by Sara Orwig
Warrior Moon
Sara Orwig
Table of Contents
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-one
Twenty-two
Twenty-three
Twenty-four
Twenty-five
Twenty-six
Twenty-seven
Twenty-eight
More from Sara Orwig
Copyright
Diversion Books
A Division of Diversion Publishing Corp.
443 Park Avenue South, Suite 1008
New York, NY 10016
www.DiversionBooks.com
Copyright © 1995 by Sara Orwig
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
For more information, email [email protected]
First Diversion Books edition April 2015
ISBN: 978-1-62681-769-2
Also by Sara Orwig
The Civil War Saga
Atlanta
Memphis
New Orleans
The Southwestern Saga
Albuquerque
Denver
San Antonio
The Comanche Series
Comanche Temptation
Comanche Eagle
Comanche Passion
Oregon Brown
Heat Wave
The Goodies Case
Sweet Desire
Texas Passion
Tides of Passion
To the Rhoades for some answers and insights and to my editor, Beth Lieberman
One
Adobe Walls, November 1864
“Haon’yo!” The cry rang in the air as a warrior fell from his pony.
Guipago, Lone Wolf, turned his bay, a Henry rifle in the crook of his arm. His wild whoops added to the din while he fired the rifle as he galloped through the soldiers. Smoke billowed up, the blast of a howitzer drowning out screams and whoops and gunfire.
Out of the thick smoke a soldier loomed before him. Lone Wolf swung the rifle, knocking the bluecoat from his horse. Flames shot skyward as the Kiowa village burned, the acrid smell of flaming hides stinging his nostrils, the stench of gunpowder heavy in the air.
The army attack on the winter camp had come at dawn and the Kiowa and the Comanche had fought all day, only now beginning to drive back the bluecoats, but not before the tipis had been set ablaze. A thick pall of smoke hung over the rolling countryside.
He heard a scream and wheeled his horse. Tainso, his brother’s wife, ran with their young daughter in her arms. Tainso’s long black hair streamed out behind her as a cavalry officer charged toward her.
Yelling with rage, Lone Wolf kicked his horse. He raced after them as the captain leaned down to yank mother and child up on his horse.
Firing his rifle, Lone Wolf bellowed again while he pounded to catch the officer and his sister-in-law. He had seen his brother, Inhapo, blasted from his horse by one of the two powerful howitzers firing on the village. Inhapo had died instantly, and Tainso had run screaming to his body, throwing herself on him and ignoring the battle raging around her.
Lone Wolf had lost sight of her in the fighting until now. As the soldier galloped away with her, Lone Wolf knew he could not risk a shot because the officer held Tainso close in front of him. Lone Wolf yanked up his bow and pulled arrows from the quiver. He aimed and released an arrow, firing another swiftly. As the arrows struck him in the back, the officer stiffened and fell.
Tainso clung to the horse as the officer fell, then leaned over the animal and galloped away. Following her, Lone Wolf reloaded his rifle. A blond cavalry officer pounded after Tainso even as he turned to fire at Lone Wolf.
Lone Wolf urged his bay faster. But to Lone Wolf’s horror, the officer swung his gun around and fired at Tainso. She screamed and fell from the horse while three-year-old Tainguato, whose tiny fists were wound in the paint’s mane, remained on the pony as it galloped away. The soldier fired at Lone Wolf.
With a lurch Lone Wolf’s horse went down beneath him. When Lone Wolf rolled and raised up to fire, another shot blasted the rifle from his arms and he felt a sting in his shoulder.
In a rage he yanked up his bow and pulled an arrow from the quiver, firing in a fluid motion. The arrow went into the officer’s chest, piercing him high on the right.
In spite of the arrow, as he galloped close, the officer raised his rifle. For a moment Lone Wolf looked into the pale man’s blue eyes; the officer’s face, his thin nose and pointed jaw, became etched in Lone Wolf’s memory. His hatred burned hotly as he reached into an empty quiver.
“You die, redskin!” the officer yelled. The blast knocked Lone Wolf to the ground, a hot pain searing his ribs. When he pushed himself up again, the officer had disappeared into the smoke.
Lone Wolf staggered to Tainso, rolling her over. Blood gushed from a large wound in her chest. Her eyes fluttered, and he leaned down to hold her close.
With surprising strength she gripped his arm. “Find Tainguato, my White Bird,” she whispered. “Protect her. Promise me.”
“I promise.”
“Go now,” she urged, her hand loosening. Then she shuddered and turned her head.
Agonized, Lone Wolf placed his hand against her throat and knew before he felt there would be no pulse. He let out a searing cry and placed her back on the ground while he looked in the direction in which the pony had raced away with White Bird. He stood, shaking his fist at the wind, crying again, a keening agonized call that was drowned out by the sound of battle.
Lone Wolf glanced at himself. He felt nothing yet, but he was bleeding from wounds in his side and shoulder and thigh. Looking over the battleground, he knelt beside a dead soldier. He took the man’s coat and went back to fold Tainso’s hands over her breast and cover her with the coat.
He returned to take the soldier’s rifle and pistol. He yanked off the man’s shirt, ripping it to bind his wounds.
In minutes Lone Wolf caught a riderless horse and leapt into the saddle, pain in his side and leg doubling him over. Regaining his seat, he turned in the direction in which he had seen White Bird’s horse race away. The blast of the howitzers had stopped, and Lone Wolf knew the warriors had finally routed the soldiers. He glanced over his shoulder at flames dancing high, a cloud of smoke streaming skyward over the village. Long shadows stretched across the land as the sun flamed in the west. His people had withstood the soldiers and finally driven them away, and he felt a surge of satisfaction along with sadness for the losses. As his gaze swept the ground that was littered with the bodies of his slain kinsmen, hatred rose in him again toward the whites who had killed his loved ones.
He felt a desperate need to find White Bird. In minutes he picked up the trail where it wound west along the river. Pain now throbbed with waves of blackness which threatened to overwhelm him.
He didn’t know how many times he stirred and sat up, drifting in and out of consciousness. He was losing blood and needed his wounds tended, but he had to get White Bird before he headed back for help.
Following the river, he rode over rolling grassland. Ne
ar the bottomland along the water, cottonwoods and junipers grew. Ahead a movement caught his eye, and he spotted White Bird. He tried to yell, but only a croak came out. His sight blurred, and his head started to loll over. Lone Wolf jerked upright, trying again to call to White Bird.
His heart seemed to miss a beat as the land jutted out in a bluff, and at the crest she disappeared from sight. He was afraid to urge his horse to go faster because any moment he might lose consciousness and fall.
He closed his eyes, his head swimming. A lilting feminine voice rose in song. He jerked upright. He had been on the verge of losing consciousness again, his mind drifting. The voice carried on the wind, and he frowned. Was his mind deluded by shock and pain or did he actually hear someone singing? Where was White Bird?
Fearing for her, Lone Wolf tugged on the reins and dismounted. He staggered and fell, blackness enveloping him. When he opened his eyes, he didn’t know how long he had been unconscious, but he still heard singing. He turned to crawl on his hands and knees to the edge of the rise and peer below.
The land gave way, the hillside cut by rainwater. The sloping bank leveled out in flat land along the river. Cottonwoods grew on the banks, their limbs still bearing yellowed leaves, a bright contrast to the dark junipers. In spite of the cool weather, a woman stood bathing with her back to him, her hands holding up her mass of red ringlets. She sang as she let her hair fall and splashed water on herself.
In the dusky light of early evening, her body was pale. The cascade of thick red hair momentarily caught his attention, and his gaze slid over the enticing curve of her buttocks, down over her long, shapely legs. She stood in shallow water that came below the calves of her legs and left her bare to his gaze.
For an instant he felt the consuming rage he had experienced in battle and the searing loss over a year earlier when he’d found his wife’s body after she had been killed by whites. For a moment he wanted to charge down the bluff, grab the woman, and take revenge upon the whites, but then he saw White Bird.
The child was off the paint now, the animal picking its way down the slope behind her, the woman seemingly unaware of the noise. Lone Wolf supposed the splashing of water and her singing had drowned out the sound of hooves.
She stopped singing as a hoof scraped on a stone and the pony moved behind junipers. The woman spun around. Lone Wolf began to cry out to White Bird, and his hand brought up his pistol.
Pain shot through him, and his arm wavered wildly. And then he forgot his anger as he stared at the woman’s lush body.
His attention was riveted, her beauty registering through a blur of pain. Her pale, curvaceous body had full rosy-tipped breasts that thrust toward him. Her waist looked tiny enough for his hands to circle. Thick red curls formed a triangle at the juncture of her long legs.
Tearing his gaze from her, he looked at White Bird as he struggled to move the pistol to his left hand. The woman was staring at White Bird, and Lone Wolf’s heart thudded because he had never known a white person to like an Indian child.
He wanted to call a warning to White Bird, to protect her from the woman. As he watched, White Bird held out her hands and toddled toward the woman.
“Hah-nay!” His cry of no was a mere croak. The woman looked around, and he ducked down. In seconds he raised his head. She splashed out of the creek, ran a cloth swiftly over her body, and yanked her green gingham dress up to drop it over her head. As the woman fastened buttons, White Bird ran to her.
To his amazement the woman held out her arms and lifted up the child against her body. White Bird wound her thin arms around the woman’s neck and hugged her.
“Hah-nay!” he whispered again. The woman had to be traveling with a group; and even if the woman liked White Bird, when the men found the Indian child, Lone Wolf feared what they would do. “Tainguato.” He whispered her name as he crawled forward, the pistol clutched in his hand.
Vanessa Sutherland caught up the little girl. The child wrapped her arms around Vanessa’s neck and whimpered.
“Shh, love, you’re safe. You’re safe with me,” Vanessa crooned to her, swaying slightly as she stroked the child’s tangled black hair.
“Kka-kkoy’,” the child murmured. “Kka-kkoy’.”
“Sweetie, I don’t understand.” Vanessa looked around again, an eerie feeling making hair rise on the nape of her neck. It was almost dark now, and Vanessa realized she shouldn’t have stayed away from camp so long. There was an ominous silence; every bush could be hiding a threatening menace. The child couldn’t be out here alone, and Vanessa’s gaze swept the area again. And then she forgot her fears as she held the small body close, love pouring out to the little girl.
Vanessa leaned back to look at her, and large, thickly lashed dark eyes gazed up solemnly in return. Red smudges were on the child’s buckskin dress and arms and cheek. It was blood. She must have been in a battle or an ambush.
“I’m Vanessa Sutherland,” Vanessa said quietly. “Vanessa.” She smiled and the child smiled back. Another surge of love rushed through Vanessa. She smoothed long black hair away from the child’s face. “You’re very beautiful. Where is your mama? Mama?”
The child continued to smile, her tiny fingers touching Vanessa’s curls, tugging lightly at one.
“I’ll take you to camp,” Vanessa continued in a soft voice. She set the little girl on her feet and took her hand. Vanessa glanced down at her and remembered Sergeant Hollings, the officer in charge of the detail to accompany the wagon train to Denver. He despised Indians, and his cruel treatment of one at Fort McKavett had left bitter memories with her. She looked down at the large, trusting eyes gazing up at her and thought about Sergeant Hollings.
The paint whinnied and moved out of the brush into view. Vanessa’s heart lurched at the first sound; and then, when she saw it was a riderless horse, probably what the child had ridden, she stared at the animal. And as she looked at it, she remembered overhearing her father’s instructions to Sergeant Hollings before they had left Fort McKavett.
“Hollings,” he had said in his deep voice, “see to it that my daughter doesn’t get her hands on a horse. She is not the obedient child that my other daughters are. I don’t want to hear that Vanessa ran away before she reached Denver.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll personally check on the horses each day. I’ll give instructions that she isn’t to ride one at any time.”
“I’m holding you responsible for her getting to Denver where I can get her locked into the convent.”
Now, staring at the paint, Vanessa saw the chance she had been watching for since leaving Fort McKavett. She didn’t want to enter a convent and she had a desperate need to get back to Fort McKavett to try to save her fifteen-year-old sister Phoebe from a loveless marriage arranged by their father.
Before they reached Denver, Vanessa had planned to get a horse in one of the towns they passed through, but here was a horse for the taking and a small child who needed protection.
Vanessa stared at the child, her mind running over possibilities. With a determined lift of her chin, her spirits leaping with excitement, Vanessa knelt beside the child. She touched the little girl’s chest with her forefinger.
“You stay.” Vanessa took the child’s hand and led her to a large rock, seating her there and patting its surface. “You stay.” She pointed to herself and tried to convey with her hands what she intended. “I go and come back. You stay.”
Dark eyes stared up at her, and Vanessa stood up, moving to take the horse’s reins and fasten them to a tree. She started toward camp, glanced back, and smiled. The child smiled in return. Vanessa hurried through the trees, rushing to camp, her pulse jumping at the thought of running away.
Mrs. Parsons, hired by her father to accompany Vanessa to Denver, traveled with her. Vanessa’s father, Abbot Sutherland, with his high military connections, had seen to the army escort for the wagon train in order to get his daughter to Denver safely where Mrs. Parsons would place her in the convent.
V
anessa had heard of savage Indians, and the wagon train was traveling beyond the line of frontier forts, the last line of defense with men away fighting in the War Between The States.
If she ran off, she would be alone with the child in a vast desert inhabited by nomadic savages. Vanessa was willing to take her chances because once she reached Denver, her future and Phoebe’s would be ruined. Vanessa’s thoughts shifted back to the little girl who seemed abandoned or orphaned. Vanessa would take the child with her and go back to Fort McKavett to get Phoebe and their youngest sister Belva. Her father seemed to have love only for his son, so they wouldn’t leave Belva behind unless she wanted them to.
She thought of the box of gold and greenbacks her father was sending to the convent. There was enough money in the box to last a long time if she were careful with it. She glanced behind her and saw only the river and trees, no sign of the child. Hurrying, Vanessa reached camp and went straight to her wagon.
People clustered together in the center around a bonfire, and tempting smells of charred meat filled the air. Vanessa climbed into the wagon she shared with Mrs. Parsons. Pausing to look at the crowd gathered in the center of the circle around the fire, Vanessa spotted Ardith Parsons’ brown hair and ever-present black hat. Beside her was Ulrich Canton, a man traveling to Denver. With his butter-bean teeth and narrow, dark eyes, he seemed taken with Mrs. Parsons, and the two spent most evenings together over supper and talking afterward.
Thankful the two were together now, Vanessa picked up a portmanteau and emptied its contents.
Her hands shook as she rushed, changing into a blue poplin riding habit with a calico sunbonnet, leaving behind the fancy blue silk hat that would give little protection from the sun. She packed clothing, jars of jam, and cold biscuits, trying to think of everything she might need. She took quilts and finally dropped a portmanteau and a satchel to the ground along with the quilts. With the box of money under her arm, she climbed down and hurried across the campsite to the cluster of people and tables spread with food. Picking up a tin plate, she served herself, smiling at Mrs. Whitaker.