Heartsong

by Lynn Winchester

  “I have a better idea. Ya seem like the smart one; we’ll keep that one,” he said, pointing to Bernie with the point of his gun. Bernie gasped and Rhetta’s heart stopped. “And ya go, get our money, and come on back here.”

  What else could she do? She forced herself to move her head, nodding jerkily. “How much should I ask for?”

  Cassius hmmmed, and Brandt stared at the man behind her expectantly, eyebrows arched high. “I’d say yer uncle owes us ten thousand.”

  “Dollars?” Rhetta blurted. That was an impossible amount. No one had that much money sitting around. A feeling of hopelessness sank into her belly.

  “A ‘course dollars!” Brandt yelled, pressing the gun barrel deeper into Bernie’s cheek. “Ya have three days to get us our money. Get it, bring it here, leave it by that rock there. We’ll come, get the money, and leave yer sister here. Safe and sound.”

  “How do I know you won’t hurt her?” Rhetta asked, terrified for her sister. Sick, utterly ill from what was happening.

  Cassius chuckled behind her, the sound stealing the last of her strength. “Ya don’t.”

  Rhetta swallowed and looked at her sister. Bernie was visibly trembling, and Rhetta could only stare as realization settled in.

  Rhetta didn’t have a choice. She had to get the money. Somehow. Or else Bernie was dead.

  Chapter 7

  Mac brushed the hay and dried muck from his gloves, and pulled them off his hands. His day had started off as usual; early breakfast, daily meeting with Timothy—and then it had become much better when his hummingbird fluttered through the stable doors. Then, his day had fallen to dismal depths when she walked away from him, leaving him to wonder what he’d done wrong. She’d made it seem as though he’d been more attentive to her sister than to her, but that was impossible. He didn’t care a fig about Bernadette. Yes, the two women were similar, in a few ways, but there were also very different. Bernadette didn’t make his heart race or his breathing labored or his body tighten with want of her. When he looked at Bernadette he saw only someone who was standing between him and the woman he really wanted to see. To touch. And it had killed him when she walked away from him, hurt etched into her face.

  “She’s always been the…favored one…” Why would she say that? Mac knew Timothy as a fair guy, would he show favor for one sister over the other? Not likely. So where had Henrietta gotten such a ridiculous idea?

  He knew he shouldn’t be thinking about her right now, he still had work to finish before he could head back to his room off the side of the bunkhouse. And once his work day was done, he’d head out to find Henrietta, and figure out a way to set her straight. He couldn’t have her thinking she was any less important than her sister. In fact, she was more important to him than any woman he’d ever known—and in such a short time, too. His thoughts, unbidden, moved to memories of his mother.

  A beautiful, kind, smart, and feisty Lakota woman…she had been everything to him after his pa died. When his pa was alive, they lived on a piece of land north of the Black Hills. They were outsiders, even there. Taking trips into town was a trail of scorn as white men looked upon his mother and her copper skin as “Indian filth”. They looked upon him, the child of a white man and a Lakota woman, as half-breed trash. He couldn’t understand why those men hated them so much. They were people, same as them. He didn’t see why the color of his skin or the texture of his hair made him any less worthy of a place in their society.

  His mother understood, though. She often told him that the white men were scared of what they couldn’t understand, that the ways of the Sioux were a frightful mystery to them. They didn’t like what they couldn’t comprehend. And so, Mac had grown up in that little cabin, an outsider to the white settlers and the people who’d abandoned his mother when she’d fallen in love with the army captain, James Solomon.

  Years after his mother died, when he’d finally been chased off his pa’s land, he’d headed west, looking for honest work. It had taken him four years of backbreaking work, heartbreaking discrimination, and spirit-crushing loneliness before he found Wheeler Hills and Timothy Hanlon. The man was nothing like the white men he’d known before. He didn’t look at Mac as a half-breed, he looked at him like a man. An equal. He treated Mac like a man worthy of a position in his world, and Mac couldn’t be more appreciative and thankful for that.

  For the last three years, Mac had worked as foreman, creating a life for himself that was missing very little. At least he thought so…until his hummingbird flew into his view, making him realize that the one thing he’d been missing was…his heartsong.

  Sighing, suddenly aching for Henrietta’s gaze upon him, he removed his hat and ran his fingers through the sweaty mess of his hair. Straight, a little too long, and much too thick, his hair had been his bane for years. He couldn’t cut it to look more like the white man…he felt that giving up that last bit of himself that showed who he was, who he came from, would be like cutting away the last pieces of his mother. His heritage. He knew next to nothing about the Lakota, their customs, their history—he knew enough of the language to get by, but he’d never had the courage to seek out his mother’s tribe, to meet his grandfather, his grandmother, his uncles. There was a whole part of him out there somewhere, and he felt that if he cut his hair—when he did find them—they wouldn’t recognize him as one of their own.

  It was ridiculous to think that, of course, because his skin was copper, but his eyes…he’d inherited his pa’s eyes, a blue that some called unnerving in their intensity.

  He wondered, then, if that’s why Henrietta had run from him in the forest. Had she taken one look into his eyes and seen something to fear?

  The sounds of pounding hoof beats brought him around, and he watched out the stable doors as someone—Henrietta—raced toward him at full speed. It was as though his troubling thoughts had conjured her as if by magic. Shaking his head at his own absurdity, he walked out into the stable yard to meet her as she came to a stop.

  His breath caught. Tears were streaming down her face, her hair was in a wild tangle around her head, and her skin was the color of a dead fish.

  “Henrietta! What has happened,” he asked, stepping closer to put a hand on the pommel.

  With a sob, she slid off the saddle and right into his arms. He caught her, holding her against him…and it felt wondrous, even if the circumstances weren’t ideal.

  She mumbled something into his shoulder and he pulled away, with great effort, to hear her.

  “They’ve taken her!” Henrietta sobbed, her eyes wide and rimmed in red.

  “Who has been taken?” he asked, suddenly realizing this situation was dire.

  She let out a terrible cry. “Bernie. They’ve taken Bernie!”

  Springing into action, Mac lifted Henrietta into his arms and sprinted toward the main house. By the time he raced up the porch stairs, Mrs. Wheeler was standing there, her arms wide, concern written into her face.

  “What has happened, Mr. Solomon?” the woman asked, coming forward to place a hand on Henrietta’s forehead.

  “She says someone has taken Bernadette,” he answered for Henrietta, who was still sobbing into his shoulder.

  “Dear heavens!” Mrs. Wheeler shrieked. “Come into the house. I’ll have someone find Timothy.”

  Mac followed Mrs. Wheeler into the large house, across the foyer, and into a sitting room adorned with rather gaudy furniture that didn’t look sturdy enough to hold a man his size. Not that it mattered, he didn’t plan to sit. He walked across the room and stared down at a settee…he should put Henrietta down, let her be seen to by Mrs. Wheeler. But the idea of letting his hummingbird go when she needed his strength most was like being forced to cut off his own limb. He couldn’t do it. So, instead, he headed to a sturdy enough looking leather chair and sat, cuddling Henrietta against him.

  In that moment, he didn’t care how it looked.

  Mrs. Wheeler gave him a narrow-eyed glare, but she turned on her heel and left t
he room. He bent down and pressed his lips to Henrietta’s head, murmuring words in Lakota—words she couldn’t understand, but his tone, the cadence, would surely comfort her. He could at least do that much for her.

  Timothy rushed into the room, his face beet red, probably from running, and he came right over to where Mac sat holding Henrietta in his embrace. Kneeling, Timothy brushed his hands over Henrietta’s forehead. “Rhetta…Rhetta? Can you tell me what happened? Where is Bernie?”

  Henrietta stiffened against Mac, and a fresh trail of tears slid down her pale cheeks.

  She shook, trembling, but then she pulled her face from Mac’s shoulder and lifted her chin to meet her brother’s gaze.

  Brave girl.

  “Two men. They found us up by the overlook you told us about. They said they worked with Uncle Thomas and that Uncle Thomas owed them money.”

  A gasp from the doorway made him look to find Mrs. Wheeler standing there, her hand to her mouth.

  “Did you tell them Uncle Thomas is in prison? That he can’t pay them back even if he wanted to?” Timothy asked, his eyes flashing anger and terror.

  Henrietta nodded. “Yes, but they didn’t care. They took Bernie. Then they said that if I wanted her back, I had to bring them what they are owed in three days.”

  “How much do they want?” Mrs. Wheeler asked, coming to stand behind Timothy.

  Henrietta swallowed, her face paling further—if that were even possible. “Ten thousand,” she squeaked.

  Timothy looked as if he’d been shot in the gut; a green pallor slid over his features. “Ten…thousand?” he rasped, clearly in shock.

  Mac couldn’t believe how they expected anyone to come up with that kind of money in three days. It was impossible.

  “It’s impossible,” Timothy uttered. “Even if we were to sell every head of cattle and every horse, we wouldn’t have enough in three days. It can’t be done.”

  “Then what about Bernie? We can’t let them hurt her! We have to do something.” Henrietta pushed away from Mac and, despite his inclination to do otherwise, he helped her to her feet. Immediately he felt the loss of her like being robbed of breath. He stood but remained beside Henrietta—he couldn’t tear himself away.

  Timothy rose and raked his fingers through his hair. Heaving a sigh, he closed his eyes, frustration and hopelessness unfurling in his expression. When he opened his eyes again, there was a grief Mac had never seen on him before—the grief of a man unable to protect those he loved.

  “We have to go to Sheriff Temogen. We can tell him about the men, and he and his posse can search for Bernie,” Mrs. Wheeler suggested.

  Henrietta shook her head, her hair flying back and forth with the movement. “No! What if they hurt Bernie because we got the law involved? They put a gun to her head…to my head. They would shoot her and wouldn’t bat an eye.”

  Rage as cold as ice and as hot as the sun rose up inside Mac. Those men dared to put a gun to Henrietta’s head? They threatened to kill his hummingbird…his heartsong?

  “I will do it,” Mac said, breaking his silence.

  All eyes turned to him. “What do you mean?” Timothy asked, a tiny fire of hope returning to his gaze.

  Mac stepped forward, looking Henrietta in the eye. He would do this for her. “I will find Bernie, and I will make sure these men find justice.”

  Henrietta’s autumn eyes widened, and her mouth dropped into a perfectly kissable “O”. Something stirred inside him; a will to do all he could for her. How could he ignore something so elemental? So natural as protecting his hummingbird? He didn’t stop to wonder why it felt so right to want to protect her, he just knew it was. Somewhere between seeing her fly down the hill toward the tree line and that morning in the stable, Henrietta had come to mean more to him than could possibly grow within two days. It couldn’t have been his desire for a woman, it couldn’t have been his longing to end his loneliness. It could only have been the very spirit he’d mistaken her for that first moment he saw her. Only a forest spirit could make something flourish so quickly…so beautifully.

  And he still had no idea what to do about it. He had no idea what had happened in those two days…only that Henrietta was his.

  “Can you do that?” Timothy asked, ripping him from his thoughts of the impossible. “Have you tracked anyone before? Have you…killed anyone before?” While Mac hadn’t said he’d hurt those men, it was a possibility that “justice” would include pulling the trigger. He’d never killed anyone, never liked the idea of taking a human life. But if it meant protecting the sister of the woman who’d tangled up his life in two days, he’d do it and not regret it.

  He stood taller, this time aiming his gaze at Timothy. “I would do whatever is necessary to rescue Bernadette.”

  Half an hour later, Mrs. Wheeler escorted Henrietta up to her room to rest, and Mac and Timothy mounted their horses, heading east.

  Chapter 8

  Rhetta didn’t know how long she’d been asleep, but she woke up to a dark, moonlit room. Slowly, she sat up, rubbing at her gritty eyes. Why did her head hurt like she’d been bashed with a horseshoe? What had happened—

  She shot out of bed, suddenly remembering her picnic, her angry conversation with Bernie, and then…those men came out of nowhere. And took Bernie.

  Terror and anguish wove together into a band around her neck. She choked on the emotion, the sensation of having her twin sister ripped from her chest.

  “Oh…Bernie,” she sobbed, realizing why her eyes felt like sandpaper. She must’ve cried a river of tears, even in her sleep. But she didn’t remember falling asleep. She could only remember what happened at the overlook, riding like hell was at her heels to get back to the house, and…Mac taking her into his arms and carrying her to the house.

  Heat radiated from the core of her out to her arms and legs, enveloping her body in a sensation she’d never felt before. But she liked it. A lot. Being in Mac’s arms had been unlike anything she’d experienced; his thick arms were tight around her. His chest, with its steady, strong heartbeat, was a wall of flesh and blood against her cheek and chest. He’d lugged her hide from the stable to the house and wasn’t even winded! That is quite the feat, not that she was a boulder, but what man could carry a sobbing woman several hundred yards, and then not want to put her down at the first opportunity?

  Rhetta recalled looking out of the corner of her eye and seeing the walls of the foyer, then the sitting room. She knew Mac carried her into the room and could have laid her down on any of the many chairs or couches. He could have let her go at the point, but he hadn’t. He’d sat down with her, laid her across his lap, still held fast in his embrace, and he kissed her head, murmuring things to her in a language she’d never heard before. It was a beautiful language, like poetry. His words, the velvet timbre of this voice, had lulled her and, for a minute, she was comforted. In his arms, she felt…at peace. Like she was cherished and protected. It was a heady feeling, one she’d hungered for since she was twelve. In Mac’s arms, she felt…loved. She knew it was impossible that he loved her, or she him. They’d only known each other for less than two days—wait…she didn’t know how long she’d been asleep. It could very well have been a whole night and day. Sliding from the bed, she stood on unsteady legs, suddenly wishing Mac was there to pick her up and press her against him. She ached to feel that again.

  But her sister, even now, was feeling only the chilly embrace of fear. “She must be so terrified,” Rhetta choked. Walking to the nearest chair, Rhetta sat. She found that her legs refused to hold her up; weakness born of guilt. She should have done something to save Bernie. There had to have been some way to keep those men from taking her. But it was foolish to think of the how and why of the past. She had to focus on saving her sister, now. Right away.

  She leaned forward and gripped her temples, closing her eyes. Mac had said he would do whatever it took to find Bernie and bring those men to justice. But…how could he? He was a ranch foreman. What did he know
about tracking and hostage negotiation? He could get Bernie killed. He could get himself killed. The thought of losing either one of them sucked the air from her chest, slowing her blood to a crawl.

  No. She couldn’t lose her sister, and she couldn’t lose her…what? Mac wasn’t anything to her but the man who saved her life…and would, hopefully, save her sister’s.

  He’s more than that, and you know it, her mind whispered, tickling her conscious. When she’d first spied Mac in those woods, she was terrified. He’d come out of the very air, it seemed. He walked on the wind—not making a single sound. She’d been startled, certainly, but she hadn’t run because he surprised her.

  She’d run because there was something in his eyes that reached down deep and lit a fire, smoking out sensations and thoughts best left for someone looking to marry. Those eyes of his…they burned into her, so intense, so haunting. She felt that if she didn’t run, she’d be trapped there, staring into the blue depths of his eyes until he devoured her. Heart and soul.

  She shuddered, the feeling of her stiff, scratchy clothes against her skin was like being flayed. The sounds of the night outside, which usually called to her in soft, gentle tones, was like the screeching of a barn owl. Nothing in her world was right. Not without Bernie.

  Sighing, tired of crying, she knew she had to go downstairs and see if the men had found anything up at the overlook. Maybe they’d already found Bernie.

  Hope began to rise but then was quickly squashed by the realization that, if they’d found her sister, someone would have woken her up to tell her. No. They left her up there to sleep, so that when she woke up, she’d be rested enough to start crying all over again.

  She hated that she was so helpless. Maybe if she’d learned to shoot like Timmy or JoJo, she’d be able to go along with the men as they tracked those kidnappers. She’d spent her life reading books, sketching flowers, daydreaming in grassy glens and secretive forests, and what had that gotten her? Nothing! She had nothing to offer anyone save a lovely, hand-drawn picture of a weasel!