Raven and the Cowboy: A Loveswept Historical Romance (26 page)

Raven climbed down from Onawa and stood still. Soon she was covered with the giant butterflies. They alit in her hair, on her face as if to kiss her cheeks; they decorated her buckskin dress.

Then, as if responding to a silent signal, they took flight, soaring across the sky in a wave, moving to the north like a golden blizzard. Clouds of the lacy creatures joined the flock and began to leave the valley.

“Oh,” Raven cried out, “did we frighten them? Did our intrusion make them leave this beautiful place?”

Tucker watched their tremulous legions dip and sway across the sky, all moving in tandem toward the horizon. “No, I don’t think so. See, some are staying behind. I believe it was just their time to go.”

“I’m so glad they stayed long enough for us to see them.” Raven turned around and around in the middle of a lush, flower-crested field. “I think we must have stumbled into Papa’s fairyland. If we listen, we’ll hear the Little People.”

“Or maybe it was magic of another kind,” Tucker said as he dismounted and came to stand beside her.

“Magic?”

“Remember the butterfly on your mother’s carrying bag?”

Raven caught her breath. “Yes. It was gold and black, like the ones here. What does it mean?”

“I never thought I’d say such a thing, Spirit Woman, but maybe these butterflies are a sign that we’re on the right track.”

“Oh, Tucker, I was so afraid before, but now I understand that I was wrong. We do belong here. This is where we were being led all along. The spirits brought us here.”

And there, surrounded by stately fir trees, sparkling water, meadows of wildflowers, and butterflies, Tucker kissed Raven as naturally and beautifully as the surroundings that created the moment.

Freed, the horses drank from the stream, then grazed nearby. Caught up in the magic, Tucker drew Raven down to the meadow and loved her. This time there were no chanting voices, no drumbeats, no waking dreams. This time they were just a man and a woman belonging to each other.

“I’m definitely beginning to believe in your spirit world, Mrs. Farrell,” he whispered.

“I certainly hope so, Mr. Farrell. I wouldn’t want to be traveling with an unfeeling man.” Raven smiled, remembering their lovemaking by the pool. She could never accuse Tucker Farrell of being an unfeeling man. She just wondered if he understood how much she knew.

“Would that I were your love.” Tucker repeated the words she’d whispered from her heart.

He knew.

It was late afternoon when the remaining butterflies came to rest in the trees and the flowers closed their petals to the encroaching darkness. Overhead the light of the moon crept over the trees in the east as the remaining rays of the sun leapt behind the next ridge.

“We’d better make camp,” Tucker said.

“Why? I like it right where we are.”

“The ridges will protect us from the wind, but it will still grow cool before morning.” He came to his knees.

“Then you’ll just have to warm me again.”

“Not unless we get some food into this body. It needs fuel to perform, and we used it up hours ago.”

“In that case, you make a fire and I’ll cook. I’m afraid you’ll have to eat bacon and bread again.”

“I’ve had less.”

Once Tucker had the fire going, he looked across the valley. “I think I’ll ride back up to the ridge to check behind us.”

Raven refused to believe that anyone might be following them. Everything was too beautiful, too perfect. As Tucker built the fire, she stirred up flour for bread and cut chunks of salt pork to be fried. Tomorrow she’d catch some fish, maybe find some wild onions and watercress.

After all, she mused, Tucker Farrell was a big man. He needed a lot of fuel. At least, if she had her way, he was going to.

But it wasn’t the Indians or the Mexicans who intruded. It was nearing sunup when a mounted burro came charging down the ridge. Tucker sprang to his feet and pulled on his trousers. Raven quickly slid her dress over her shoulders.

As the burro came closer and saw Yank and Onawa, it broke into squeals of delight and rushed into the clearing.

“Tucker, it’s Jonah the burro. What are you doing here?”

“I’m sorry,” a familiar voice answered. “I didn’t know he’d raise the dead with his caterwauling.”

Tucker recognized the rider and swore. “A better question, Mr. Small, would be how’d you find us?”

The newspaper reporter’s long skinny legs curved around Jonah’s middle like a vise, holding on for dear life. “Be still, you old fool!” he called out, pulling on Jonah’s reins, bringing the burro to a sudden stop. The jolt dislodged Small and freed Jonah to join the two horses. “I didn’t find you, this burro did.”

“And why’d you come after us? You could have been lost in these mountains and never heard from again.”

Still sprawled on the ground, the odd-looking young man answered, “I came to warn you. You’ve been betrayed.”

Tucker held out his hand to help the newspaperman stand. “By whom?”

“By Señor Hildalgo. He knows you’re looking for treasure and he wants it.”

“He and half the population of New Mexico know about the treasure. It’s no secret,” Raven said crossly. “What do
you
want?”

Mr. Small hesitated. “I want—I thought that you ought to know that a Mexican named Porfiro is looking for you. He’s going to wait until you find the treasure and then take it from you.”

“We’re aware of that,” Tucker said.

“But do you know he’s working for Hidalgo?”

The confirmation of his suspicion came as no surprise to Tucker. Except he would have guessed the partnership included the bridegroom’s father as well.

“I still don’t understand,” Raven said. “How’d you find Jonah?”

“I bought a scrawny horse from the livery stable. The animal had once belonged to a priest. When we started out of San Felipe, he took off across the mountain and
ended up at the village where he’d once lived. A man named Benito took me to the priest.”

“Benito.” Tucker nodded at Raven. “And how did that get you here?”

“The friar accepted my donation to the church. When he learned of my mission, he suggested that I take this contrary animal. He insisted that if anybody could find you, Jonah would. I just let him go. Seems the priest was right. Have you found the treasure yet?”

Tucker was unable to conceal his dismay. “No. I don’t suppose it may have occurred to you that you could be leading Porfiro straight to us.”

“His men were still at the fiesta. I don’t think they were to start out until morning. They planned to wait outside the walls and follow you. I left long before they did.”

“And just what made you decide to warn us?” Tucker growled.

“It was stick with the banker or the two of you. You held more appeal. You don’t have to share the treasure with me, Mrs. Farrell. I just want to come along. And I bought a gun, to help you defend yourself against the bandits. See?”

In a scabbard attached to Jonah’s saddle was a rifle, new and shiny and almost as long as Jonah was tall.

“Oh, Mr. Small, you took such a risk. If you don’t want the treasure, what could you possibly expect to gain?”

“This could be the story of a lifetime. If not, I still want to share the adventure. I have to do this. From the moment I stepped on that stage heading west, I knew that something was pulling me. Now I know what. Haven’t you ever wanted something so bad that you’d do anything to make it happen?”

“Yes, I suppose I have,” Raven answered softly.

“You’re wearing an Indian garment, aren’t you, Mrs. Farrell?” Mr. Small asked.

“I am part Arapaho,” she replied.

“The dress you wore when you left the stagecoach.” He nodded his head happily.

“Yes. Make yourself at home, Mr. Small. I was just about to make breakfast.”

Food, she thought, fuel for the body. Though she was chagrined to think, at a time like this, that Mr. Small’s presence might mean that Tucker wouldn’t require so much fuel for the body.

For the first time in her life, beneath her breath, Raven Alexander let out an Irishman’s oath.

After supper Raven stood by the creek singing softly as the last rays of sunlight disappeared.

Tucker came to stand beside her. “What does your song mean?”

“It’s about butterflies. A Hopi Indian guest sang it once at our green corn festival.”

“Sing it in English.”

“I’m not sure I can. Sometimes the translation loses meaning, but I’ll try.

“The melody of the song sounded very sad, but the words are of hope,” Tucker observed.

“Yes, remember I told you that pain precedes joy.”

Tucker remembered and his gut tightened at the thought of what had precipitated her words. Across the campfire, Lawrence Small wrote in a notebook. Though he’d cajoled Raven all during supper she’d refused to disclose any information about the treasure they were seeking. Her only comment was that it was lost and she and Tucker were searching for it.

“It could be just a beautiful legend,” she’d explained. “Nobody knows that the treasure even exists. You could be risking your life for nothing, Mr. Small.”

“Please, Mrs. Farrell,” he’d said, “call me Larry. No, make that Lawrence. I left little Larry back in New York with my family.”

“Maybe,” Tucker had suggested kindly, “that’s where you ought to be, also. The West is a tough place for a tenderfoot.”

“I really don’t want to intrude,” the long-legged man said, “but this is very important to me—even if—even if I die in the process.”

He hadn’t elaborated further. Now Tucker wanted to know more about Lawrence’s motives.

“What are we going to do about Small, Raven?”

“I don’t know. What do you think? Can he be trusted?”

“It isn’t a matter so much of trust as of practicality. He’s trouble. We’ll have to look after him when we ought to be watching out for ourselves.”

“Perhaps,” Raven replied. “But there is more to the man than even he believes. He was right about our being pursued. And he is supposed to be here, I’m certain of that.”

“Then I’m going to have to get some better answers
than we’ve heard so far.” Tucker returned to the campfire, Raven’s hand in his. “Why would you risk your life to come after us, Mr. Small?”

Eagerly the newspaperman closed his notebook, wrapped it in a protective oilcloth cover, and looked up. “It isn’t the treasure that matters, it’s that I helped find it.”

“What will you do when we find the treasure?”

“I’ll write the story. Lawrence Small will write a story for all the world to read. I know you don’t understand, but that’s what’s important.”

“Why is that so important, Mr. Small—Lawrence?”

He frowned and stared at the fire for a moment. “You may not understand, but I’ll try to explain. My father and brothers publish one of the largest newspapers in New York City. They’re very good at what they do. I’m not.”

Tucker sat on a log he’d drawn to the fire and drew Raven down beside him.

“Why?” Tucker asked. “Why aren’t you good at it?”

“I don’t know. As a boy I was the kind who tripped over his shoelaces, who turned over the inkwell, who spilled the milk. I’m more like my mother. My brothers—they were exactly right to be newspapermen. They looked the part. They were composed and they fit in anywhere, with men or women, exactly like my father. I’ll never fit into his world until I do something special.”

“I should think that with proper training, you could learn to write good stories, Lawrence,” Raven said. “Perhaps you need to practice writing little stories first. If what you have to say is interesting enough, people will take notice.”

He gave a bitter laugh. “I wish that were true, but it isn’t.”

“Lawrence,” Raven insisted, “look at me. I’m a mixed breed. My sisters and my father were white. But my
mother was half Indian. I never fit in their world. I had to find my own. So will you.”

“Ah, forget about Lawrence. Not even my mother calls me that. I’m just Larry. That’s all I’ll ever be. And it isn’t just writing stories. It’s writing stories that people want to read. The only things they’d let me write were advertisements and notices. I figured that if I came out here and wrote about outlaws and gunfighters, I’d prove to everyone that I’m a real newspaperman. That probably sounds silly to you, Mr. Farrell. You’re the same kind of man my brothers are.”

“No,” Raven said softly, “that isn’t silly. Everybody wants to be respected. Please, come with us. Whatever we find, you’ll share. But promise me you’ll wait until we tell you that the story can be told.”

Tucker couldn’t believe Raven’s words. “You’re going to let a newspaperman tell the world about the treasure?”

“Once we find the treasure, there will be no keeping it secret anyway. We have to sell it to buy the land. If we allow Lawrence to release the news, he’ll do it properly and perhaps we can keep the location secret.”