She glanced down at her skirt, which was now covered in burrs from the grass she’d just run through. She shrugged. She could pick them off later. From the looks of the grove just before her, she’d get a few more burrs and brambles before the day was through.
Ducking her head under a thick branch, she stepped into the grove. The air was degrees cooler in there, as the sunlight was strangled by the dense canopy, and barely made it to the forest floor. Her mouth dropped open and an awed breath escaped, and she took in the sight before her. Trees, everywhere she looked, with flickering beams of sunshine weaving through the air like golden ribbons. The grass was sparse and the earth hard packed, which made it easy for her to walk along, ducking under branches, side stepping wide trunks, and slinking through narrow gaps between age old oaks. Coming to a fork in the path—a path she was surprised to find—she stopped. She took a deep, slow inhale, smelling the rich scent of decomposing leaves and needles, the ripe odor of rotting wood, and the pungent scent of wild mint and moss. She couldn’t help it, she laughed again, the sound muted by the very forest itself.
“Which way?” she asked no one, looking first one way and then the other, glancing to see which direction would offer the most for her curious mind to enjoy. Something on her left caught her attention. “That way, it is!” she announced, turning and continuing down the left fork, into the dense forest. After a ways, the dense forest began thinning, offering her a little more breathing room, but also a better view of where she was. Just ahead, there appeared to be a clearing; she stopped just outside of it. A large stump sat alone in a small, open area. Here, the tree covering was gone, allowing the sun to shine down in that one spot. Beside the stump was the trunk of a tree—it appeared to have been struck by lightning, and then felled to prevent the tree becoming a widow maker. Now, the old tree lay, decaying, alone in the midst of its thriving brethren.
Sadly, she knew how it felt.
Chapter 2
She was a čhaŋnáǧi, a tree spirit. She moved like the breeze through the long grasses, her beautiful face lifted to the sun, her liquid, autumn jasper hair floating out behind her. He blinked, looking again, unconvinced she wasn’t just a figment of his imagination, the greatest desires of his heart taking human form. But she was there, racing toward the line of trees at the bottom of the hill. As real as any woman could be. But she wasn’t just any woman, she was the spirit of the forest, gifting him with a glimpse at her true being.
He held his breath, afraid that the moment he exhaled, she would disappear, her image dissipated by the slightest waft of air from his lips. Mac Solomon stood watching the unearthly spirit until she disappeared into the dense grove. But then his feet moved on their own, travelling toward where the spirit vanished. Light-footed and agile, he glided over the forest floor, making sure to stay far enough behind to not be seen, but close enough to not lose sight of her. She stopped, glancing down each side of the fork in the path he’d trodden himself over the last three years. To the right, there was more forest, trees, packed earth, decaying leaves, eventually terminating at an outcropping overlooking the town of Morgan’s Crossing. Sometimes, he’d go there in the night, peering down on the town as the lanterns flickered on, the people settling in for the night with their families. He envied them.
On the left of the fork was a path through the trees, eventually thinning to a clearing where a dead tree and large old stump sat lonely. He often went there during the day, when Tim allowed him a break to rest. His rest came when he followed the call of the earth to come and sit a while in its calm and peace. That tree stump was the place where he spent many hours, thinking on his life, pondering the future, hating his own heritage.
When the woman took the left fork, he paused, hesitated, wondering if the spirit was drawing him back to the clearing. Perhaps, there was something the čhaŋnáǧi needed him to see. Taking a deep breath, Mac followed behind, soundlessly. It was a gift of his kind, his people. One of the only pieces of his mother’s blood that he could use without the stares, glares, and hateful murmurings.
“He’s a half-breed.”
“Half-breed filth.”
“How could his pa betray his own kind, laying with that Lakota whore.” He’d heard it all, absorbed the words into his body, letting them sink into his soul. And now, the tree spirit had shown him that his hurt and loneliness would be rewarded. He didn’t know, truly, who that woman was and what she would mean to him. But in that moment, she was too much a mystery for him to ignore.
And so, he followed.
She stopped just outside the clearing. He couldn’t see her face, but he could hear her intake of breath, her sigh of pleasure, her heartbeat steadily slowing. She was calm. She was at peace. He could feel the wind brushing over them both, slipping in between them to dance in ceremony. But why? Who was this woman? And why had the forest spirits brought her here, to his spot? Into his life?
When she stepped out the covering of trees and into the sunlight streaming down, his breath caught. Her hair, brown with red blazing through it, shone in the light. She tipped her face skyward, as if in prayer, and he could see her face in profile; a straight nose that ended abruptly at a little, upward slope. A proud chin that would look regal tipped up and adorable tipped down. A forehead that met a soft, feminine brow line. He couldn’t see much of her face, but he could tell she was exquisite.
He couldn’t have made a sound, but something he did must have triggered alarm because just as he came around a wide tree, she spun and looked, their gazes locking. The earth opened and swallowed him—it had to have—there was no other explanation for how every breath within him escaped, or how the muscles in his legs turned to worn leather, or how every thought in his head flew away.
She was stunning; her lush, pink lips opened in a gasp, glimmering eyes of green and gold widening. He knew he was staring but he couldn’t stop himself, and she was staring in return. Then she was running, sprinting away across the clearing toward the dense copse on the other side. As she ran, his mind cleared in an instant as terror filled his blood. She was headed straight for the overlook and if he didn’t stop her, she’d fall to her death.
Mac Solomon swore as he gave chase.
Rhetta ran, her heart pounding, her lungs burning, her mind a whirl. Who was that man? She hadn’t heard him coming. He was silent, like a predator stalking prey. The tree branches, close and grasping, tore at her hair and blouse, stuttering her escape. Even now, she couldn’t hear him, but she knew he was chasing after her, closing in.
The thick cluster of trees began to thin and she ran faster, and when she grabbed at her skirt to keep from tripping over it, she realized she’d dropped her bag back in the clearing. It couldn’t be helped, though. Maybe she could go back for it once she’d shaken off that man. Desperate, she sought a place to hide, her gaze flickering from rock to outcropping to tree as she rushed by. Nowhere to hide. And so, she ran. As the trees began to thin, the ground became rockier. Running became more difficult. She was ascending and she didn’t know where she’d end up, she just knew she couldn’t stop, not with the man behind her.
She didn’t know what about him scared her, she just remembered the glimmering of indigo eyes staring at her, taking her measure, it seemed. And now, she was barreling head first through a forest she’d never been in before. Despite the panic, she understood the danger. She just didn’t know which of the dangers was worse; the man behind her or the unknown before her.
Though her breathing was labored and louder than she’d ever heard it, she could suddenly hear the footfalls behind her. She wasn’t a fool. The man was allowing her to hear is approach. Was he teasing her before the catch? What did he intend to do with her once—
The ground opened up before her and her foot flew out over emptiness. She screamed, her body plummeting, and then…she was pulled back with great force, her back slamming into something rock hard. Her heart crashing against her ribs, her throat burning from her screams, she gazed out to where she’d just be
en running, to where she had been falling.
Through the sounds of her blood surging through her veins and her lungs sucking in air, she heard low, steady murmurs.
“There now…I have you, now. You’re safe. You’re safe. I have you. Breathe, thanáǧina. Breathe.” She forced herself to listen to his words, focus on them. His voice was deep, his words spoken in a soothing, lulling, almost melodic rhythm. His words brought her back from the driving panic that had crashed over her. Blinking, she took stock of where she was. She was lying on the ground, her head resting in the crook of the man’s arm, her cheek pressed against his chest—the same chest she’d slammed in to. The man who had chased her through the woods was holding her against his chest, cradled in his arms. On the ground. She stiffened, the urge to tear away from him filling her, but his arms tightened around her like iron bands.
“Stop. That’s a cliff, there,” the man said, his tone commanding. She tensed, holding her breath. He shifted behind her, and she felt him moving away, giving her room. His arms, once iron bands, loosened, and she scrambled to the side, away from the cliff and the equally dangerous man. She turned to face him, to finally see him, and she stopped breathing again.
He had risen to a squat and was staring at her with those dark blue eyes. His skin shone as copper in the sun, and his black hair, what she could see under his hat, came to the tops of his shoulders. The darkness of his hair and the tan of his skin made his eyes stand out all the more. Intense. They were intense. But she fought the urge to look away. Never look away from a predator.
“Who…are you?” She’d finally found her voice, but it was high-pitched and breathy.
His gaze dropped to the torn hem of her skirt, then moved to the cliff’s edge. After a moment, he met her gaze again.
“Can you stand?” he asked. His voice seemed to rumble through her head.
She moved her legs, tested her arms, and carefully got to her knees. The man slowly stood, and Rhetta’s gaze rose up, and up, and up. He was a giant, with broad shoulders, a wide chest, and long, thick legs. It was no wonder he could physically pull her up from her death. He could probably wrestle a bull, if he had a mind to. Staring as she was, she noticed how his eyes darkened, and the copper skin on his face turned a bright red. He was embarrassed?
Sighing, she shook herself. She was being rude to the man who’d just saved her life, though, he was also the one who’d chased her to the brink. Taking a deep breath, she let it out in a whoosh when the man reached out a hand to her. It was a big hand, with long, tapered fingers and dirt beneath his nails. Whoever he was, he worked hard for a living. He meant to help her up, but could she trust that he wouldn’t just throw her over his shoulder and make off with her?
Ridiculous, her logical thoughts intruded through the haze of fading panic. If he wanted to hurt her, he’d just have let her fall to her death. He kept his hand there, waiting for her. He was patient, at least. Grunting at the ache in her muscles, she reached out and took his hand. A burst of something like the zap of static shot up her arm and into her chest. Her eyes wide, she glanced up to find his eyes, too, were wide. And much like hers, his lips were parted in a shocked “O”.
What was that? No time to think. Get to your feet, get back to the house.
The man helped her to her feet and she immediately dropped his hand, rubbing her palm against her skirt, the feel of his callused hands against her soft ones embedded in her memories.
“Thank you,” she began, determined to salvage her pride from where it had fallen, back in the clearing. Heat rose into her face and she ducked her head to hide the shame she knew was written there. “I don’t suppose you’d forget about this…” Lord, she hoped that whoever he was she’d never have to see him again. A flutter of regret began in her belly.
He stood there, silent as the old oaks behind him, and tipped his hat. “Consider it forgotten, thanáǧina,” he replied, never taking his striking blue eyes from her face. She felt pinned in place, her body as stone. As she watched, holding her breath, the man disappeared into the dense woods, leaving her alone, at the edge of the cliff, wondering what just happened.
Chapter 3
The following morning, Rhetta tore from her room, headed downstairs, eager to get a start on the day. A new day. A day she wouldn’t have had if that mystery man, the man in the woods, hadn’t saved her. While she wouldn’t have been running if he hadn’t snuck up on her, it wasn’t really his fault she’d taken a fright. To be honest, she couldn’t remember why he scared her, just that, in that moment, he was too intense, standing there, staring at her with those dark blue eyes of his. The urge to run away, to hide, had filled her, and she’d forgotten why she was in the forest, why she had stopped in that clearing, and that she was perfectly safe on her aunt’s property. She just ran, and ran, and that man had saved her from running right off the side of the world.
Goodness…if her brother knew about what happened yesterday, he’d never let her leave the house. Thankfully, whoever that man was, he promised to keep the incident a secret. She didn’t know who he was, would probably never see him again, but she saw something in him, in the depths of those stunning blues eyes and in the set of his strong jaw, that told her he kept his promises.
At the foot of the stairs, Rhetta nearly collided with Phyllis, who was busily chatting with Brigette. Phyllis threw her hands into the air dramatically, as was her way, and gasped unnecessarily. “Why don’t you look where you’re going? I swear, even here, in this fine house, you act like a mute heathen.” Brigette sniggered behind her lacy, yellow fan, and Phyllis stuck out her chin as if she’d just bested someone.
This fine house? Rhetta knew Phyllis was making a remark about Rhetta’s modest home in Texas—in no way a stately manor house as elegant or pretentious as the Wheeler house. But that was fine with Rhetta. She much preferred simple, modest living. However, she didn’t appreciate her cousin’s snide remarks about the home her mother and father had built with their own hands and good reputations.
Rhetta planted her hands on her hips and narrowed her eyes at her cousins. “The house isn’t fine or grand by the appearance of things, but rather the people who live in it. This house is large, but it is crawling with bugs.” Rhetta made a show of pointing at her cousins who stood, staring agog at what they’d just heard.
Brigette grabbed a handful of her skirt and lifted her chin with a huff. “Well, I never…”
Rhetta offered her cousins an arched eyebrow. “Well, that isn’t entirely accurate, Brigette. I’m sure I’ve said something similar to you before. Perhaps, it was about rodents skittering around, lifting their noses in distaste…” Rhetta let that hang in the air, like a stench better suited to an outhouse. With both cousins red-faced and sputtering, Rhetta didn’t much mind when they spun on their heels and stomped up the stairs, probably to find their mother and tattle.
A cut-off snort sounded from the other side of the large foyer and Rhetta turned to find Bernie standing there, looking as beautiful as a princess, with her hand clutched over her mouth, her brown eyes glimmering with suppressed mirth.
“Bernie, I didn’t mean for you to hear that,” Rhetta began, not really apologizing for the comments, but rather getting caught saying them.
Bernie gave a wave of her free hand and finally let out a full laugh. “Rhetta, you know those two deserve more than a tongue wagging; I’m just glad you’re the one giving it to them instead of me.” Bernie stopped before the foyer mirror and spun in her perfectly impractical, lawn-green dress, complete with puffed sleeves, lace-trimmed bodice, and matching bonnet.
“Why do you say that? Aren’t you friends with those two nitwits?”
Bernie stopped spinning and pinned Rhetta with a flat gaze. “I only spend time with them because we have things in common; dresses, magazines from France and England, and our mutual desire to marry handsome, wealthy men.” She’d ticked off the list as if each of her interests were normal, typical, and anyone who didn’t find those things interes
ting were abnormal, strange…
Rhetta’s burning curiosity, left to smolder for more than eight years, finally burned a little too hot. “Is that why you don’t want to be my sister anymore, because I don’t care for dresses and fashions and husband hunting?”
Bernie had the good grace to look hurt. “What are you talking about? Why would you think our bond is based on clothes and canoodling with beaus? You’re my sister because we are twins—forever together even when we’re apart.”
Bernie’s recitation of the pact they’d made when they were six, made Rhetta’s heart ache. Oh, how she missed her sister; their connection. The invisible thread that had tied them together in the womb had been pulled taut over the last eight years; through their adolescence, and growing into women with their own separate lives. Though they’d lived in the same house their whole lives, it was as though Bernie had removed herself from Rhetta’s existence, only deigning to come down from her lofty perch to offer morning greetings and evening blessings.
“Do you even like me anymore, Bernie?” Rhetta asked, her heart on her sleeve, eager to do whatever she needed to for her sister to just embrace her as she used to, without the stiffness and tension.
Bernie wrinkled her nose. “I really wish you’d stop calling me that. I’m Bernadette; Bernie is a mule’s name. I’m a lady,” she purred, doing another turn in front of the mirror.
Rhetta’s ache disappeared, replaced by the sour taste of anger in her mouth. “Well, you are a mule!” She knew she was being just as stubborn as her sister, but this confrontation was a long time coming. She was tired of hiding on the side, waiting for her sister to give her the merest attention. She wasn’t a dog, she didn’t deserve the scraps of her own twin’s life.
Bernie gasped then narrowed her glowing, almost amber eyes at Rhetta. “If I’m a mule then you’re a mole; brown, blind, living with its head in the ground, never coming up to live in the light. You’re going to die down in the dark, Rhetta. Mark my words.”
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