Lakota Surrender

by Karen Kay

  “I look for you.”

  Estrela gasped. It was him. She would recognize his deep, baritone voice even a thousand years into the future; she would recognize him. How was this possible?

  Could it be that the wind carried his voice all the way from the Americas?

  It is said in Indian culture that wind goes everywhere, sees everything. And spirit wind, she remembered, will speak to you.

  “Mato Sapa?” she thought to herself.

  “It is I,” the voice returned.

  “Are you comfortable, Lady Estrela?”

  Estrela’s eyelids flew open and she gaped at the Duke, who had just spoken to her. She smiled, though surprise kept her silent, until at last she managed to say, “I am fine.”

  The Duke smiled back at her and she sighed.

  The Duke of Colchester had been kind to her, going so far as to present her to King William even though the King, being ill, had barely noticed her, leaving it to Queen Adelaide to smile a welcome to her.

  There was something odd there, Estrela thought as she remembered it now. The Queen had stood surrounded by her court, and Estrela remembered feeling as though eyes watched her, followed her, too closely…

  “Waste Ho.”

  Why wouldn’t the wind leave her alone? Not only did she hear his voice, now an image caught at the corner of her vision—there in the crowd.

  It couldn’t be.

  It was impossible…and yet…

  She shouldn’t have thought of him today. She should have left his memory in the past. Wasn’t that where it belonged? This was no good. She seemed to hear him, see him everywhere. She must not think of him, she…

  She strained forward in her seat despite her thoughts, and peered into the crowd, around the people, to the right, to the left. She saw nothing more.

  What was that? She shifted in her seat, but whatever had caught her eye was gone as surely as if it had been a phantom.

  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.

  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, pass
ionate 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.

  “I’m a doctor,” Catherine said, setting down her medical bag and kneeling in the street.

  She ignored the incredulous mutterings going on around her and reached out to gently lift the man’s head so she could examine him for signs of concussion or fractured skull. At her touch, the man stirred. When he raised his head of his own volition, Catherine found herself looking into the cold gray eyes of Damon Delancy.

  She stared for what seemed like an eternity, unable to speak.

  He winced. “Who in the hell are you? And where is my horse?”

  So he didn’t remember her from their brief meeting in Central Park. Irrational disappointment stung her as her hands fell away.

  “I am Dr. Catherine Stone. And I suspect your horse is halfway to the Statue of Liberty by now.”

  A mocking smile tightened his mouth. “A lady doctor… Just my luck.”

  The burly man supporting him chuckled.

  “You are lucky that I happened by,” Catherine replied coldly, turning his head to see if he was bleeding from the ears, “because I’ll have you know that I’m a damn fine doctor, Mr.—?”

  “Delancy. Damon Delancy.” If he expected her to recognize his illustrious name, he didn’t show it.

  “Count yourself lucky, Mr. Delancy. You don’t have a fractured skull.” But he did have a scrape along his cheek.

  “Thickheaded one, ain’t he?” the burly man said.

  Catherine touched Damon Delancy’s left shoulder gently, and when he flinched, swore and shot her a murderous look, she added, “But I suspect you have broken or fractured your collarbone.”

  “All I know is that it hurts like hell, and I don’t appreciate having it poked and prodded.”

  Catherine bristled, but bit back the retort forming on the tip of her tongue.

  Suddenly someone from the crowd shouted, “Hey, lady! You’re blocking traffic. Call an ambulance and get him outta here.”

  “Well, Mr. Delancy,” Catherine said, “we can either have the police call an ambulance to take you to the nearest hospital, or—”

  “No hospitals.”

  Catherine didn’t blame him. Hospitals were for the poor or the seriously ill.

  “Very well. My office is just around the corner. But if you don’t wish a ‘lady doctor’ to treat you, I can put you in a cab and send you to your own physician.”

  “You’ll do. I don’t expect you’ll kill me.”

  Right at that moment, Catherine could have cheerfully done just that, but she reminded herself that he was a man in pain who wasn’t responsible for his actions.

  She rose and said to the burly man, “Would you be able to help him to my office?”

  The man nodded and helped Delancy to his feet, where he turned white and swayed for a moment.

  “Will you be able to walk?” Catherine asked.

  He nodded as he grasped his left arm beneath the elbow to keep every step from jarring it.

  The three of them started for Catherine’s office.

  By the time they arrived, Damon Delancy looked on the verge of collapse. He was as white as arsenic powder and the skin around his mouth had a greenish tinge. Beads of sweat dotted his forehead and streaked his taut, lean cheeks.

  Molly answered the door and hurried ahead to ready the surgery. Since Sybilla was nowhere to be seen, Catherine assumed she was in her own surgery down the hall with a patient.

  Catherine didn’t relax until her patient was sitting on the examining table. She was just about to thank the burly man for his help and send him on his way when Damon Delancy offered him his card and the opportunity to return the favor for helping him.

  Once the burly man left, Catherine took command. “We’ll have to take off your coat and shirt if I’m to examine you.”

  A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “And have you examined many men, Dr. Stone?”

  Catherine gave him a cool, level look. “Hundreds, Mr. Delancy. Nay, thousands. I assure you that I’m quite beyond letting the sight of an unclothed man fluster me. But I rather doubt that you’ve ever been examined by a woman doctor.”

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “Well, just think of me as you would your mother, healing some childhood scrape.”

  “That,” he said, his eyes darting over her in quick appraisal, “is out of the question.”

  Catherine felt her cheeks grow warm at the rough intimacy in his voice, and she took refuge in anger. “Mr. Delancy, you try my patience. If you don’t wish me to examine you, I’ll call an ambulance and have you taken to the hospital. What’s it to be?”

  He sighed in surrender and began unbuttoning his riding jacket, but when he tried to shrug out of it, the pain stopped him cold. He swore as his hand fell away.

  “Let me.” Catherine managed to get his right arm out of the sleeve. “I’ll be as gentle as I can, but if I hurt you, please tell me.”

  “If you hurt me, you’ll know it,” he growled.

  Somehow, she managed to ease the left sleeve off his injured arm with only a short gasp and shudder on Damon Delancy’s part. As Catherine folded the smooth worsted riding jacket and set it aside, she noticed it was expensive and impeccably tailored.

  “Now the shirt,” she said.

  When the shirt came off, Catherine tried to examine him with a critical, professional eye and failed. His torso was as perfectly sculpted a
s the classical Greek statues Ruth had strewn around the Cleveland house to impress visitors, and much to Catherine’s chagrin, she was not immune to the sensuous, masculine power of rippling muscle.

  She forced her wandering gaze back to his injured shoulder and noticed the pale, thick scar on his upper arm. “Knife wound?”

  His eyes widened briefly in surprise. “Bullet.”

  “The doctor who treated you didn’t stitch it, did he?”

  “There wasn’t time.”

  “That’s unfortunate. That scar would be less noticeable if he had.”

  “It doesn’t matter to me what it looks like. Not many people see it.”

  Catherine wondered if the woman in sable was a member of the privileged ones who had.

  “I’m sorry for digressing.” Catherine turned her attention to his shoulder and made her diagnosis. “You have a fractured clavicle. When you fell, did you hit the ground with your palm?”

  He nodded.

  “Well, I’m going to have to set the bone, then put your arm in a splint to position it so it will heal correctly. I’m warning you that it will be quite painful.”

  “I’ve endured worse.”

  “I can give you morphine for the pain.”

  “No!” he snapped. “I’ve seen what morphine addiction can do to a man.”

  Catherine stiffened. “I wouldn’t give you enough to addict you, merely ease your pain.”

  “Thank you, but I’d rather not.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  Catherine went to work to set the fractured bone so that it would heal properly, without deformity. She realized her patient was in great pain, for he turned as gray as potted paste and his jaw clenched, but Catherine couldn’t do slipshod work just to spare him. Above all, she was a doctor.

  “Done!” she announced with a triumphant smile when she finished. “Now all I have to do is—”

  With an odd, wheezing sigh, Damon Delancy slumped forward in a faint.

  Catherine caught him around the waist, staggering under his weight as she broke his fall. She eased him down on his back, then managed to swing his legs up after him. After pausing for a moment to catch her breath, Catherine went to work, bringing the man’s left hand to his right shoulder and applying Sayer’s dressing.