HIS CHISELED FACE WAS A MASK OF NAKED DESIRE
Kaylene took a slow step away from Fire Thunder. She was aware of the keen silence in the cabin. She wondered if Fire Thunder might even hear the pounding of her heart.
She said nothing, only watched him as he came closer. She could go no farther. She could feel the heat of the fireplace on her back and knew that she couldn’t step away from him.
She gasped when suddenly his hands were on her cheeks, his thumbs gently stroking them. Closing her eyes, she shuddered with ecstasy when he suddenly surrounded her with his hard, strong arms, pressing her against him.
As his lips claimed hers, and he held her so tenderly to him, she was no longer afraid. It was as though his lips were drugging her, speaking to her, telling her that the only thing alive tonight in this cabin was passion—sweet, wonderful, undying passion.
This passion was them: how they felt for one another, how they finally allowed themselves to feel.
Fire Thunder’s mouth slipped away from Kaylene’s lips. He whispered against her cheek. “Say you want me.”
Also by Cassie Edwards
RAPTURE’S RENDEZVOUS
SILKEN RAPTURE
PORTRAIT OF THUNDER
WILD DESIRE
WILD THUNDER
HER FORBIDDEN PIRATE
BELOVED EMBRACE
SAVAGE HEART
SAVAGE OBSESSION
SAVAGE INNOCENCE
WILD WHISPERS
CASSIE EDWARDS
ZEBRA BOOKS
KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.
http://www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
HIS CHISELED FACE WAS A MASK OF NAKED DESIRE
Also by Cassie Edwards
Title Page
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
WILD SPLENDOR,
Copyright Page
With much affection, I dedicate Wild Whispers
to the following special friends:
Lillian Aiello
Nancy Applegate
Lori Ann Adkison
Marcella Burris
Clara Ann Bentley
Cheryl Betancourt
Dee Bockes
Ann Clough
Rena Esposito
Cindy Strothers
Stella Alexander
Deborah Abrams
Cindy Arquette
Aera Bryant
Rae Berlove
Myrtle Barben
Vivian Castrodale
Doris Denardo
Carol Kita
Marion Campbell
Chapter 1
At night, when gazing
On the gay hearth blazing,
O, still remember me!
—THOMAS MOORE
1854, Texas
In continuing, brilliant zigzags, lightning raced against the dark, stormy sky. Chief Fire Thunder, of the Coahuila Thunder clan of the Kickapoo, held tight to his reins as his white stallion became uneasy over the ominous play of lightning, and the great claps of thunder that rumbled through the ground beneath his hooves.
Fire Thunder leaned low over his stallion and spoke soothingly to him. As Fire Thunder looked nervously at the herd of longhorn steers, he stroked his steed’s thick neck.
When Fire Thunder saw a familiar glow that appeared on the horn tips of one of the steers at the head of the herd, he stiffened. He had seen it before. He braced himself for the worst, when sparks raced along the horns, danced along the steer’s back, then rolled off its tail into the ground.
Fire Thunder straightened his back and sucked in a wild, nervous breath when, deep in the center of the packed mass of steers, the lightning appeared in many other places. As though it were a living thing, it leapt from steer to steer. It bounced off horn tips and tails in a frightening phosphorescent display. The steers snorted and trumpeted as the air crackled and popped around them.
Black Hair, Fire Thunder’s best nekanaki, friend, sidled his horse closer to his. “They are going to stampede!” he shouted above the howling wind and the rain that suddenly fell from the sky in torrents. “Cry to the heavens, Fire Thunder. Tell Grandfather to stop!”
Fire Thunder looked guardedly around him, at his other warriors who were too close to him for him to perform his magic, his special powers that were known only to him and his friend Black Hair.
“This is not the time or the place for me to do that,” Fire Thunder shouted back at Black Hair. He gave his friend a steady gaze. “You know as well as I that my powers are reserved for times when I am alone. We will battle the elements today with the strength bestowed upon us by Kitzihiat, our Great Spirit!”
No sooner was that said than the leaders of the longhorn herd whirled and balked. Dazzled by the play of lightning, the animals churned in confusion.
Suddenly they turned and reversed their direction.
The wet ground was pounded by more than a hundred hooves as the animals began their crazed flight.
“Stampede!” Fire Thunder shouted, grabbing his lariat from his saddle. His eyes blurred from the rain as he rode in a hard gallop toward an old moss-horned bull that was in the lead.
“Let’s head him off together!” Black Hair said as he rode after the same longhorn. “If we can get him stopped, the rest will follow suit.”
Fire Thunder nodded and looked over his shoulder at the rest of his warriors, who were attempting to head off the bulk of the herd, and, lead them back in the direction of the Rio Grande.
Fire Thunder’s gaze turned back to the old bull. Gaining on him, he whirled his lariat in the air over his head.
Black Hair was riding side by side with the bull. He swung his lariat and cut the air in front of the bull’s nose.
Fire Thunder reined his horse off to the side, his animal skidding to a halt and spewing mud. Fire Thunder watched, smiling, as Black Hair brought his coiled rope down over the old bull’s nose.
The rope landed with a whack. The old bull snorted and turned, his horn tips barely missing Black Hair and his feisty mustang.
Fire Thunder swung his rope in the air in a wide circle, then slung it over the old bull’s head and tightened it.
The longhorn yanked and jerked against both ropes, then snorted and stood quiet.
Breathing hard, Fire Thunder watched his warriors round up the rest of the herd, the storm finally floating on past them overhead.
The herd’s panic evaporated, with only a few continuing in wild plunging lopes.
The warriors cut in front of the longhorns, moved them into a mill, then turned the mill into a controlled drive toward the Rio Grande once again.
“I thought we had lost them,” Black Hair said as he rode beside Fire Thunder toward the river.
“Longhorns are a stubborn lot, that is for sure,” Fire Thunder said, smiling at Black Hair. “But not as stubborn as you or I, my friend.”
Black Hair laughed and nodded.
Fire Thunder yanked his wat
er-soaked, red cotton bandanna from around his brow and used it to wipe the rain from his face. He flung his wet, waist-length, coal-black hair back from his shoulders as he stuck the bandanna into the pocket of his buckskin shirt. His fringed buckskin outfit clung to him like a second skin. The leather chaps he wore, to give good protection against rope burns, were now wet, tight, and abrasive.
“We will cross the border with the steers at the Rio Grande under the cover of darkness, go on until we reach the foot of our mountain, then make camp for the night,” Fire Thunder said. He looked upward. The moon was only a tiny sliver in the sky.
“Yes, that is best,” Black Hair said, nodding. “The steers are tired after their run. They would move too slowly tonight to get them safely up the mountain pass.”
“Even I move too slowly,” Fire Thunder said, chuckling. “But it has been a good day for us, my friend. We have retrieved a good portion of the longhorns stolen from us by the Texans many moons ago when we lived in Texas. Now that we live in Mexico, we have enough land to take back the steers that were stolen from us. And we shall, until the number we steal matches that which was stolen from us.”
Reins slack in his hands, Fire Thunder let his steed pick its own way through the darkness. It was now a night of scudding clouds, which intermittently shrouded the moon, making the dark seem blacker in sudden contrast.
The air was motionless, full of the lowing of the longhorns.
As they rode on in silence, Fire Thunder became lost in thought—about how he came to be here, instead of his home in Wisconsin. He had grown tired of the white people taking land from his people. He had broken away from the other Kickapoo people and had led his own here, where he had found freedom for them in Mexico.
His request to migrate into Mexico had been granted by the Mexican Ministry of War. The permission had been given to Fire Thunder as long as he agreed to help keep marauding Comanche renegades out of Mexico, and also white men who came with their promises that they always broke.
Although the Kickapoo had to subject themselves to the laws of the land of Mexico, it was not demanded of them to change their habits and customs.
The Mexican government allowed the Kickapoo to form a loose confederacy and permitted them to establish a village where they would be free to farm their own land, and raise large herds of livestock. To the Kickapoo, this was a paradise, without the cunning white government always interfering.
Fire Thunder was called “Captain” by the Mexican leaders. He had many privileges not enjoyed by the others. He was recognized as the head of his clan by the Mexican authorities, and received a small salary from the local municipality.
In the white world, Fire Thunder would be called a cattle baron because he owned vast tracts of grazing land.
He was honored and respected by all who knew him, and feared by his enemies.
When the Rio Grande was reached, Fire Thunder’s thoughts came back to the present. He watched carefully and saw that his herd made it safely across the river, near to Eagle Pass. Thus far the Texans hadn’t suspected the Kickapoo of stealing their cattle. The Comanche renegades, who were well known for such thievery, were always blamed.
Once the foot of Fire Thunder’s mountain was reached, the herd was checked over. Fire Thunder’s blood boiled when he saw how the Texans had changed the Kickapoo brand to one of theirs that was similar.
But he placed this aside too until he reached home, and his warriors could renew their own brand on the animals over the Texans’.
The camp was readied for the night. Bathed and wearing dried buckskins, Fire Thunder and Black Hair sat away from the others, before their own campfire. They were stretched out comfortably on blankets that were spread atop chestgrass that was plush as velvet.
They each chewed on a piece of jerky and a mixture of seeds and dried fruit, while a coffeepot spurted a trailing wisp of steam heavenward.
Not far from them, some of the longhorns were grazing on high, thick, dew-wet grass. Here and there one of the animals was dust-scratching, rolling on its back like a cat in a patch of clear ground, sharp polished hooves waving in the air while it twisted.
The cool breeze was full of longhorn talk, a drawn-out tympanic rattling of throaty noises.
“My friend, you are more quiet tonight than usual,” Black Hair said. “Is it the Texans you are thinking about?” He lifted a tin cup to his mouth and slowly sipped his coffee.
“You know that all Texans opposed the presence of we Kickapoo in their country when we lived there,” Fire Thunder said sullenly. “They despised us. Some even called us marauders. They were glad when we moved into Mexican territory.”
“Yes, and the Mexicans want us to stay,” Black Hair said, setting his empty coffee cup aside. “They see us as protectors.”
“I wonder how those who only pass through Texas see us,” Fire Thunder said, casting Black Hair a quick, questioning glance.
“Is there anyone particular in mind when you wonder about such a thing as that?” Black Hair said, raising an inquisitive eyebrow. “You have not ever mentioned such a worry to me before.”
“I have not had cause to wonder about it before,” Fire Thunder said, raking his long, lean fingers through his thick, black hair.
“Why do you now?” Black Hair said, straightening his back. “Or should I say who . . . brings such a question to your mind?”
“You are astute to all my thoughts, my friend,” Fire Thunder said, reaching a hand over to Black Hair, clasping it on his shoulder. “There is someone lingering in my mind tonight.”
Black Hair saw the sparkle in his friend’s blue eyes, his blue eyes supporting Fire Thunder’s claim to his mixture of French and Indian ancestry. Only a woman could cause such a look; such wonder.
“What woman, my friend?” Black Hair prodded. “Have I looked upon her, myself, with pleasure?”
“You have seen her, yes, and if you did not feel a stirring in your loins as you gazed upon her loveliness, you are not a man of passion,” Fire Thunder said, laughing softly.
“Who, Fire Thunder?” Black Hair said, leaning his face closer. “Who intrigues you so much you torment your best friend with talk of him being passionless?”
“I was only jesting,” Fire Thunder said, patting Black Hair’s shoulder. “About your being passionless, that is. There is a certain woman who fills my thoughts tonight, who makes my heart feel as though it is thumping like Kickapoo warriors are playing a million drums inside my chest.”
“Are you going to keep me guessing all night?” Black Hair said, impatience showing in the clipped tone of his voice.
“You cannot help but recall the long caravan of wagons we saw earlier in the day before we reached the Texan’s ranch from whom we stole the longhorns,” Fire Thunder said, watching the slow knowing appear in his friend’s eyes. “Being a skilled reader, I read ‘THE SHELTON FAMILY CARNIVAL’ on the side of the wagons. In one of those wagons do you not recall seeing this beautiful young woman whose black hair was as sleek as a raven’s, and whose eyes were as green and crisp as a panther’s? She was delicate and pale skinned, almost fragile and doll-like in appearance.”
“Yes, I remember her well,” Black Hair said, nodding.
“She was, ah, muy bonito, very pretty,” Fire Thunder said. “I surmise that she is at least eighteen winters of age. I wonder if she is yet married?”
“You, who avoid speaking of marriage to a woman like it is the plague, speak of it now when you have only seen this woman once?” Black Hair said incredulously.
“I have only avoided women because none have yet stirred my soul with such longings as I . . . feel . . . now for this woman,” Fire Thunder said. He cleared his throat as he gave Black Hair an awkward glance. “This goes no farther, Black Hair. This is something spoken between you and myself only. I am my people’s chief. I do not want to look weak in their eyes because I have been intrigued by a woman.”
“A white woman . . . a stranger . . . a carnival person,” Black Hair
did not hesitate to say.
Fire Thunder ignored Black Hair’s thoughts on the subject. And Black Hair knew that this was only a fleeting thing, for Fire Thunder would never see the woman again.
“I do wonder what goes on inside the carnival’s mystery tents,” Fire Thunder blurted out.
“Perhaps you would not want to know,” Black Hair said, then lay down to sleep.
Fire Thunder stayed musing by the fire for a while. Then he spread his blankets out, and snuggled into his bedroll.
But he couldn’t go to sleep. He kept seeing those green eyes and the soft smile of the woman.
Finally he drifted off into a restless sleep.
Yet even then he could not escape the green eyes and smile.
He dreamed of the woman.
She was in his arms.
She was so delicate, so sweet, so loving.
Their lips met in a trembling kiss.
He filled his hands with her breasts, their touch like silk against his palms.
Slowly she lowered her dress past her thighs.
He grew hot all over when she allowed him to touch her between her thighs, where she was wet with need of him.
He caressed her there until she cried out with soft pleasure.
She, in turn, caressed him, until he spilled his juices into the tiny palm of one of her hands.
Then their bodies met.
He plunged himself deep inside her.
They tangled and sank into a chasm of pure rapture....
His heart pounding, his body aching with need, Fire Thunder awakened in a fever. His eyes were wide. His breathing was rapid.
“It was a dream,” he whispered huskily to himself.
Dreams held great significance to the Kickapoo. Fire Thunder’s people believed that the dreamer’s spirit was actually able to leave the body during sleep and observe the happenings of dreams. That was why it was important not to wake people in the midst of dreaming. Proper time must be given for the spirit to return to the sleeper’s body.
Wild Whispers Page 1