Raven and the Cowboy: A Loveswept Historical Romance (3 page)

Now the horse slowed her steps, slinging her head as if she were listening to some unseen voice. Raven, too, sensed something she couldn’t identify. They rounded a boulder, and the path she followed went dark as it intersected with another. Her horse stopped, waiting for direction. A shaft of moonlight suddenly found an opening in the overhanging ridge above her, casting a circle of pale silver around her that increased Raven’s unease. “Which way, Grandfather?”

But there was no answer. Never had she been so tired. Her food supply had been exhausted since she’d left the main trail the day before, and other than a few berries, she’d had nothing to eat since then. She could have foraged
the countryside as she’d been taught by her mother’s family. But she felt driven and she hadn’t taken the time. The area where she rode had become more and more rocky, almost as if a playful child had picked up a handful of assorted boulders and dropped them in a heap. The trail was steep and barren, with little foliage and no wildlife, except for the wave of black birds that appeared periodically overhead.

Birds. For the past two weeks, she’d had recurring dreams about large black birds and a rangy, untamed mountain lion of a man with hair the color of the sun. Then the man had gradually changed into a sleek, tawny cougar whose power was as great as the control with which he contained it.

Always before, Mother Earth had protected and provided for Raven when she was alone. This time she seemed strangely distant, almost as if she were punishing the child of her loins.

From the time she’d left the stagecoach, Raven had moved south as Flying Cloud had directed, following some inborn instinct. Now she was confused.

“Oh, Grandfather,” she whispered, “show me the way to the guardian.”

You will know the way, my child. The secret is hidden in your heart, the path in your mind. The guardian is one of us. Soon it will be clear
.

“You choose, Onawa.” Raven allowed the horse free rein. For a moment the small mare hesitated. Then, as if she’d been nudged, she turned to her left, taking the trail that continued upward.

Raven felt as if she were being watched over, but she was receiving conflicting images of her protectors. She had to be careful. She’d walk for a while, restraining the brave Onawa, who seemed suddenly eager to move ahead.

Searching inward, Raven reached out to the spirit
world. Of late she was becoming more proficient at closing out the real world and taking herself to a place of communion with the spirits. Her sisters wouldn’t have understood how she could feel the presence of those who’d gone before, of the mountain, the moon, even the wind. But she was gaining the ability to make herself silent and listen.

There was a dangerous stillness in the night, a dark, powerful force that lingered in the wind. Above, the stars hung like teardrops in the black sky, so close that she could almost reach up and wipe them away. It was only then that she felt the dampness of her own tears on her cheeks. For a moment she wanted to turn back, call out to Sabrina, tell her that she needed to be the little sister again. But that life was over and gone. Every step took her farther away.

The savage call of a mountain lion echoed down the canyon, bouncing off the boulders and raking her nerve endings. Then came the answer, a response just as intense, but less aggressive. He was calling to his mate and she was answering in kind.

In the silence, she could hear the gentle slap of water against the rocks below. The fresh wind added its whisper to the scuff of the horse’s hooves and the animals’ cries, all merging in a rhapsody of lonely sound.

Then a sense of purpose stole over her, a sense of direction, an eagerness that quickened her pulse. She was being drawn by something in the rocks above her.

Something, or someone, waited.

Swift Hand stepped into the tepee, lowered the flap behind him, and took his place in the circle of men surrounding the fire. He accepted the pipe packed with tobacco, lit it, and took a deep, slow draw, releasing the smoke to waft upward across his scarred face.

“I have had a vision, a way to take back the land of our people—our trees, our streams, and the buffalo,” he said and passed the pipe.

Each member of the circle smoked and nodded his agreement.

“The Great Mother Earth will share her riches with us. She has provided a guide to show us the way.”

The pipe circled the fire once more, then a third time before Swift Hand tapped it against one of the rocks and spilled the tobacco onto the coals. The remaining shards turned into curls of fire and disappeared in smoke.

He looked at the man seated across from him. “We will follow the white medicine woman. She will lead us to great wealth. Are we agreed, Little Eagle?”

The young man with the eagle feather in his hair nodded. “We are agreed.”

Swift Hand knew that some of his followers were still skeptical, but they were determined not to be relocated to the Wind River Reservation with the elders. That land belonged to the Shoshone. The Arapaho would have their own land or they would die. No matter that Raven had been chosen, he knew in his heart that he was to take the Grandfather’s place.

Sounds Loud, one of the older warriors, voiced the question shared by them all. “But does she know the place?”

Swift Hand stood and stared into the coals. “Flying Cloud made the child of his blood a medicine woman. It is she who now speaks directly to the spirits, who shares their great wisdom. But Flying Cloud’s vision was tainted. It is wrong that a white woman knows our secrets. We will let her find the guardian of the sacred mountain, then we will claim what rightfully belongs to our people. The spirits will protect us.”

There was a long silence, then an uneasy chorus of assenting nods.

“So be it,” Swift Hand said. “We leave at first light to follow the path of the medicine woman who holds the secret of the Arapaho treasure.”

Raven walked through the darkness, her feet moving with certainty on the mountain trail. Onawa’s hooves moved beside her in tandem, almost as if the two separate travelers were one.

The trail was sheer rock, the surface hard. Low-lying clouds drifted like fog across the moon, filtering out more and more of the light. Now the wind picked up, lifting sand and leaves and flinging them against Raven’s bare arms and legs.

For the first time, she was afraid. How would she find
these men who would lead her? Flying Cloud had told her no name. He only knew that when his people had drifted to the north, the chosen ones had remained behind to be caretakers of the treasure.

“You will know him,” Flying Cloud had said. “The cougar will show you the way.”

Now a storm was coming. There would be rain soon. And the mountain where she walked would be an unforgiving place to find shelter. She quickened her step. Then, as if a warm, hard hand had been placed across the trail, Onawa stopped.

Raven felt the wind die. Nearby, the cry of a cougar echoed through the rocks. Not a cry of attack nor an announcement of his power, but a different song—enticing, alluring, melodious.

She again recalled her dream of such an animal and felt disoriented. The darkness around her seemed to swirl and change, circling her like a whirlwind of clouds. She heard the chanting begin. But there was a new sound, a gentle, rhythmic movement almost like the beat of drums, as if she were back in the dream that had haunted her for days. A raven and a cougar, lying together. The cougar was grumbling in a low voice as he watched the wary bird, yet he did not harm her.

But this time she was awake. This time she knew that she couldn’t move her arms and fly. Still, there was no ignoring the urge she had to move to the edge of the path. Cautiously she stepped forward, searching the darkness for the sight of the river.

The earth started to rumble, and suddenly the ground on which she stood gave way. This time she didn’t move her arms, and there were no feathers on her body. Instead she bounced off a rock and landed with a jolt on a ledge below the place where Onawa stamped her feet and neighed softly in alarm.

Raven lay where she’d landed, her head aching. The chanting grew louder and the swirl of fog returned to envelop her, closing around her in a fitful sleep that took away all thoughts and dreams.

Across the valley, masses of rain-filled clouds boiled over the mountains and descended to the ledge where she lay. In the stand of trees farther up the trail, Onawa sought refuge beside another horse, both animals nickering nervously as the clouds approached.

But the rain held off.

It was the sound of thunder that woke Tucker, followed by hard, pelting rain that stung his face. He sat up, disoriented for a moment as he tried to remember where he was.

Rain. He was outside. But where was Yank? A flash of lightning lit up the sky, revealing the side of the cliff and an opening in the rock before him. He pushed himself onto his elbows, his head vibrating as if he’d been hit by the lightning flashing in the distance.

Gingerly he began to feel his way toward the wall, his hand encountering something in the darkness—something that ought not to be there. An ankle. A slim ankle leading to a foot encased in a soft moccasin.

Tucker froze. He wasn’t alone. Wherever on the west side of hell he was, he had a woman with him. But why wasn’t she having a reaction to his touch? Another jagged streak of silver split the sky and illuminated her face—he could see that she was an Indian, wearing a buckskin dress.

He must have had more to drink than he’d thought. Maybe he was hallucinating. Or this was a dream. No, the leg he held was real. It was warm and soft and feminine. But something was wrong. No woman would sleep through a storm.

As the rain streamed down his face, Tucker turned to look behind him. All he could see was rain and—space.

Space? His stomach contorted and his knees quivered. He said a small prayer of thanks that it was dark. He didn’t want to know how high they were. They were on some kind of damned ledge and she was hurt or unconscious.

He blinked, trying desperately to close out the ringing inside his skull. Once a horse he’d tried to break had kicked him and left him like this. A couple of times, he’d tied on a good one, but nothing like this had happened to him then. Too much whiskey made a man weak, and Tucker Farrell never lost control.

The rain came down harder. The woman. If he didn’t get her out of this downpour, she could die. Taking her by the arm, he tugged her against him. With one hand behind him and the other arm around her waist, he inched away from the edge.

At last, with one final jerk, they were inside the cave, out of the elements. Tucker shivered from being wet. His bedroll was on Yank’s back, wherever Yank was. Tucker didn’t want to think that the horse had gone over the edge with him. Tucker always took care of his horse. Just like his namesakes, the big black was indestructible. They were a good match, a Southern Rebel and a horse named Yank. Both were survivors.

The cave was small and damp. The woman, still lying against his chest, was cold. He shook her gently, waiting for a reaction. But the only response he felt was his own as the top of his index finger found the space beneath her breast.

“Ma’am … Lady … I beg your pardon, but would you wake up.”

She moaned and turned slightly so that her face was against his chest. His hand, below her breast only moments
ago, was now holding it. Tucker froze, waiting for her to come to her senses and chastise him for his liberties.

But she didn’t wake. He had the absurd feeling that he’d been cut into two people. His head ached fiercely while the lower half of his body, very much alert, announced a raging male hunger. Until he understood what was happening, he’d force his thoughts and touch away from that need as he cradled her head and laid her down.

That’s when he found it, the wound, blood now dried across a deep cut in her scalp behind her ear. However she’d come to join him in this godforsaken place, she, too, had come accidentally. Nobody deliberately fell off a cliff. But what was he going to do? The rain hadn’t let up. It was too dark to see how to get back to the trail, and he wasn’t sure he was steady enough on his feet to get them there. His head ached like the devil.

If he could find some dry sticks or limbs, he could build a fire. Reluctantly he let go of her and waited for the next flash of lightning. Once he was reasonably certain that they weren’t sharing the cave with any animals, he began to explore, encountering the remains of a pack rat’s nest.

In the cantina he’d had tobacco and matches. He reached into his shirt pocket, hoping they were still there. They were, along with the half-breed’s gold nuggets and the watch fob. Now the bandits had another excuse for chasing him—the loot.

Shielding his meager makings of a fire from the wind, Tucker cupped his hands and struck the first match against a stone. It flared briefly, then died. There were only a few matches left. He couldn’t afford to waste another. By touch he found a tuft of dried moss and encircled it with his legs, planting his back to the cave opening.

Over the moss he crumbled tiny filings of dried leaves.
Closing his eyes, he prayed for a moment of calm as he lit another match. This time the moss blazed up, igniting the sticks. Within moments he had a tiny fire going. By its light he could see other animal nests and a stack of pine cones. Wild animals hadn’t been the only ones to use this small cave. He hoped the Indians in the area wouldn’t decide to collect rent because he was using their firestarters. He also hoped he wouldn’t pass out.