Hannah's Half-Breed

by Heidi Betts

  RAVE REVIEWS FOR HEIDI BETTS!

  Callie's Convict

  "Only a hard-hearted reader will be immune to the touching and tender emotions that fill the pages of Callie's Convict. Heidi Betts has created the ideal Americana tone and a mood that is guaranteed to warm the heart."

  —Romantic Times

  "Heidi Betts's writing talent burns as brightly as the sun!"

  —Huntress Book Reviews

  Walker's Widow

  "Filled with humorous adventures and simmering sensuality. Ms. Betts displays her wit to perfection in this story."

  — Romance Reviews Today

  "Nobody spins an entertaining, sexy yarn better than Heidi Betts, and Walker's Widow is her best one to date."

  —Reader to Reader

  Cinnamon and Roses

  "Cinnamon and Roses is an engaging and fast-paced tale . . . a well-crafted debut novel that will leave readers eager for Ms. Betts's next one. Excellent!"

  —Rendezvous

  "Books like Cinnamon and Roses are few and far between. The story will tug at your heartstrings and tickle your funny bone. . . . Cinnamon and Roses is a keeper."

  —Reader to Reader

  Promise of Roses

  "A delightful romance that enthralled and enchanted me from the beginning. An outstanding read."

  —Rendezvous

  "Snappy dialogue makes this a quick read."

  — Romantic Times

  "The dialogue is dynamic, the writing superb! Ms. Betts is an absolutely wonderful writer. . . . Don't miss any of [the Rose trilogy]! FANTASTIC! 5 BELLS!"

  -Bell, Book & Candle

  THE BIG SWITCH

  Keeping his gaze locked with hers, David dragged something from one of the burlap sacks and held it out to Hannah.

  "Oh, no." She was already shaking her head, backing away several inches for good measure.

  "Please, Hannah." He took a step toward her, boxing her in. "Our lives depend on this."

  For long seconds, she stood stock-still, scowling and wishing ten thousand plagues on this devious, manipulative man.

  "You'll owe me for this, Walker," she bit out. "This had better work. And for this, you'll owe me forever. And I mean forever."

  With that, she yanked the repugnant purple dress from his hands and marched toward the closet to transform herself from an innocent young schoolmarm to a practiced courtesan.

  And then she was going to strangle David with a strip of lace from this Jezebel dress he loved so much.

  Other Leisure books by Heidi Betts:

  CALLIE'S CONVICT

  WALKER'S WIDOW

  ALMOST A LADY

  A PROMISE OF ROSES

  CINNAMON AND ROSES

  A LEISURE BOOK®

  January 2003

  Published by

  Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.

  276 Fifth Avenue

  New York, NY 10001

  If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as "unsold and destroyed" to the publisher and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this "stripped book."

  Copyright © 2003 by Heidi Betts

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law.

  ISBN 0-8439-5073-0

  The name "Leisure Books" and the stylized "L" with design are trademarks of Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.

  Printed in the United States of America.

  Visit us on the web at www.dorchesterpub.com.

  To Joanne Emrick—

  Isn't it funny how people come into our lives just when we need them most? We'd traveled in the same circles for years without realizing how much we had in common or that we would hold each other up when earlier moorings began to crumble.

  Thank you for the long talks, brainstorming sessions, and your unwavering support. For both the slow, leisurely critiques and the more frantic, last-minute ones when I think the only place a story might make sense is in my head. For the laughter and for being another member of the Suzanne Sugarbaker Fan Club. Most of all, thank you for being a true and loyal friend.

  You know I wish you the best of luck with your own endeavors. My scream will be the loudest you hear when your dream finally comes true.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I would like to offer a super-size thank you to Theresa Leskovansky Hutton at the Holt Memorial Library in Philipsburg, PA, for not only tracking down an out-of- print copy of Comanche Dictionary and Grammar, which I needed desperately for the writing of this book, but for helping me to renew it month . . . after month . . . after month.

  My added appreciation is extended to Dan Tingue at the Penn State University Library, who let Theresa renew this book month . . . after month . . . after month . . . and told me he would only take it away if a professor needed it for classes, thereby saving me from clutching the volume to my bosom and crying out, "You can have this book when you pry it from my cold, dead hands!"—which I was fully prepared to do.

  Librarians . . . they make the world a better place. Thank you.

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Epilogue

  Chapter One

  "There's no s in encyclopedia, Frederick,” Hannah mumbled disgustedly to herself as she corrected her students’ weekly spelling exams at the small oaken table in the middle of what passed as the dining room of her tiny cabin.

  With a sigh, she rose to her feet and crossed to the cast-iron cookstove where a pot of water was just beginning to boil. She poured the steaming liquid over a spoonful of loose tea leaves in the bottom of her earthenware mug and carried it back to the table.

  She was about to sit down, ready to continue grading papers, when she heard a low sort of scuffling noise outside the cabin door. At first she thought it might be leaves blowing across the ground, or a stray raccoon sniffing around for something to eat. But a moment later, she heard the sound again, followed by what was almost certainly the nicker of a horse.

  Cautiously, Hannah moved to one of the small windows on either side of the front cabin door, lifting the gingham curtain just a hair to glance out.

  It was dark, the tall trees surrounding her small house obscuring any moonlight that might otherwise illuminate the yard. But even so, Hannah thought she saw something. Slight, shadowed, but a movement nonetheless.

  For one panicked moment, she thought about biding or escaping out the back. But then reason returned and she reminded herself that she had always been safe here—just a few minutes’ walk from the main street of Purgatory, Texas—and that it was unlikely anyone would want to hurt her, anyway.

  Just then, the horse nickered again, and even though her heart stuttered in her
chest, she let the curtain fall and moved to the door. She opened it in one quick, smooth motion, without hesitation.

  "Hello?” she called, not loudly but with enough force to be heard by whoever was lurking about.

  A pale arc of light shone from inside the cabin and illuminated several feet in front of her. A large piebald stallion sidestepped into that shaft of light and Hannah's breath caught in her lungs.

  Mounted astride that horse were a man and a child. Both wore buckskin shirts and leggings, and leather moccasins on their feet. Both had straight black hair that fell to their shoulders and beyond. And both stared at her as though she were the one out of place in this quiet little spot outside her cabin.

  But it was the man who made Hannah's mouth go dry. Not only was he towering and intense, but she found him handsome beyond belief.

  If any of the citizens of Purgatory who had hired her to educate their children could have read her thoughts at that moment, they would surely have thrown her out on her ear.

  More than his dark skin and penetrating gaze, however, she couldn't help feeling that his strong features were somehow familiar to her.

  Which was impossible, of course. There were any number of Indian villages in the areas surrounding Purgatory, but she had certainly never visited any of them. And the members of those tribes rarely, if ever, set foot in town; they likely would have been stared at, mocked, or run off if they had.

  Before she had a chance to speak—indeed, her mouth was still too parched to form a single word—the man reached in front of him, wrapped a hand around the boy's arm, and lowered him carefully to the ground. She thought she saw the man wince, his lips thinned and nostrils flared . . . and then decided she must be imagining things.

  "Miaru,” he told the child. The word, whatever it meant, was said in a low, harsh tone.

  The boy, six or seven years of age, Hannah guessed, tilted his head slowly in her direction. He studied her for a long moment, his eyes narrow and distrustful, before turning back to the man still sitting astride the black and white mount.

  "She's a good woman,” the man told the child. “Stay with her; shell take care of you."

  And then his gaze shifted to her. “Take care of him, Hannah. He needs your protection."

  A shiver rippled through Hannah's body, and she finally found her voice. “How . . . how do you know my name? Who are you?"

  The stranger—a stranger who knew her name and knew where she lived—shook his head, looking grim. “Take care of him,” he said again, even more roughly this time.

  And without another word, he turned his mount and started away. The horse's black tail flicked, drawing her attention to the child left in her care by a man she didn't know . . . but who apparently knew her.

  The poor boy, she thought. Abandoned by someone he obviously cared about, judging by the way he watched after the stranger's retreating back. With a woman he knew not at all.

  Though he stood ramrod straight, Hannah didn't miss the slight tremor that shook the child's shoulders, or the diamond like glint of tears as the light from the house reflected off his damp eyes.

  She started forward, thinking to comfort him, possibly lure him inside for a warm cup of milk.

  But just as she reached the young boy, she heard a grunt of pain not far off in the direction in which the stranger had disappeared. That muffled sound was followed by the horse's low neigh and a hard, solid thud.

  The boy, whose eyes were apparently better adjusted to the dark than Hannah's, rushed forward, but she followed close behind. They found the man lying on his side on the ground, unmoving.

  "Ara?! Ara?!” the child cried out, shaking the man's leather-clad shoulder.

  Hannah came up behind him. “It's all right,” she assured him calmly. “He'll be all right.” She hoped.

  Shifting the boy a step out of the way, she rolled the man to his back. She could barely see anything, not even the outline of his face. Going by feel, she ran her hands over his arms, his ribs, wondering if he'd broken any bones in his fall from the horse.

  Or perhaps he'd hit his head. She stroked her fingers over his temples and through the silky black of his long hair but found not the slightest bump or abrasion.

  Moving back to where she'd left off, she ran her hands over his torso, around a set of revolvers strapped to his waist . . . and stopped. Her fingers came away from the left side of his abdomen wet, and she highly suspected that if she walked into the light, it would reveal the red of blood.

  She needed to get him inside, but how she was going to accomplish such a thing she had no idea. He had to be nearly two hundred pounds of pure muscle, while she often had to take in the seams of even the smallest-sized dresses sold at the Purgatory General Store.

  Taking a deep breath, she squared her shoulders determinedly. She had no choice. She couldn't leave him out here on the ground to bleed to death.

  Hooking her hands beneath the man's arms, she began to tug, throwing her entire bulk backward in an attempt to drag him to the cabin.

  After a few short minutes, her chest heaved and her breath hissed through her teeth. And she'd managed to move him only two insignificant inches.

  "Well, this certainly isn't working,” she muttered to herself, knowing the child at her side—glowering at her—wouldn't care, even if he could understand her words.

  "Wait here,” she said. “I'll be right back.” She darted into the house. A moment later, she returned with the sheet from her bed.

  It took some doing, but she managed to spread the material on the ground and then roll the man's unconscious form onto it. Twisting the hem of the sheet around her fists, she once again started dragging him toward the cabin, surprised when the boy's hands appeared next to hers.

  It still took longer than she'd hoped, and they were both breathing quite heavily by the time they reached the house. Perspiration pooled between her breasts and made the thin cotton of her calico dress cling to her back, but at least the injured stranger was inside where she could tend to him.

  She pulled him across the coarse plank floor to the corner of the cabin where her bed stood. It wasn't large, but it was slightly wider and sturdier than a cot, having needed to support Purgatory's last schoolmarm, a rather hefty, beefy woman. It should hold this man's well-muscled bulk.

  But if dragging him into the house had made her sweat, getting him onto the bed nearly killed her. Inch by inch, she moved him up and over, using her body as a lever.

  When he was finally flat on his back on the mattress, she sat down beside him to catch her breath and took a closer look at his face.

  Eyes narrowed, she hurried across the room to retrieve the lamp she'd been using to grade papers and returned to his side. Flickering yellow light illuminated his features, showing the shallow creases at the corners of his eyes and the white line of pain that ringed his slack lips.

  My God. It couldn't be.

  She lifted the lantern higher, leaned closer, and studied him all the more intensely.

  "David,” she breathed, the air rushing from her lungs as though someone had punched her square in the stomach.

  She didn't know how it could be, and yet she was certain it was he. She hadn't seen him in years, not since he'd left the Purgatory Home for Unwanted Children to go live with the Walkers.

  She'd often wondered about him, wished he'd come back to visit her. And even though she hadn't thought much about him while they'd both been wards of the orphanage, she'd missed him after he'd gone. The way he'd always seemed to be there, like a shadow, watching over her and keeping her company.

  He'd also been the only one to chase away the horrors when she woke, screaming, in the middle of the night. It wasn't until he'd moved away that she realized he'd always been there the minute the nightmares began, even though the boys weren't allowed in the girls’ sleeping quarters.

  And now here he was, once again coming to her in the middle of the night. Only this time, he needed her help.

  Setting the lamp safel
y aside on the nightstand, she began to remove his clothing, searching for wounds. Ignoring the heat emanating from his smooth flesh, the stark white of her skin against the dark tan of his own.

  Sure enough, his side was still oozing deep red blood, seeping into the tanned leather of his fringed shirt.

  As she looked closer, prodding the area with a gentle finger, she realized what had most likely made the hole in the otherwise flawless flesh of his abdomen.

  "A bullet,” she whispered, aghast, and then craned her neck to look at the boy who stood silently a few paces from her hip.

  "Did someone shoot at you?” she asked him. “Who shot at you?"

  She didn't expect an answer from this child who had so far refused to speak a single word to her, and she didn't get one. But it frightened her to think of someone trying to kill the man lying unconscious before her, let alone the small, vulnerable boy with him.

  The first thing she needed to do was clean and bandage this wound . . . and find out whether the bullet was still in there. Letting her fingers drift to his back, she felt an equally ragged, sickening hole opposite the one in front.

  She swallowed hard and pulled her hand away, averting her eyes from the stickiness coating her skin. Careful to keep from getting blood on her dress, she skirted the child standing only a few feet away and moved into the kitchen area at the back of the cabin.

  Using the indoor pump, she quickly washed her hands and then filled a copper kettle to put on the stove. While she waited for the water to boil, Hannah began bustling around, looking for as many clothes, towels, and bedsheets as she could find to use for cleaning and bandages. An old petticoat or two and a pillowcase that already had a hole in it anyway would serve nicely.

  She carried them all to the small bedside table and began tearing them into long, thin strips. When the kettle began to whistle, she ran back to the stove to retrieve it and returned with a basin full of steaming water.