Dark Warrior: To Tame a Wild Hawk (Dark Cloth) (2 page)

Women’s trunks strewn all over the ground.

The warrior dismounted and walked amongst the carnage. He reached down to pick up a pan, looking around. It saddened his heart. It was a sight he had witnessed many times.

Spotting a thatch of dark hair amongst the corn-silk color of the prairie grass, he walked silently toward it. As he got closer, he could make out the figure of what looked to be a young boy. He picked up the slight sound of movement and sat down against a broken wagon wheel, his back to the child. He plucked a blade of grass and rolled it back and forth between his thumb and finger. “Only a white man would do such a thing as this to his own people.” He waited a second, and when the boy didn’t respond, he added, “A civilized man would never do such a thing. There is no honor in the doing.”

Without looking, he sensed the child’s fear and felt the boy shrink from him. “You can come out now. They are gone.” Again, he waited a moment. “No one here will hurt you. Besides,” he paused and glanced back, “that is a mountain cat bed you lay in. She might be upset when she returns and finds you in her bed.”

The child sat up. He was pleased to see the child was indeed a boy. The boy looked around for the cat—then back at him. The boy’s green-gold eyes locked with his, the boy clenching his jaw, perhaps to keep from betraying his fear. He would make a good son.

“Are your people, your parents, here?” He waved his arm to indicate the dead.

The boy shook his head.

He studied the boy, puzzled. “I am Standing Bear, son of Swift Knife.” He placed his hand on his chest. He waited. “Where are your parents?”

“Dead.”

He heard the hesitation in the boy’s answer. It was a lie. What was the boy hiding?

A young hawk soared above them. Swooping down, it landed on a log near the boy. For several long seconds, the hawk’s cold, proud eyes riveted to the child’s green-gold ones. Then, in the same mysterious way the hawk had appeared, it flew off. A good sign. He would call the boy Hawk. But, for now, he’d wait for the boy to accept the future set before him.

“You can come with me. You will be safe.” He walked to his pony and waited.

He watched as the boy’s golden gaze darted over the melee and lit on the Cheyenne scout. The child’s eyes filled with pain. The scout was the boy’s friend. Perhaps the scout had taught him about the Tsistsistas. Perhaps he had taught him the civilized people were different from the whites. “I will not harm you. The Cheyenne will not harm you. You will be safe.” Something in him yearned to help the boy.

The boy’s golden gaze shot up and met his, and the child again set his jaw. Many things crossed through his eyes, and they darkened to a deep shade of green as he looked back at his murdered friends—fear, panic, pain, and something else.

Hate.

The boy hated the white eyes. He was too young to recognize the emotion for what it was. But someday he would. Standing Bear looked out over the dead, littering the ground. He knew hate.

The boy would not rest until they no longer cried out to him in his sleep.

Chapter One

Cheyenne, Wyoming—Late Summer of 1871

D
ancing rays of heat coiled up from the dirt-packed street beneath the hot Wyoming sun. A cowboy sat on the wooden walk with his chair tipped back against one shaded wall, his feet propped against a post, and his Stetson pulled down low over his face.

The ladies stayed inside the shielding walls of the buildings lining the streets of Cheyenne. In summer, the time-weathered, boarded walls of the buildings provided shade. In winter, the walls provided shelter from the endless winds that blew the snow around, but did little to hold in the heat or keep out the cold. In the cold, the ladies huddled around the large pot-belly stove or the stone fireplace, drinking tea. But today, they mainly sat in the small diner, sipping lemonade and gossiping about their men—and the latest fashions.

The town boasted several saloons, where cowboys got drunk and stumbled down the still-untamed streets. Twice a year, at the spring and fall roundups, they went down these streets, shooting and hollering, waving their pokes of money, proud and happy to have survived another year. But today the town sat quiet, baking in the endless rays of the sun. An occasional frisky breeze, which should have felt good, only kicked up dust when it did a little dance, spinning sand in small circles that would have been mesmerizing if it weren’t for the grit they left behind in the teeth.

Beside Cord’s Mercantile, the town’s main source of goods, sat one of the town’s hotels. The mercantile, a single-story building, held canned goods, pots and pans, slabs of bacon, and clothes. The latter you could buy already made up. Even so, there were also a few bolts of fabric, since a woman usually sewed her family’s clothes herself. The hotel was a tall, two-story building, where the clerk, his glasses sitting nearly on the end of his nose, was occasionally seen sweeping the endless dust that coated the walk.

Upstairs, in one of the hotel’s well-kept rooms, Amanda Kane sat with her feet soaking in the coolest water she could find in this—what did they call it?—oh yeah: God-forsaken land.

She’d propped her head on her arms over a small table. She had always hated being inside, but there was no help for it in this sweltering heat.

Three layers of pristine petticoats were pulled high up on her thighs.

She hated them, too.

She sucked in another breath of the hot, dry air. Her dark curls cascaded down around her face and over her arms. Several damp tendrils clung to her forehead and neck. A healing crystal dropped forward from around her neck, sending tiny prisms of light dancing across the room.

She pulled the petticoats higher still, sending the tiny bells sewn into her skirts singing. These wretched skirts, she thought, shoving irritably at her long, dark locks in a desperate attempt to escape the heat they held around her face. The bells sang with each movement, so tiny, the sound nearly imperceptible. Despite her agitation, she never failed to calm with their music.

Her gaze traveled the length of a crack in the floorboards. Again and again she followed the crack. In the heat, the boards had turned hard. Tough. Tough, like the life one led out here in the untamed west. Was that why her father had betrayed her? He hadn’t believed she could run the ranch alone. Through his death—her papa had won.

She felt the stage roll into town before she heard its wheels crunching across the ground beneath. She closed her eyes, a single tear breaking free and dropping to the water below.

Outside, the driver pulled the team to a halt—the harnesses jangling as the driver yelled, “Whoa! Easy now.
That’s it.”
The great beasts started shaking their sweaty coats, sending the metal jangling once again.

Mandy barely heard the hesitant knock at the door. She knew her childhood friend had come to warn her of McCandle’s return. “Come in,” she managed through her dry throat. She couldn’t have said another word. She couldn’t swallow past the lump that had formed there. She lifted her head and met her best friend’s gaze.

She didn’t want to see pity there.

Meagan’s crystal-blue eyes held the pain that, Mandy was sure, mirrored her own, but bore no trace of pity. “He’s standing outside.”

Mandy thought of the sapling trees, their leaves yielding against destruction. They’d sway with a gentle breeze—and bend to a great wind. Her gaze dropped, once again, to the floorboards. She could be tough, like these dried boards. Tough like the west. Or—she could bend like saplings. Strong. Strong—even in the meanest wind.

She followed the tough, worn boards to the window, leaving a trail of wet footprints in her wake. He stood there, beside a man dressed in a black tailored jacket, looking up; his cold green eyes searching for her, his hand on his Stetson as he met her gaze. His unusual green eyes had shown warmth when her father was alive, but she knew him well and was not deceived. As a child he’d been mean. He’d never lost that growing up, And now, as a man, he had a hole in his soul where his heart should have been.

Be careful, child,
the
Grandmothers
warned.
You are in danger.

The voice of the
Grandmothers
sounded clearly to her. They had always spoken to her this way, from beyond the veil. This had been the way of it since she had spent four years with the Lakota tribe. They had called her the
gift of spirit
and taught her their ancient ways. They had said her path was destined, and she was given to their brother tribe, the Cheyenne, to be returned to her people. They had said,
one day your visions would help their people to cross into an unknown land to escape the white eyes, saving thousands of their men, women and children.

They warned her now, and this danger she already knew very well. What she did not know, what she could not see—was how to stop it.

She held the steady gaze of the man standing outside, and she knew her only hope lay in breaking free.

Therein was the danger. Breaking free would probably mean her life.

You hold the shields, child. They will keep you safe.
Listen
and you will know.

Know? Know what? How to fight the most powerful man in Wyoming territory? How
could
she fight him? She knew what her father could never have known—what he could never have seen. She knew that behind the kind, gentle eyes he’d shown her father, lay a man who would do anything, go to any length, to get what he wanted—and he wanted her father’s ranch. For it lay between him and the railroad he was bringing to town.

Her father had only seen a powerful man. “Why would he need this small ranch?” her father had argued. “He already owns half the land from here to Colorado!”

Because of the railroad, papa. It’s the railroad he wants—and you’re in the way.

This same man now stalked through the doors below, shaking her out of her thoughts. She glanced once more towards the stranger who now watched him go, and then looked—directly at her.

She backed into the shadows of her room, not taking her eyes off him. Goosebumps swept up her back, causing the little hairs to stand on end.

The man appeared to have a face—yet, no face—rather his face appeared to be a mask.

She wanted another look, but he turned away, his face now hidden in the shadows beneath his dark hat.

The front door slammed, reminding her of
who was heading her way
, and she jumped
.
She scrambled for her shoes, listening as he stormed his way up the stairs. Taking a deep, cleansing breath, she tied the laces of one shoe. His heavy tread led to her door, where he violently banged until the hinges threatened to tear from their foundation. She tied the laces of her other shoe and stood. But he wasn’t waiting. He stormed into her room, sending the door crashing against the wall.

Mandy swallowed her frustration. “Well, hello, McCandle, nice of you to
wait
to be invited in.” She used a calm tone she knew would frustrate him. She had to keep him off-kilter, off-balance. It was the only way.

He strode across the room in purposeful steps, stopping directly in front of her, his pale green eyes cold. His gaze traveled the length of her, leaving the promise of retribution in their wake. “I was just at your ranch.”

He’d had the stage stop by her ranch. Why didn’t that surprise her? He had always wielded his power in such a way. She raised a brow at him. “Yes?”

“Your men met me at the gate with shotguns,” he sneered. “Do you really think you can stop
me
?” He grabbed her chin. She knew there would be small fingermarks from the force of his grip.

She clenched her teeth. “Let go of me, McCandle.”

He lowered his head just above hers. She didn’t look away but held his gaze.

“Where are the old bats?”

“Bats?” She raised a brow. “You mean my teachers?”

He snarled at that, and she held back a smile. She really shouldn’t irritate him this way, but she couldn’t help herself.

“Teachers
.
You mean
witches
.” He raised his brow, his eyes narrowing. “You will not see them again,” he said, his voice low and mean.

Mandy couldn’t believe his gall. He’d always talked to her this way, as though he had a right to, as though he owned her. It threatened her, how certain he was, how sure of her surrender.

She fought to keep her center, to stay calm. The room slanted and transformed. Mandy no longer saw McCandle, but the vision before her.

Blinding rays seared a scorching path of hot dust. A pony picked his way amongst the stones, leaving little of his trail in his wake. With each unshod step, the dust rose and settled, nearly obscuring his path. Mandy knew the pony remained unshod because no
sound of steel hitting stone rang out.

An unshod pony and a man . . . .

The room came sharply back into focus. She met the disconcerted, pale green eyes of McCandle, and knew . . . .

A man.

A man, clad in the buckskins of the Lakota—who rode an unshod pony . . . . “I will not need your help, McCandle.”

McCandle’s gaze narrowed on her. “What the hell! Where were you just now?” He reached behind her head. Grabbing a handful of her locks, he twisted until he held her head painfully angled back, his eyes mere inches from her own. “Answer me, damn you.”

She met his eyes boldly. “The
Grandmothers
have shown me the way. You seek retribution—and retribution there shall be.” She sensed the stillness from her center. Let its calm radiate upward, and envelope her. “But,” she enunciated, “it will
not be yours
.”

He let go of her as if stung, not breaking contact with her gaze even as he backed his way out of the room. She looked away, and he stood for a moment just beyond the door; close to escape, yet something stopped him. She hoped he would not realize what it was that allowed him to regain his senses so easily. His lips turned up in a sneer.
“
Witch.
”

She looked at him, but did nothing more this time. Contact with him had left her weak. It was all she could do not to let it show. He held power, and his power would have to be squashed before he realized what it was he held. It was not the power of the railroad or his money that made him dangerous. With some patience, perhaps he would never know where his
true
power lay.

To her relief, he stormed back down the hallway, slamming out of the building. She sank to the bed.

***

When she opened her eyes again it was dark. Deep shadows lay around her. The promise of something unknown hung suspended in time, like a prism out of her reach.

She sensed his presence in the room, this buckskin-clad man wearing the designs of the Lakota, and closed her eyes. Quieting her thoughts, she went still, so she would know where he crouched. After a moment of trying, she gave up. He would not reveal himself unless it was what
he wanted.

“You came,” she whispered.

“Did you think I would do anything else?”

“You’re not Lakota, but white eyes. Yet you carry the design of the Lakota.”

“They’re my people,” his voice was quiet.

He had moved closer to the bed, and she had not heard or sensed his movement. He would make a dangerous enemy. But he would not be
her
enemy. They carried a destiny of a different sort, the two of them.

She bit her lip, trying to stop the trembling. “I have seen you for many years in my visions, in my dreams, but I have not known what they meant.”

“Do you,” he paused, “not know? Did you not ask the
Grandmothers
?”

She went still. “No.”

“Why not?” He whispered this close to her ear.

She could feel his breath on her hair. She could smell the scent of him. It was intoxicating.

She sucked in a breath at her thoughts.

She moved, sensing more than feeling a deep loss—a longing that sat at the edges of her life, just outside the reach of her memories. She missed him, missed him so much it tore through her heart and raged through her soul, leaving her in tatters. “I—I don’t know.” She was unaware of what it was she’d answered. She couldn’t even remember the question.