Regina traced the brutal whip marks. “He didn’t have to hurt you, my lovely,” she murmured, caressing the dog’s maimed back.

  “The dog will heal. She wouldn’t let me touch her last night. You can put some salve on her later,” MacGregor offered softly.

  Regina wiped the back of her hand across her damp eyes. “How horrible. My poor Venus.”

  “She’s moving like she’s taken a boot or two in her ribs, but she’ll heal fine. Just take her outside with you when you go.”

  Regina rose slowly, painfully aware of her weakness as Venus whimpered by her side. Rubbing her hand across her eyes, she wrapped the fur about her and walked to stand before the fire. Venus whined, cowering behind her skirt.

  Patting Venus, Regina forced her head up and straightened her shoulders. Deserted in a foreign country with nothing except her pride, she would survive. MacGregor was obviously mad, wanting to marry her. Weakened and unable to survive the wilderness alone, she hadn’t a chance... at least just now, she corrected as Venus whined again.

  “Come now, Venus. Mr. MacGregor is quite right. We both need a trip outside and more rest. Show him that you’re not afraid, my darling.” Gingerly bracing her hand against the wall, Regina slipped one dainty foot into the huge worn boot.

  Placing her other foot into his boot, she tried an experimental step. She discovered that when her feet moved, the boots did not and served to unbalance her. MacGregor’s large hand shot out, gripping her waist to steady her for a moment. His dark eyes gleamed beneath his heavy lashes, and she caught the flash of his teeth.

  “A woman needs a man to take care of her,” he drawled; the arrogant knowing tone caught on her nerves.

  Regina looked down at him haughtily, daintily removing his hand with her thumb and index finger. “I can manage. Thank you, MacGregor.”

  She lifted her chin higher, shuffling toward the door in the huge boots while holding the cape. She hadn’t liked the dark gleam in his eyes when he had balanced her, not a bit. Nor did she like the way her flesh heated at his touch. Lifting the latch, she turned with as much grace as she could manage and said, “I shall be back soon. Come, Venus.”

  She thought she heard a low chuckle just as she closed the door. “ ‘A woman needs a man.’ Damn his bloody hide, Venus,” she muttered, walking toward the trees. “But I shall have my day. I promise.”

  When she returned to the cabin, the baby was sleeping and MacGregor had prepared her breakfast by the fire. A low flat pan held chunks of bread, and her china cup was filled with steaming meat broth. He had placed wedges of freshly cooked me
at on her saucer. Regina’s stomach contracted at the sight, and she exclaimed, “This looks lovely, MacGregor!”

  When she sat, carefully arranging her skirts over her crossed legs to take the food, he watched her. “The dog stays away from Jack. I left a good measure of meat on the bones, and there’s water in the corner.”

  Regina nibbled the bread, sampling it to discover the tangy taste. She slid a glance at MacGregor as he rubbed a stone along the ax blade, sharpening it.

  The light was better now, settling over him like a mantle as he bit off a chunk of meat and chewed it slowly. His hair reached his shoulders, a thick glossy mass of waves. His nose had an odd angle to it, as though it once had been broken. The heavy beard covered his jaw and cheeks, but his complexion was dark naturally and deepened a shade by weather.

  Lounging against the wall, MacGregor was possibly the fiercest man she had ever encountered. She’d seen frontier men from a distance—dirty, fierce men. Yet MacGregor’s hair and skin were clean, his body lean. From the hole at the tip of his stockings to the deerskin shirt, he was nothing but hard angles of muscle and bone. She could have easily fitted twice into his shirt as it stretched tightly across his broad shoulders. A wave slipped across his brow, softening the angular width. Working peacefully at his task, he glanced at his son when the baby stirred.

  Regina’s gaze returned to MacGregor’s chest, where the fringed deerskin shirt opened to reveal his red woolens. Escaping the undergarment was a thatch of dark hair that curled at the base of his muscular, tanned throat.

  She closed her eyes, trying to force away the image of black glistening hair covering a wonderfully broad, muscular chest. A lady didn’t want to run her fingers through the hair covering a man’s chest!

  Regina’s fingertips tingled, and she swallowed, moistening a suddenly dry throat. MacGregor hadn’t concealed his need for a woman when his fingers skimmed across her breast.

  Regina gathered her arms around her tightly, trying to quell the sudden surge of longing to simply move into his arms.

  His arms moved, muscles and cords sliding beneath the leather shirt, his long legs stretching out before him. He was too powerfully built, much too large. He would surely tear her....