by Karen Kay
Was she losing her mind? Or had she really seen a buckskin jacket? A jacket with beaded designs and porcupine quills? A jacket that only an Indian would wear?
She muttered a curse, deciding the winds, the very spirits themselves were conspiring against her.
What good was this doing her?
She brought her head up, refusing to look anywhere but straight ahead, unaware that a man dressed in colorfully designed buckskin shirt and leggings with a buffalo robe thrown over his shoulder followed her, followed her carriage.
A cool, humid breeze brushed at her hair, releasing blond tendrils from her coiffure.
“Look at me.”
Estrela bit her lip. Don’t listen to it, she told herself. Don’t look. Don’t… She moaned, glancing into the crowd despite herself, catching a glimpse of long, black hair flowing back against the wind.
No! It couldn’t be. And yet… She saw him there in the crowd.
She gasped.
A shot split the air.
Estrela screamed, instinctively ducking down, realizing with horror that blood streamed down her own arm.
Was someone shooting at her or…?
Another shot exploded, barely missing her. Another.
She fell to her knees then, her head down, her hands sheltering her face. Bells rang outside, women on the street screamed and men yelled. The Duchess of Colchester cried, the Duke shouted orders to the driver, the horses reared. So much noise was there, that she didn’t hear the high-pitched whooping of a warrior’s voice; she didn’t see the flash of bronzed skin as a man ran toward her, didn’t even feel the carriage tip as it gave under the weight of a lone, single man who had leaped from the streets, to her side.
She sobbed, she cried, making so much noise herself, that she didn’t hear anything, didn’t sense anything until strong arms encircled her, lifting her out of the carriage. Only then did she catch a faint scent of familiar masculinity, but with so much motion bursting around her, she only registered confusion.
Another shot fired.
Horses reared, more people screamed and scattered. Soldiers fell out of order and were suddenly everywhere. Another shot exploded and Estrela felt her rescuer dodge the deadly bullet. Estrela opened her eyes and looking up, saw for the first time the man who held her. And had she been at all fainthearted, she would have swooned.
Had the wind been foreshadowing his presence, or was she delirious? Not only was this man Indian, he was… Her mind swam and her senses spun.
What was happening?
Another gunshot fired and Estrela abandoned all conscious thought, reacting in league with her rescuer. The Indian, however, remained in control, and dodging between people, he ran, Estrela held in his arms. No one stopped him, she noted, and he paused now and again in the crowd, looking around, as though hunting for sanctuary. Estrela, glancing up at him, understood, despite her confusion, that his only defense lay in taking shelter among the crowd, until he had either outrun his assailant or found safe refuge. Estrela wondered at her own encumbrance to him in his flight, then dismissed the thought, remembering that the American Indian was accustomed to such maneuvers.
The Royal Guard, with their red jackets glaring within the crowd, burst forward, dispersing the people everywhere, and oddly enough pursuing the Indian as though he were the one who had fired the shots. They raced after him through the crowd, shouting at him, ordering him to stop. But the Indian refused to relent and without seeming to exert much effort, he outmaneuvered the guards, changing directions without breaking stride, running between people, animals, buildings; he carried his charge as though she weighed no more than the quiver full of arrows upon his back.
Still, it was only a matter of time before the Royal Guard caught him, greatly outnumbering him and being themselves on their own territory; soon, caught, cornered, nowhere to go, the Indian stopped before a building. Penned in he took up a stance, determined, it would seem, to fight the entire Guard.
The Indian, a knife his only weapon, set Estrela behind him, protecting her with his body, while he faced his opponents, crouched, ready to respond.
And she noted, even though she wasn’t fully convinced this was more than a dream, that he stood before the Guard, outmanned, only one against many. Yet he stood, proudly, his prize held behind him, his body her shield.
That’s when she heard them, his growls, and she wondered, was this real or was spirit wind playing tricks on her still, bringing visions to her?
As if in answer, she heard his war cry—the sound terrible. And she realized, as she reached a hand out to touch the long mass of his hair that this was real. He was real. He was here. He had saved her life.
She almost collapsed.
Except that he held her with one arm behind him, and she had no choice but to watch as Mato Sapa, Lakota warrior, held off a hundred, red-coated Royal Guard.
She’s learning to live. He’s forgotten how. Love will be their teacher.
Endless Heart
© 2012 Emma Lang
Heart, Book 3
Lettie Brown has lived in the shadow of violence. After escaping her brutal past, she’s finally at home in Forestville, Wyoming, where she would live a normal life—if she knew how. She’s content working at The Blue Plate and printing the town newspaper, if not happy. Then a stranger stumbles into her world and turns everything upside down.
Shane Murphy is a shell of a man, destroyed by the aftermath of the war, his personal tragedies and a penchant for cheap whiskey. When he lands, literally, on Lettie’s feet, his future takes a hard right turn.
As they fumble through a relationship that should not have been, a deep love takes root, one that cannot be denied. Together they discover a bond as unbreakable as steel and as undeniable as life itself—until the past rears its ugly head and threatens the happiness they’ve found in each other.
Warning: Get ready for a deep, intense love story that will leave you crying, cheering, shouting, squirming and sighing. Prepare for a hero who needs to be held, a heroine who needs to be loved, and a story that needs to be told.
Enjoy the following excerpt for Endless Heart:
The wagon was ready and waiting outside the restaurant. The rig and the horses had been rented from the livery in town, costing the Gundersons money. Yet she knew others in town had contributed some, asking for supplies of their own. Lettie had a hefty list of goods to purchase, and she hoped the store in Benson had everything she needed.
Without waiting for assistance, she climbed into the wagon and settled onto the seat. The wood creaked and popped as Shane hoisted himself up beside her. He didn’t say a thing, but his thigh settled inches from hers. Feeling petty but unable to help herself, she pulled her skirt closer so it didn’t touch him.
What was wrong with her? He was a seemingly good man, who for some unknown reason found her attractive, and she pushed him away. It wasn’t logical, and she could hardly explain it to herself. Here they sat, uncomfortable and out of sorts, barely speaking. It seemed like a lifetime ago she’d bathed his body and they’d kissed. In the days since then, she had dreamed of making love with him.
A twister roared through her, tying her up into tight little knots she couldn’t possibly undo. Sitting there was as uncomfortable as she’d expected, even more so. She counted each clop of the horses’ hooves as each second ticked by. It helped pass the time and gave her something to do besides be silent and awkward.
By the time she reached two thousand four hundred and thirty, she was gritting her teeth. She could swear Shane was deliberately inching closer to her. The metal handle on the seat was currently digging into her hip.
At six thousand two hundred and fifty, she gave up counting entirely. Her hip was throbbing, she had to pee and she had swallowed a bug. It was time to stop and rest for a few minutes.
“Stop the wagon.”
“Huh?” He turned to her, as though he had been daydreaming about anything but sitting beside her on a wagon.
“Stop. Th
e. Wagon. I need to, ah, use the necessary.” Lettie refused to say please. That was not in her vocabulary anymore when she spoke to men, any man.
“Oh, sure thing. I could stretch my legs too after the last couple hours.”
“A couple hours? It’s only been a couple hours?” She punched him in the arm.
“Ow.” He pulled the wagon to a stop in a grassy area and set the brake. As he rubbed the spot where she’d punched him, he scowled at her from under the brim of his borrowed flat-brimmed brown hat. “Why did you hit me?”
Lettie stared, horrified by the fact she had punched him. The man had been beaten nearly to death, and she knew very well how much fists hurt, far longer than the bruises lasted. Yet she had deliberately hit him.
“I’m sorry.” Her voice was barely above a whisper. When he opened his mouth to respond, she turned and leapt off the wagon. She landed hard on her right ankle, which then throbbed as she tottered off to the nearby bushes to relieve herself.
Lettie was never this out of sorts. She felt itchy, as though she could jump out of her skin any minute. As she found a suitable bush, she pulled up her skirt and did what she needed to. She never forgot for a second that Shane was close enough to hear her urinate. It was another strange thing about a strange day.
By the time she cleaned herself up and straightened her clothes, she had calmed down sufficiently to return to the wagon. Her swollen ankle complained with each step, and her boot was too tight. The day kept getting worse.
Shane leaned against the side of the wagon, his feet crossed at the ankle, a stalk of grass stuck between his teeth. He watched her approach, his face hidden by the shade of his hat so she couldn’t see his eyes. She didn’t like that one bit.
“What’s wrong with your foot?”
“Nothing. I twisted it a bit is all.” She went around the back of the wagon and reached into the basket for a bite to eat. With her stomach jumping like a passel of frogs, she didn’t need to get sick from having no food.
“Is there enough in there for me?”
“No.”
“You sure are being ornery, Lettie.” Shane wasn’t accusatory, but he was annoying.
“Then you know the real me.” She found a ham biscuit and turned her back to him. No need to flaunt the food at him—she wasn’t that mean. It wasn’t because she didn’t want to look at him. Or at least that was what she told herself.
“No, but I’m waiting to meet her.” Shane’s response made her pause in mid-motion.
She swung around and speared him with a glare. “What do you mean by that?”
He shrugged. “Just that. You don’t let anyone see you, Lettie.”
His words hit her square between the eyes. It was the truth, of course, but painful nonetheless. She managed not to spit out the bite in her mouth that had turned to ash on her tongue. Lettie swallowed what she could to save herself from looking foolish. Her hands shook with anger.
A little voice deep inside told her it was fear.
“That’s none of your business, Mr. Murphy. You don’t mean anything to me.”
“I know that.”
“You are a drunk, a stranger who puked on my shoes and nothing more.”
“I know that.”
She was within a foot of him, her sharp words whipping through the air like knives. He didn’t flinch or move as she beat him with her verbal fury. Her chest heaved as she struggled for breath, overwhelmed and out of control.
“You are here out of pity. Marta and Pieter felt sorry for you. You aren’t part of our family and you never will be.” Her mouth fairly burned with the viciousness of her attack.
“I know that.”
“Stop saying that.” She thumped one fist on his chest, then the other. Soon she was punching him for all she was worth. Her throat burned, her eyes shed angry tears and she let loose a torrent of sobs that sounded more like a wounded animal than a woman.
Lettie lost all sense of time and self. She tumbled down into a dark, deep hole and huddled there. Strong arms surrounded her, keeping her from sinking any further. Soft crooning echoed in her ear while warm hands rubbed her back.
She couldn’t tell how much time had passed before she realized she was curled into a ball on someone’s lap. A male lap. Her arms and legs were stiff, her face hot and wet. She shifted, flush with embarrassment over her attack on him and her subsequent fit. Angeline was the only one who knew about them. Until now.
His arm tightened around her shoulders. “Sit.”
“I can’t sit on your lap, Shane.” She got to her feet, her legs trembling. When she took a step, she lost her balance and fell. He caught her in midair, his arm pushing the breath out of her lungs.
“I reckon you’ll sit now.” He flipped her around, and she found herself right back in his lap.
She should have gotten up, should have told him to let her go, but she didn’t. The sad truth was, he was comfortable, he smelled good and she didn’t want to move. Normally after losing control like that, she felt sick the rest of the day. Shane’s presence must have kept that sickness at bay because her stomach wasn’t hurting in the least.
“I, uh, I’m sorry about what I did.” The apology was like sawdust in her mouth, dry and tasteless.
“You don’t need to apologize.” His voice was honey smooth in her ear.
“Yes I do. I didn’t mean to. I’ve been having fits for a while. I can’t rightly control it.” Her cheeks burned as she admitted there was something very wrong with her.
“I get that way too with whiskey,” he admitted. “I have days, hell weeks, I don’t remember.”
She knew whiskey could make a man stupid but didn’t know it could snatch days from his memory. Another reason not to drink a drop of it. She wondered if Shane would fall back into the bottle again or if he could resist the lure of its amber depths. Lettie didn’t have a choice when it involved her black periods, but maybe he didn’t either.
The sounds of life surrounded them, birds sang, squirrels chattered and bees buzzed. The sun shone brightly on the meadow while Shane and Lettie sat in the shadow of the wagon. It seemed only they knew how dark life could be.
Desire, dreams…and a choice that could spell danger.
The Oath
© 2012 Lindsay Chase
Catherine Stone let nothing stop her from following her dream through medical school and into her own practice. Not her disapproving family nor society’s strict rules concerning a woman’s proper place.
The man who picks her up off the ice rink in Central Park is everything she despises: an arrogant, insufferable, wealthy robber baron. But there’s something about Damon Delancy that gets under her skin in a curiously delicious way.
They don’t call Damon the “Wolf of Wall Street” for nothing. He’s accustomed to getting what he wants, and he’s determined to wear down Catherine’s resistance with relentless wooing. He also wants to make her see that her progressive ideas about a woman’s choice in childbearing are not only scandalous, but could put her in danger.
When one of Catherine’s female colleagues is found murdered, Damon is compelled to put his foot down to keep the woman he loves safe. But Catherine won’t be kept in a gilded cage, even if it means having to choose between the women she serves and the desires of her own heart.
Warning: Contains two strong, determined, passionate lovers who are destined to butt heads…and hearts.
Enjoy the following excerpt for The Oath:
As the warm weather arrived, Catherine found herself occasionally recalling that cold winter day she had slipped on the ice and had come face to face with Damon Delancy. She dismissed such thoughts as pointless daydreaming, for she doubted she would ever see him again. After all, she wasn’t one of the exalted who dwelt among the sun, moon and stars.
This fine May morning, her existence was far from celestial. She had just come from stitching knife wounds, treating a burn and telling a new mother that her baby was going to die, so she was not in the best of moods when
she started to cross Bleecker Street.
As she looked to her left for an opening in the traffic, several small boys caught her eye because they had the look of deviltry about them as they put their heads together in a huddle. Catherine scowled, wondering what mischief they were contemplating.
Suddenly one of the boys drew his arm back and threw with all his might. His target was evident when a large black horse walking down the street started, then exploded, screaming in terror before bolting as though shot from a cannon.
Catherine watched in horror as the startled rider tried to rein in his witless mount while weaving among other riders, carriages and lumbering wagons. Without warning, a water wagon made an abrupt right-hand turn, blocking the runaway’s path. For one heart-stopping second, it looked as though the frenzied horse was gathering himself to try to jump the wagon, but at the last minute, the animal swerved, veering sharply to the left.
His rider must have been anticipating such a move, for he managed to stay in the saddle as his horse swerved. But when the animal stumbled, the man went flying through the air and landed hard.
Clutching her medical bag, Catherine picked up her skirts and ran toward the hapless man now lying so still in the middle of the street.
Chaos reigned. Curious pedestrians surged forward while carriages and hansoms swerved to avoid the man. No one dared to stop the horse as he regained his footing and charged down the street, sending people scattering like autumn leaves as his empty stirrups beat against his ribs, goading him to run even faster.
“Please let me through!” Catherine cried as she tried to fight her way through the crowd. “I’m a doctor.”
They parted for her, but not without startled looks and murmured comments.
By the time Catherine fought her way through, the fallen rider was sitting up, propped against a burly man kneeling on one knee beside him. His left arm hung uselessly at his side and his dark head was bowed, indicating that he had probably fainted.