Halle shook off Stella’s hands. “But I still don’t want to leave the life I had. Can’t someone else tip off the authorities about this Cole guy? I know you might think it’s crappy and lonely but it’s my life and I like it. I have a cool job right now and some day I’m going strike it big and move to Hollywood. I’ll work at all the major studios. What else do I need to be happy?”
Stella drew close again. “You listen to me good, Halle girl. You’ve been given an extraordinary opportunity to fulfill your destiny. Not everyone is chosen for such a task. It might not appear that way now, but someone is searching for you and has been searching for a long time. When he finds you, you’ll discover there are a whole lot of other people who need you more than anyone in your current life ever will. Hollywood just has to wait.”
Stella began to glow again, as if someone had dusted her with a fine sheen of golden glitter. From overhead came a soft whirring noise, like the flight of a thousand butterflies. The wind began to whirl around them as a tight drawing sensation began in the top of Halle’s head, then spread downward to her toes. She sucked in a breath as her heart pounded with both excitement and fear.
“Stella, what’s happening?”
Stella’s hands remained firm on her shoulders. “The vortex is nothing to be afraid of, but it’s very bright so you must keep your eyes closed. In a moment you’ll make the transition through the light, back in time, body and soul with the full memory of your former life intact, although you might not remember your jaunt.”
“What about you? Where will you be?”
“Oh, I’ll be with you when you need me along your journey. I’ve always been there, Halle, watching over you. Now close your eyes and hang on tight, baby girl. This is going to be the wildest ride of your life.”
CHAPTER TWO
Near Albuquerque, New Mexico Territory
June 1863
The horse’s hooves tore at the earth, propelling clods of dirt and sod into the air. Sweat poured into Antonio Whitehorse’s eyes, burning, blurring his vision. He spurred his mount northwest toward Albuquerque, his long hair whipping his face as clouds of thick red dust trailed in his wake. Earlier that day, he was spotted by a group of men in blue uniforms camped near a ranch forty miles north of Fort Sumner. Kit Carson’s New Mexico Volunteers. They pursued him several miles before losing him.
General James Carleton had given the Navajo thirty days to surrender. But after his brief encounter with soldiers, Antonio had no doubt troops were en route to Albuquerque with plans to prematurely advance northward upon Navajo lands. He must move fast. If his instincts were on target, these men—reconnaissance detachments—had been deployed ahead of the deadline.
Diablo Cortez, his arms supplier, would be in Albuquerque two more days. Cortez would not linger, particularly if he caught wind of the soldier’s plans.
Slowing his mount, Antonio guided the bay down into the arroyo through thick, spreading chamisa brush. Near a shallow, trickling wash at the bottom of the canyon where he camped two nights before, he reined in the horse. Sliding wearily from its back, he trotted the lathered animal over wide, flat, sun-polished rocks to the stream. Fast moving rains from the other night had replenished the dry creek bed with life giving water, and for that he was thankful.
Dropping to his hands and knees, he drank his fill and then splashed copious amounts of water over his head. He pulled the blue bandanna from around his neck and dried his face. Still kneeling, he slipped off his vest and laid it beside him, patting the lump in his left pocket. Two licorice sticks and a small, pearl-handled pocket knife for his son, Lukachukai.
After stripping off his sweat-soaked shirt, he dipped the neckerchief into the water and wrung it out. He slung the cool cloth around his neck and sat back on his haunches, taking in a deep, cleansing breath. It was good to finally be still. It would feel even better to be home in Dinetah.
Dinishwo drank heartily a few yards downstream. “Enough, boy,” Antonio called to the horse.
The bay snorted and lifted his head, then shook it as if to say he was not finished.
Antonio chuckled. “You are becoming argumentative in your old age.” The bay ignored him and returned to guzzling.
He tied the horse away from the stream and scouted the site. Far enough from the main road to remain hidden in dense brush. From trails of fresh rabbit pellets and its proximity to clean water, this location was an excellent place to hunt and rest a few hours.
He stretched out like a cat, but dared not nod off. His mind raced with thoughts of his earlier brush with soldiers. He closed his eyes, every muscle in his body tense and aching from the exhaustion of days of hard riding and little sleep. Still, his senses remained alert to every breeze, every rustle. An hour’s rest and he would be on his way.
He’d not found the woman yet. Not that it surprised him. Like sailors at sea for months on end, he’d begun to believe he had simply imagined the red haired siren. Loneliness had a way of doing that to a man.
* * * * *
He awoke with a start and scrambled to his feet, squinting at the bright sky overhead. How long had he slept? From the position of the sun, he estimated no more than an hour or two. Time to move.
He had just mounted up when soft moans beyond the brush caught his attention. The hair lifted on the back of his neck. An animal? No. It sounded human. Drawing his revolver, he slid from the horse’s back and crept silently through the brush toward the sound. In the clearing, he spied a woman lying on her back. A woman with red hair. He blinked hard, stared as his chest tightened.
It was her!
He scanned the horizon, making certain she was alone. A chill shook him at the dead silence of the canyon. Crouched in the brush, he waited a moment before inching closer.
There were no rutted trails in the dried mud to suggest anyone had been there recently, no hoof prints—not even his own, although he camped in this spot three days ago.
Who was she, and why was she alone? Was this an ambush, one forewarned by his dream? Was he walking into a trap? He froze as fear knotted in his spine.
She moaned in obvious misery. Then he heard another sound—an undeterminable high pitched whine in her vicinity. Cautious, he crept closer.
A tiny creature uncoiled from the crook of the woman’s arm and sprang to its feet. He drew his gun, his heart lurching in his chest as he stared down a snarling animal which resembled a bug-eyed rat. A dog? Likely a pup.
“Easy.” He soothed the animal as he approached the nearly unconscious woman.
He swallowed hard, noting her heart-shaped face and dainty upturned nose.
Yes, it was her.
He reached into his vest pocket and pulled a strip of jerked venison and tossed it to the side. While the dog gnawed happily nearby, he checked the pulse in her neck. To his surprise it was strong. Examining her head, he found no cuts or contusions.
He lifted the hem of her black skirt, eyeing the peculiar hosiery which oddly reminded him of spider webbing. Flies swarmed an encrusted patch of dried blood on her knee. Her right ankle was swollen. Taking her foot in hand, he manipulated her foot, determining the ankle was only slightly sprained, not broken. Other than a few blisters from insect bites on her arms she appeared to have no broken bones. Likely, she was simply weak and dehydrated.
Her black fingernails caught his attention. Gangrene? A closer inspection revealed they were painted, not infected. He dragged a hand down his face, perplexed. Why would a woman paint her nails black? And why did she have streaks of purple paint in her hair?
After loosening her blouse, he checked for further injuries. Girlish breasts were bound with two lacy scraps of constricting, triangular fabric which he removed for her comfort. She did not appear to be pregnant or nursing a babe. Greenish yellow bruises on her rib cage indicated the injury occurred days ago. Had she fallen from a passing horse or wagon? They were miles from the nearest settlement—at least a half day’s ride. He inspected her shoes. An odd style with a spike for a
heel. A smooth sole suggested she had not walked far.
He unloaded his saddlebag and blanket, and then returned with a cloth and water canteen. He peeled her blood soaked hosiery down her legs, followed by the black skirt. The woman barked, startling him. Rat dog’s ears shot up and he growled, but the little fellow never ceased gnawing on his prize.
Antonio sat back on his haunches, expecting she might awaken. When she didn’t, he drew the skirt down further past her hips, discovering another lacy wisp of fabric beneath, its pattern similar to the one that had covered her breasts. Having never seen anything like it, he stared at the scanty patch of cloth that barely covered her intimate areas. A new fashion of underclothes?
The woman snarled and bared her teeth. Antonio jerked his hand away.
Rat dog dropped his meat and growled, too.
A dog he could handle, but not the woman. He had been bitten once by a crazy cousin and had no desire to repeat the experience. After whisking the short pantalets away, he made an unusual discovery. Her pubic hair was black, not a brilliant shade of red as the hair on her head.
Realizing he had stared a bit too long, he covered her with his blanket.
At the stream, he rinsed her curious stockings and sweat soaked clothes. Although the sun was still high in the sky—at least six hours until dark—he knew she could not ride in her weakened condition. If he sutured the cut in her knee, wrapped her ankle with a strip of cloth and bound her bruised ribs, and perhaps got some food and warm drink in her, she might be strong enough to sit a horse by morning. The ride would hurt like hell, but what choice did he have? He needed to be out of Albuquerque tomorrow night.
He blew out an exasperated breath. He’d dreamed of this woman for months, anticipating the day when they’d finally meet. But finding her only served to complicate matters. What would he do with her once they reached Albuquerque? Could he entrust her into his mistress’ care until his return? Or should he risk taking her with him to his family in Dinetah?
He wrung the water from her clothes and spread them across sunlit rocks to dry. What was he to do? He sighed, dragged a hand down his face. Perhaps the best course of action was to stay put for tonight. They were reasonably safe, concealed in the arroyo. And he did need rest, as well as a filling meal, preferably one including fresh game.
He glanced at the dog. Not enough meat.
While the woman rested soundly, he scouted the area, collecting little more than a fistful of snake weed. After boiling leaves and stems in a small pot of water, he soaked swatches of cloth cut from one sleeve of his shirt in the healing infusion. Once it cooled, he applied it to the reddened insect bites on her legs and arms.
Rummaging through his leather pouch, he located a small suturing kit. His stomach growled as he closed the cut in her knee, reminding him he hadn’t eaten since yesterday. His hands trembled like the tiny dog beside him. Exhaustion.
“You are nervous?” He eyed the animal.
The bug-eyed dog yawned.
“Have no fear. I am a—” He stopped short of saying physician. There was no point. The past was over. Who and what he had once been no longer mattered. Now, he was simply a fugitive.
He worked quickly with limited supplies. Usually he carried a small, but well stocked medical bag along with a few surgical supplies, but in his haste to escape the soldier’s pursuit he left the kit and most of his food rations behind.
After cutting long, wide strips from his shirt to bind her ribs and ankle, he fashioned another thick, squared patch to dress the wound on her knee.
The dog curled up in the crook of the girl’s elbow and settled down to sleep.
Antonio stroked each stiff, red and purple spike of her odd coiffure with his fingertips, noting the way sunlight sparked in it like falling embers at twilight. “Sleep yahzi.”
His stomach growled again, this time more insistent. He donned his vest and tied the blue neckerchief around his forehead to keep sweat from running into his eyes, then pulled his rifle from the scabbard. Rat dog trotted alongside him.
Antonio paused. The dog stopped too, keeping a safe distance. “Stay with your mistress,” he commanded.
The animal yawned and stretched out his forelegs in a begging gesture.
Antonio bit back a grin. “No, you cannot follow. There are rabbits in the brush four times your size. They’ll have you for a meal.”
The dog lay on his belly and slowly dragged his body toward Antonio. He chuckled. “Very well. You may come along, but don’t get in my line of sight.”
Shaking his head, Antonio followed the trail of jackrabbit pellets into the arroyo, aware the stubborn animal was on his heels the entire time.
* * * * *
Canyon de Chelly, Arizona Territory
Eight year old Lukachukai Whitehorse pulled the woven blanket beneath his chin and breathed in the cool, earthy essence of night. Settled down for sleep on the hard packed hogan floor, he listened to the faint murmurs of his aunt and older cousin as they spoke outside in hushed tones. Soldiers were coming, they feared, and soon.
His father had not made it back to their encampment with food and guns and was several days overdue. But that did not worry Lukachukai. His father was brave and strong, much smarter than any white man’s soldier. He would return. He always did.
By fading firelight, Lukachukai traced the jagged patterns of his blanket with his fingertip—blue and black zigzags on a background of light gray. Some of the older children had begun to tease him about his missing hand. The blanket had become his most prized possession. His aunt said she had made the new blanket for him to wear during the coming winter, but Lukachukai knew it was because he had outgrown the old one. She had made this one wider to better shield his stump from the hurtful stares and callous remarks of playmates.
He watched the orange flames in the small fire pit in the center of the hogan lick at white, misshapen logs. Fire. The color of the woman’s hair in his dream last night. He had told Son of the Old Ways, his older cousin and the tribe’s hataalii, of the strange recurring dreams about the woman. Son of the Old Ways reported he had seen her in a vision in the sweat lodge. She was coming, he said, and Dinetah would be forever changed.
Lukachukai closed his eyes, allowing the women’s soft humming to lull him to sleep.
He traveled through a blue swirling mist, riding on the brown and white spotted pony his father had given him on his sixth birthday. Suddenly, he burst into the bright light. Midday sun beat down hot upon his bare head. Horses snorted in the heat, their tails swishing flies as they bustled past Navajo women selling their wares—beaded jewelry, tanned hides, and woven baskets along the walk way.
He was at the fort again.
After securing his pony to a post, he wandered through the crowd of mostly soldiers, searching for his mother and the baby, Mariposa. A group of Dine—Navajo men—and bilagaana—whites, argued. The crack of a rifle split the air, followed by another shot. Women and children screamed. People ran this way and that, shoving into him. He smelled the acrid odor of burnt gunpowder, heard the cries of the women and children as they rushed to avoid the soldier’s bullets. From out of nowhere his mother burst toward him, knocked him to the ground. Her body covered his.
“Shima!” he cried.
Mariposa, strapped in the cradleboard on his mother’s back released a strangled cry, then went silent.
Blood poured into his eyes, burning and blinding his vision. At first he believed he had been shot. He listened as his mother choked out her last breath, her warm body going limp atop his as her blood flowed into his mouth and nostrils. Mariposa’s cries also ceased. Men’s voices hovered around. He heard the wails of the women and children who’d been injured, the shouts of the men, both Navajo and white.
“Put ‘em out of their misery,” he heard a man say.
He recalled the agonizing pierce of the soldier’s bayonet as it sliced through his mother’s lifeless body and through his lower right arm. He screamed silently, afraid they wou
ld kill him if they knew he had survived.
Lukachukai awakened and jerked to a sitting position, gasping for breath as blinding tears scalded his eyes. His father had not been there to save his mother and the baby, or the others who lay dying around them. His father was not here now. Who would protect them when soldiers came again?
Wiping away the tears, he sniffed hard and lay down beneath the blanket, tucking it beneath his chin. He tossed and turned, awakening often throughout the night, but when he finally succumbed to sleep, he dreamed of the red haired woman again, and this time, a tiny brown and black dog.
* * * * *
Halle opened her eyes. Until she saw the bright turquoise sky above she hadn’t realized she’d been asleep, or that she was still in the canyon where she crashed her car two nights ago. Within seconds she became aware something was terribly wrong.
She glanced down at her breasts bound by a strip of tight cloth. What the hell? A crude, woven blanket lay bunched at her waist. Where did this come from? She lifted the edge and discovered she was only wearing panties. Her knee had been crudely bandaged as well. Heart pounding with fear and apprehension, she drew the covering over her nakedness. Who would have done this?
She tried unsuccessfully to roll onto her right side, pulling up short as bruised ribs propelled rockets of pain throughout her body. She shouldn’t have tried to scale the rocks that night, but she’d been alone in a dark canyon for two days, easy prey for night time predators. When wolves began howling, she feared for her and Max’s safety. Desperate, she’d climbed the rock wall about eight feet, lost her footing and fallen.
Before her transition back in time, Stella assured her help would arrive. Is that what happened while she’d slept? Someone found her and covered her with this a hand-woven blanket, a type she’d seen in local souvenir shops? Still, it didn’t explain her nakedness beneath, or the bandages.
Ride The Wild Wind (Time Travel Historical Romance) Page 3