Sacred Ground (5 page)

Her lids grew heavy and she succumbed to the exhaustion that overwhelmed her.

* * *

Brett leaned, cushioned his elbow on the straw and watched
Willow
sleep. He knew it invaded her privacy, and that she'd be madder than a bee in a jar if she knew, but he couldn't help himself.

He especially liked the pout of her full, soft lips. He longed to feel them touching his own, willingly, exploring, demanding. He yearned to feel the weight of her round, full breasts in the palm of his hands. He wanted to feel her long silky legs wrapped around his waist, encouraging, pulling him closer, deeper . . .

God! Why did she taunt him this way? Women were clamoring to be the next Mrs. Turner, and he daydreamed about making wild, passionate love with Willow Howling Moon. What possessed him to want an Indian?

And whatever possessed him to tell her the truth about his mother being raped? Damn! He'd never told anyone. After stewing a moment, he decided to be honest. Brett knew damn well he told her so he could point out what bastards her People were. She needed to know he wanted nothing to do with being a stinking Indian. But instead of evoking anger and hostility, she'd showed him compassion and understanding. That he hadn't expected from her.

He couldn't help liking her. He never thought he'd ever say that about
Willow
. Strange as it seemed, he even looked forward to their discussions. He loved how her dark brown eyes flashed sparks of amber when she got angry. He liked how her dimples deepened when she smiled. Her laugh sounded like the singing of a joyous meadowlark.

He wanted to go skinny-dipping with her in the mountain pond. He wanted to take her floating on his rubber raft down the Missouri Breaks. He wanted to share his find of an underground sod house. Why he had a need to do all these things, he didn't know.

Once he got past her invisible shield, he felt certain he'd find the most passionate, heart-warming woman he'd ever met.

He rested his head back on the straw, alongside
Willow
. The warmth of her body touched his. He thought about her willingness, no eagerness, to help deliver the calves. She'd been great.

Merely hours ago he'd have killed every buffalo in sight. Now, he'd just saved a buffalo cow and her two calves. Why did he feel so good about it? It'd been years since he had the urge to return to vet work. The sense of satisfaction and power he felt when helping a hurt animal made his heart pound and life seem exciting . . . like Willow Howling Moon.

She nestled against him, and Brett guided her head into the crook of his arm. Content, he closed his eyes and drew in the scent of her, savoring it, yet unsure what it was. He'd smelled it before. It was the grass the old man burned over Thunder while she labored. He'd have laughed in disbelief had someone earlier today told him he'd have called a wild buffalo cow by name.

* * *

Brett woke to clanging cymbals and deep beating drums. He sat erect, glancing around uneasily. The mother buffalo nursed her calves, one white, and one black. The hollow sound of wind whirled around him, and then became a hazy mist.

He rose, confused and leery. The drumming increased, beating hard and steady. His heart pounded as though anxious to catch up to the beating drums. He felt light and free. Through the mist a figure on a horseback rode toward him. As horse and rider loomed closer, he recognized Whirlwind, then
Willow
.

Her hair flowed behind her, wild and free. She wore a white leather tunic and matching knee-length moccasins, heavily beaded with designs of the moon and a howling wolf. A fluffy white feather tied to one side of her head moved with the wind,
its
soft down enticing his attention.

She brought her horse to a slow stop and he found himself rushing to her, arms lifted, to help her down. She swung her right leg over the head of Whirlwind. Brett captured her around the waist and she slowly slid down the front of him.

Her smile warmed his heart. Her womanly softness pressed against him, and he found it hard to breathe. She clung to him, bringing her face close, staring into his eyes, baring her soul. The drumming continued, lively, happy, and demanding. Floating figures of young Indian women and warriors smiled, kissed, and touched while dancing around them.

Like the others,
Willow
danced seductively. He slid his palms over her shoulders. The drumming increased, urging him on. With a sense of immediacy, he swayed rhythmically, dancing circles around her. He halted in front of her to steal a kiss. What he expected to be quick and teasing became lingering and soul-searching.

The deep, bounding beats came faster. He performed several steps to show her he, too, could dance as well as the other warriors, and then smiled at her.

He pulled her against his aroused, heated body. The drums pounded, echoing back in a deafening fury, matching the rhythm of his heart and gradually slowed.

The pungent scent of
sweetgrass
filled the air. It filtered into his hair, her hair, whirling around him like a drug. He held her against him, and they swayed with the rhythm. Her hip intimately touched his hip. Her stomach brushed across his. Her breasts pressed into his chest. The haunting, soft cry of a howling wolf replaced the drums. The dancers had vanished.

On a bed of soft white wolf skins lay
Willow
, naked and more beautiful than he ever imagined. She raised her arms to welcome him to her. Breathless, he stripped off his boots, socks, and
Levis
. God, he wanted her.

The sad song of the wolf gave him pause. A startled scream filled his senses, and he jumped.

Chapter Three

What the hell do you think you're doing?" a shrill voice broke through his trance-like state.

Brett blinked away the drowsiness that claimed him and looked into the startled, dark eyes of Willow Howling Moon. She backed away from him, clutching her towel. He glanced down at his swollen erection and dropped his hands to cover himself. He sank to the straw and snatched his jeans, yanking them on with a vengeance. "I don't know how to explain this. I was dreaming. I'm embarrassed―"

"You're embarrassed! What were you planning? After what happened to your mother, I wouldn't have guessed you the rape type."

"I'm not. God, Willow, I can't explain this. I don't know how it happened. I was dreaming―"

"You expect me to accept such a shallow story? You want me to believe you were acting out a dream? Brett Turner, I don't believe a single word you say."

"But,
Willow
, it's true. I mean . . . I think it's what happened. I . . ."

Willow
pressed further into the straw. "I think you'd better get your clothes on, find your son, and get the hell off my ranch." She drew in an uneven breath. "And don't ever come near me again."

"You don't understand." Brett had as much trouble trying to explain it as he did getting his overly aroused body zipped safely away.

"There doesn't seem to be anything to explain. It's obvious to me what was up!"

He could tell she not only distrusted his explanation, she also feared his actions. Damn, how could that dream have been so real? "Wait, don't you smell it?" he asked, sniffing the air. "The
sweetgrass
. . . you smell it, don't you?" She'd have to believe him now.

"What about it? Grandfather must have been in here during the night. He might have felt a need to purify the animals."

She explained it away so quickly, too quickly, he thought. "But it wasn't him. I tell you, it was real.”

"What was real, Brett? You're talking crazy or trying to confuse me. Either way, it's not working. Your behavior is inexcusable."

"There were Indians dancing to drums. They were dancing a mating dance. I know it sounds crazy. I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen it. Don't look at me that way. I know what I saw."

"What else did you see?" she asked, her tone almost a whisper.

"The drums got faster and faster. A woman rode toward me on a horse . . . right through a thick fog or mist. She came to me like―"

"A lover?"
Willow
asked.

"Yes, how'd you know?" he glanced at her, pausing to pull on his sock.

"There’s a legend of the howling moon, the one I'm named after. It's a beautiful story of two lovers separated by the death of a son . . ."
Willow
paused, her mind reeling ahead. "It's a warning of death," she whispered.

"No. I don't think so," he answered, uncertain why he even felt compelled to get caught up in this craziness. "The dream had nothing to do with death. The woman offered herself to me, and I wanted her. That's all there's to it." He felt embarrassed and angry to be in this position.

"Did you see Sean or Lance in the dream?"

"No. I told you everything. It's the crazy dream of a tired man and nothing more. It seemed real and I acted without realizing what I was doing. Hell only knows why I'd dream about Indians. I apologize." He stormed out, more from embarrassment than anger. Hell, he wouldn't have believed a story like that, even if it were true.

He headed straight for the house, praying she wouldn't follow. He knocked, waited, and then knocked again. Impatient, he rushed to his new Dodge Ram. Sean would know to come home. He slid onto the leather seat and snapped the seat belt. He closed his eyes and released a long exasperated breath. He'd left his vet bag in the barn. He considered leaving it, but utensils needed cleaning and supplies needed replenishing.

Grudgingly, he shuffled toward the building. It took every ounce of his willpower to open the door and step inside.
Willow
's musical chanting held him spell-bound. She shook soft, rattle-like gourds in each hand, creating a beat with each movement. She danced around and between the buffalo, sweeping her long hair over them like a puff of smoke.

She spoke in the tongue of her ancestors. Several of the words were the same as those he'd heard in his dream. The shock of it hit him full force. He hated Indian mumbo-jumbo. He hated anything to do with those heathens. He hated Indians, drunks in particular.

"Someday you must come to terms with the fact you have Indian blood,"
Willow
said, tossing her hair behind her shoulders.

He paused, startled by her comment. "What?" he asked under his breath. He looked into
Willow
's large, doe-like eyes.

"I believe you heard me. I understand your resistance. I even sympathize with your rejection of your heritage―"

"Get one thing straight. I will never acknowledge the part of me that was forced. It’s my dark side, and I can't allow it to surface. Don't ask me to, because it isn't going to happen," he said with forced emphasis and grabbed his bag.

"Never is a long time, Brett. I think you'd feel better if you faced all of you. Is it so bad to have Indian blood?"

"Yes!" He stomped toward the door. "You have no idea what you're asking," he said under his breath.

"Maybe you should find out who your father is. It wouldn't be easy, but anything is possible."

Brett turned on his heel. "Not in this lifetime! I don't want to know the bastard. You hear me? He could have stepped forward, they all could have. All those years, not one wanted to know if I was their son. A simple blood test would have been all the proof needed. Hell, they might have been too drunk to even remember attacking my mother. All I know is, he's been a nightmare my whole life. He destroyed me before I was even born."

"You're wrong." Her voice came smooth, but insistent. "You've allowed this to eat at you. You've allowed it to break down your self-esteem. You've allowed it to become your crutch in life. Stop feeling sorry for yourself, spoiled rich boy. Face the demon like a man."

Brett stared at her, unable to believe what she'd just said to him. The nerve . . . the God damned nerve! He seethed with anger and humiliation. He wanted to shake her until her teeth chattered, but he remained still. She didn't shrink under his scalding glare of barely controlled anger.