Bride Gone Bad (23 page)

With Tempest resting peacefully in his arms, Lucky stood in the middle of the Grand Suns solar storm, a huge Soleil Wheel spinning about them.

The fire looked hot enough to burn but felt like summertime. He expected the plants in the area to sprout, bloom, and grow tall as if experiencing the nurturing rays of the summer Sun.

He watched the Grand Suns with their black hair and bronze skin swoop by with graceful elegance. Each wore a winged headdress with a lock of hair like a rattlesnake's tail pulled forward to stick out from a sloped forehead while the remaining hair was slicked back and banded like a long snake. A wide belt around the waist anchored a long heart-shaped breechclout. Two sections of fabric with geometric designs had been slipped over each arm, one above the elbow and one below that covered the hand, with bands of woven fabric hanging down to resemble wings. He had no doubt these Grand Suns represented the sacred and winged Plumed Serpent.

Never in his life could he have imagined such an experience. He had heard the tales. He had seen the artifacts. He had preserved as much as possible for the Secret Order of Sun Rattlers and the Society for the Preservation of Antiquities, but nothing could compare to reality.

He felt blessed by the Grand Suns. The knowledge and experience that he would take back to his Sun Rattler clan was priceless. Yet the greater good was that the People's power that had been preserved on the spirit plane had been brought back to the physical plane of Earth through the power of the Soleil Wheel. He felt sure now that the tribes of Turtle Island, no matter how many dark days they might have ahead, would survive and flourish.

Yet he cradled the greatest gift of all in his arms. Tempest was the living embodiment of the Soleil Wheel, the Sun Wheel of Life, symbolic of the Sun's journey around the Wheel of the Year as it influenced life on Earth in the rotating seasons of Spring, Summer, Autumn, and Winter. And now the Soleil Wheel also represented the rebirth of the power of the People.

Without her, none of this would have been possible. She was from East Texas, or Tejas, the Caddo word for friend. He expected to learn from her grandmother and great-aunt that she was a daughter of the powerful Caddo Confederacies that had once ruled a huge area directly south of the Mounds in the piney woods of Texas. And the Caddo, as well as the Wichita of the Red River, were considered the direct descendants of those who had built the Mounds. The Choctaw, Cherokee, and Atlahtaw also reflected much of the same heritage.

Fortunately, Tempest's wound was no more than a graze on her side that he had bound with a clean chemise from her saddlebags. She had lost blood and would be sore, but she would heal. She was weak from her injury, but even weaker from burning so much energy so fast. What she needed now was peace, quiet, and time to replenish what she had so freely given. He could think of no better place than here.

Crawdaddy was gone, taking Haig's body with him. They'd eyed each other over their six-shooters. Yet they'd known that a shootout would leave them both dead, so they'd walked away from that final confrontation. Lucky had been most concerned about Tempest. Until he'd checked her wound, he hadn't known if she would survive. As a Rattler, Crawdaddy was mostly immune to a rattlesnake bite, but he would be extremely sick for a long time. He would most likely drop out of sight to heal. Haig would never be heard of again. Crawdaddy wouldn't want it known that he had been too weak to save a valued employee.

But Lucky knew. And Crawdaddy knew that he knew. He also knew that Lucky's alignment with Tempest would make their Sun Rattler clan the most powerful of all the clans. Lucky didn't doubt that Crawdaddy would again scheme to get back his power, but he would be watched.

For now, Lucky only wanted to think about his ladylove. He'd returned her .32 to its holster. He'd put her ring and necklace in his pocket. He'd done all he could for her. Yet, after everything that had happened, he wasn't sure how she felt about him. She could still walk away.

Tempest sighed, stretched, and opened her eyes. She glanced around and stiffened in shock. “I thought this was a dream.”

“No. It's real.”

“I don't see how.”

“Your power. Your love. Your acceptance of ghosts.”

“But Lucky, you're assigning me too much importance.”

“Not me.” He inclined his head toward the figures that circled them. “The Grand Suns.”

“I still don't know quite what to think, but I'm feeling better. Would you set me down?”

He wanted to keep her in his arms, but he knew that wasn't possible. He gently lowered her to the ground.

She put her left hand to her throat, appeared surprised, and then looked at her hand. “Oh, Lucky! We've got to go back and get my ring and necklace. Remember, I threw them down when I confronted Crawdaddy.”

“Do you still want them?”

She looked surprised. “Don't I get them back?”

“They belong to the woman I love and who loves me.”

She pressed a soft kiss to his lips. “That means they are ours forever.”

He wrapped her in a tight embrace and deepened the kiss, wanting more, wanting all of her. But something else came first. He gently set her back, reached into his vest pocket, and pulled out the ring and necklace. When she held out her hand, he placed them on her palm.

She smiled at him. “With silver I thee bind, with gold I thee anoint, with love I thee wed.” She reached up and clasped the chain around his neck, and then slipped the ring onto the little finger of his left hand.

He kissed her, knowing he was blessed beyond all measure by her love.

And the Grand Suns whirled faster and faster until they slipped back into the Earth, leaving the Mounds in peace and serenity and harmony.

Tempest raised her head, looked about, and then at him. “I do think we're finally alone. And it's time for your initiation.”

“Are you sure? That might include a baby.”

“Oh, Lucky, I was foolish and scared before.” She placed his hand on her stomach. “Moon Rattler has already blessed our daughter.”

“She'll be powerful.”

“More importantly, she'll be loved.”

“As I love you.”

She knelt and tugged him down beside her. “Here, in this place of power, bind us together as only a Rattler can do.”

He cupped her face with his hands and looked into her violet eyes. “Forever and always, you're my bride.”

AUTHOR'S NOTE

Most of the locations in
Bride Gone Bad
are real places. I enjoyed visiting and researching these wonderful historic sites.

Once known as one of the three toughest towns in the West,
Delaware Bend, Texas,
is now at the bottom of Lake Texoma. The Bend was named for a Delaware Nation village on a bend of the Red River. Today, you can visit Dexter, a nearby town.

Skullyville (Oak Lodge), Oklahoma,
was the former capital of the Choctaw Nation, the capital of the Mushulatubbee District of the Choctaw Nation, and a stop on the California Road. The Butterfield Overland Mail route also maintained a stage station there. Today, you can see the community that still exists.

In 1834,
Fort Coffee, Oklahoma,
was built near the Arkansas River by the United States government, but it was abandoned after four years. In 1843, the Fort Coffee Choctaw Boys Academy was established in the old buildings. After 1865, most of the buildings burned and the area was primarily used as Choctaw farms. Today, you can visit one of the oldest towns in Oklahoma.

For a fascinating step back in time, visit the
Spiro Mounds Archaeological Center and Ceremonial Grounds
near Spiro, Oklahoma. In the 1930s, the Temple Mound of the Arkansas River bottoms was known worldwide as the King Tut of the West due to the discovery of millions of artifacts. Guided tours are held on the Solstices and Equinoxes. Memberships are also available to support the center.

I hope you'll fall in love with the Red River Borderland of Texas, the majestic splendor of Southeast Oklahoma, and the Indian Nations like I have while writing
Bride Gone Bad
.

This is an Oklahoma recipe of the time period, with substitutions to suit modern tastes.

Preheat oven to 400° F.

Mix wet ingredients in one bowl, and mix dry ingredients in another bowl. Then combine all ingredients.

Fill greased (or paper liners) muffin tins
full.

Bake 20–25 minutes (check with a toothpick).

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Hey, Mercy, come see this!” Big Jim McMahon called from the swinging doors of the Red River Saloon.

Theodore Lafayette Huntingdon Jr. glanced up.
Mercy.
Lots of folks out West used a “summer name” instead of a birth name. But he hadn't come up with an alias quick enough, so he'd been given one and it'd stuck.

“Now that'd sure make a fine painting.” Big Jim crossed muscular arms across his broad chest as he stared outside over the top of the doors.

Mercy sat at a round table by a front window where he could take advantage of the early morning light. He'd been sketching across white paper as he laid out the design for an oil painting that Big Jim had commissioned to hang over the Red River's legendary bar.

He shook his head at the vagaries of life. He'd been a down-on-his-luck Eastern tenderfoot trading art for whiskey when he'd carved cavorting naked women into the bar's mahogany top until glasses and bottles sat at odd angles, and then he'd left town. In his absence, the bar had become so popular that patrons had named the beauties and rubbed the shapeliest parts smooth and shiny. Now he was back to repair the bar and create a painting.

“Get over here or you'll be cussing and damning for days 'cause you missed her entrance.” Big Jim pointed outside.

“Who's entrance?”

“Texas Belle!”

“Who's that?”

Big Jim appeared shocked. “You never heard of Texas Belle?”

“Afraid not.” He picked up his whiskey and tossed back a shot. “Are you going to enlighten me?”

Big Jim shook his fair head. “You got to see for yourself.”

Mercy set down his piece of charcoal and stood up. He glanced around the saloon. Several men were hunched over cards playing poker at a back table. A drifter was bellied up to the bar. Most patrons had left for some shuteye about the time he'd arrived a couple of hours ago.

He pushed open the swinging doors, stepped outside onto the boardwalk, and heard Big Jim follow. As far as he could tell, it was another quiet morning after a wild night in the Bend. The place was infamous as one of the three wildest towns in the West, along with Tombstone, Arizona, and Leadville, Colorado. And for good reason. Outlaws made it a favorite watering hole since they could quickly ride north across the Red River into the safety of Indian Territory ahead of Texas Rangers and other lawmen. Independents, mavericks, adventurers, and folks wanting new lives were drawn here, too, along with cowboys, farmers, gunslingers, and cardsharps.

He'd been raised a gentleman, but one day he'd scrawled G.T.T., meaning “Gone to Texas,” on his front door like so many others across the country and set out for new territory.

As he looked down Main Street toward the Red River, he noticed that Manny's Livery Stable, Adler Emporium, Mama Lou's Café, and the Lone Star Hotel were open. A few men and women traipsed in and out of stores as they went about their business.

Nothing moved down the dusty street except a lone rider on a flashy horse, a honey chestnut with flaxen mane and tail. Silver filigree on the black leather of bridle and saddle glinted in the sunlight.

“Fancy outfit. Is that your Texas Belle?”

“Wish she was mine, but that g'hal belongs to no man.”

“Sounds like a challenge.”

“She's a sight for sore eyes, all right. But if you trifle with her, you're bound to come out with the short end of the stick.”

“These days, I'm not a trifling man.”

“Good thing. You've got plenty to do in my saloon.”

Mercy sighed, not sure if he'd live long enough to complete all of his Delaware Bend art commissions.

As Texas Belle rode closer, he got a better look. She wore a big, white cowboy hat, a white suede jacket with long fringe dangling down the sleeves, a malachite tinted blouse and skirt, white fringed gloves, white cowboy boots, and a long white scarf tied around her neck. She rode astride as if she'd been born to the saddle.

“Somethin', ain't she?” Big Jim said.

“I'd like to capture her on canvas.”

“If she'd allow it, which I sincerely doubt, you'd be the man to do it.”

She rode up to the saloon, eased out of the saddle, and tossed her reins around the hitching post. She walked to Big Jim, reached up, and clasped his shoulders. After a long hug, she stepped back, looked him up and down, and then winked. “How's the weather up there?”

“I ain't shrunk none since the last time you saw me.” He laughed. “Looks like you ain't grown none either.”

She joined his laughter.

Mercy watched them from the outside looking in. He could use a hug from a lady, but he didn't figure it was coming from this one any time soon.

He cast an artist's eye over her body. She wasn't trussed up with a corset or padded with layers of petticoats, so he could see the generous curves of her breasts and hips. He'd like to strip her naked and paint her in vibrant colors. And then he'd take her to bed. But those were just the randy thoughts of a man who'd sworn off women and discovered his cock had a mind of its own.

If Texas Belle had been a fine sight riding up, she was an unforgettable sight standing so close to him. She'd pulled her hair back in a chignon, but a few strands of bright burnt sienna had come loose and dangled enticingly over one shoulder. He couldn't decide on the exact color of her eyes, but they appeared to be a fascinating mix of rich umber, vermillion, and amber. Freckles peppered her straight nose like stardust to bridge her high cheekbones. A generous, rosy mouth and pointed chin completed a face that wasn't quite beautiful. Yet he doubted many men would notice because they would be caught by her style, energy, and sensuality.

She looked like a fashion plate from a cowgirl's
Godey's Lady's Book
except for one jarring item. She wore a beat-up, stained, natural leather gun belt wrapped twice around her small waist. A fancy Colt .44 with pearl grips and ornate scrollwork rode in the holster. He wondered why she didn't buy a gun-belt that fit her small waist. Even more, he couldn't imagine why she'd need so much firepower, unless it was to discourage a trail of men bird-dogging her tracks.

“Lil Tex, I'd like you to meet Mercy,” Big Jim said.

When she turned her big, luminous eyes on him, Mercy felt it like a punch in the gut. She was no lightweight. She appeared to be searching him for all his secrets, lusts, misdeeds, and mistakes. He shuttered his eyes. He had too much to hide to let anybody in that close.

“Good to meet you.” She cocked her head to one side as her gaze traveled down his body.

He felt her long perusal as an intimate stroke, turning him hot, hard, and needy. “Does your father own a nearby ranch?” He wanted to sound clever, but the blood in his brain had rushed south.

She frowned, a quick pinch between her eyebrows.

Big Jim cleared his throat. “Tex ain't with us no more.”

“I'm sorry.” Mercy wished he hadn't brought up an obviously painful memory.

“Tex met his maker six months and three days ago,” she said.

“That's recent.”

She nodded, but made no other comment.

“Get a good lead yet?” Big Jim asked, breaking the silence. She shook her head. “So far nothing's panned out.”

“You'll find that bushwhacker.”

She pressed her lips together, and then put a hand to her mouth as if to hold back cussing or crying.

“He didn't die easy?” Mercy dove into deeper water, but he couldn't resist learning more.

“Shot in the back, knocked off his horse, and left to die alone.” Big Jim's words cut through the morning air like a gravedigger's spade turning soil.

“Indian Territory.” She flicked a glance at Mercy.

“I spent some time over there. Big wild country. He wouldn't be found for a while.”

She raised her chin and straightened her back. “I found him . . . not long after. I picked up sign. But they were smart. Split up. Hit rock and water. I lost their tracks.”

“Got to be that bounty you were huntin',” Big Jim said.

“Maybe. Could've been an old bounty out of jail and back in the Territory.”

Mercy looked from one to the other, understanding dawning on him. “You're a bounty hunter?” He couldn't keep the surprise out of his voice.

She nodded, shrugging a feminine shoulder.

“You ever hear of Tex Thompson?” Big Jim asked.

“Sure,” Mercy said. “He brought in some of the toughest outlaws.”

“Lil Tex here is his baby girl.” At a frown from her, he grinned, chuckling. “I mean she's Texas Belle Thompson.”

“Belle will do.”

“He taught her every trick he knew.”

“Guess he didn't teach me enough,” she said. “That bushwhacker is still out there, laughing at me and laughing at Pa.”

“You must know how to find missing people.” Mercy focused harder on her, turning his thoughts from bed to trail.

“Are you making a joke because I lost that outlaw?” She put her hands on her hips.

“Not at all. Somebody's missing from the Bend.”

“Who?” Big Jim asked, appearing surprised and concerned.

“Diana.”

“She works at Mama Lou's Café,” Big Jim explained.

“And she's been helping me. Far as I know, nobody's seen her this morning. She just up and disappeared.”

“She didn't simply leave town?” Belle asked.

“That happens a lot around here,” Big Jim added.

“I think she's in real trouble,” Mercy said. “I'll pay you a bounty to find her.”

“I don't need your money.” Belle tossed him a withering look. “Anyway, if you can't keep track of your lady friend, you don't deserve her.”

“It's not like that.”

“So what is it? You beat her? Starve her? Work her? Make her your plaything?”

He blinked in astonishment. Belle wasn't as pretty inside as she was outside. No telling what horrors she'd seen in her young life. “It's personal.”

“It always is.”

“I mean, I don't want to talk about it.”

“Men never do.”

Mercy looked at Big Jim. “I need help. Tell her I wouldn't hurt Diana. I'm worried about her. She's a nice lady.”

“If she's run out on you, I won't be the one to help find her,” Belle said. “A woman's got a right to protect herself any way she can.”

“You've got me all wrong. Big Jim, please explain who I am.”

“Mercy is . . . the artist.” He drew out the words as if with great reluctance.

“What artist?”

“The bar.”

Belle dropped her hand to her six-shooter. “So you're the low-down, yellowbelly Yankee who thinks women are nothing but sides of beef.”

Shocked, Mercy stepped back. She was armed and he wasn't. She was mad and he wasn't. She hated art and he was an artist. Still, he couldn't let a few problems stand in the way of helping a friend.

He forced a smile. “When can you start looking for Diana?”