River Song (5 page)

Cole's golden head inched towards hers. With sudden certainty, Sunflower knew he meant to kiss her. Dear God, why wouldn't her feet move? And why was she so intrigued by the thought of his inviting mouth brushing against hers?

He was a whisker away from her trembling lips when, mercifully, an image of her mother's battered body gave her the courage to jerk away.

Sunny managed to snap off a quick, "Good night. Thanks for the bed," then spun around and lowered
herself
to the blanket. Rolling on her side, Sunny offered her back to the rancher, and waited for the sounds of his boots fading as he crossed the camp to his own bed.

But it didn't happen. She could feel his hot green eyes boring into her back. Did he mean to attack her? Had his kindness been a trap, a way to catch her off guard? It would be impossible for her to reach her knife with him standing behind her. She was nearly defenseless. Sunny lay still, coiled like a cougar, ready to spring. This rancher may try to kill her, but he would not have an easy time of it.

Just when she thought her muscles would burst from tension, she heard his low sigh, retreating footsteps, and a heavy groan as he stretched out on Sage's blanket for the night. Then she waited. Every sense on alert, Sunny breathed deep. The fresh desert air mingled with the comforting aroma of mesquite wood smoldering in the dying fire and the biting odor of a nearby creosote bush. She listened to the plaintive call of the quail, to the mournful song of a lone coyote, and finally to the light snoring of her prey.

Normally a light sleeper, Cole had dropped into a deep slumber almost as soon as his head touched the blanket. His dreams swirled around him like strands of long ebony hair, the shadows punctured only by an occasional flash of twinkling blue eyes. For a long time, he was unaware that the woman crept around him, preparing for her attack.

When his excellent instincts finally warned him something was amiss, Cole automatically reached for the Colt .44 lying near his head.

The holster was empty.

Fully awake now, some sixth sense telling him to move, and move fast, he rolled over on his side.

But it was too late. He felt the fire of the knife as its tip burned into his flesh.

 
CHAPTER
TWO

A vivid nightmare woke him with a start.

Sean Callahan jerked to a sitting position and wiped the sweat from his brow. He shook his head as if to clear the terrible dream from his mind, but the images returned, clearer and more prophetic than before.

He gasped for a breath of fresh air, but the atmosphere in the steamboat's hold was suffocating. Sean turned to the bulky figure lying beside him on the wooden planks and tapped the man's burly shoulder.

"Pop," he whispered. "Come on, wake up."

Patrick Callahan grumbled and
groaned,
his mind hazy from too much mescal the night before.

"Wake up,
Pop
. I have to talk to you," Sean pleaded.

With great effort, Patrick rolled over on his back and lifted one eyelid just enough to make out his son's form in the darkness. "
Ohhh
," he groaned,
" 'tis
the breath of a Gila monster I find in me mouth this morning."

"I'll not be arguing that." Grimacing, Sean got to his feet. "Come up on deck with me for some air."

He helped his swaying father off the floor and gave him a few minutes to get his bearings. Then the pair crept by the other passengers who couldn't afford private staterooms, and past the assortment of chickens, wagons, cordwood, and various animals entombed in the hold. After climbing out the hatch, Sean led his father to the rear of the stern-wheeler and leaned against the rail.

"
'Tis
still nightfall, son," Patrick barked. "Why are ye waking me at this ungodly hour?"

"It's closer to dawn than you think,
Pop
. I brought you out here to tell you to explain . . ." But he couldn't finish the sentence, knew if he didn't choose his words correctly, his father would dismiss the dream as so much blarney and then amble off to the hold.

"I'm a
listenin
', son. Get on with it."

Sean stared down at the churning wheel, comparing the big paddle's struggle against the upstream current to Patrick Callahan's stubborn mind, and let out a long breath.

Finally, he looked over to his father and said, "I had a vision."

Patrick cocked a bushy brow and
squinted
an ice-blue eye in his son's direction. "This is why you shortened me rest and robbed me brain o' the time needed to ease the throbbing?"

"Sorry, Pop, but it was so clear, so real, I had to tell you now." He lowered his head and voice before adding, "We have to go back home."

"Turn back? Blarney," Patrick bellowed. "And
dooble
blarney," he tossed in as he rapped his fist against the wood railing.

Sean had expected that reaction, and in spite of the terrifying vision, he had to grin. Placing a gentle hand on his father's shoulder, the young man explained the mayhem and horrors the dream had shown him. By the time he finished his
story,
the sun had crept over the foothills along the Colorado River and splintered the dark night with fingers of gold.

Staring down into the turbulent waters, Patrick shook his head in disbelief. It couldn't be true. Or could it? Had Sean inherited this prized gift from Moonstar's forbearers? Although Patrick understood many of his wife's beliefs and customs, accepted them as he accepted her, he'd always been uncomfortable with her search for spiritual power— and the fact that she looked for it in their children. The acquisition of this power had always been far more important to Moonstar than new dresses, fancy buggies, or her husband's endless search for gold.

Patrick shuddered as he continued to ponder Sean's words. The only thing he knew for certain about attaining these visions was that they only occurred during sleep. The Quechan could not induce a vision through drugs, fasting, torture, or ritual as some tribes prescribed. This power always took form through a dream. The nightmare could very well be true.

Regarding his son, the troubled Irishman spoke in hushed tones. "Ye haven't been nipping on
yer
mum's poteen, have ye?"

Shaking his dark head, Sean said, "No, Pop. I wish I could blame it on mescal, but I can't. It just happened."

With a short nod, Patrick studied the young man's expression. Whether this vision was real or just a bad nightmare, one thing was clear. Sean
believed
it was real. Could Patrick afford
not
to?

With Sean, anything was possible. Of the three Callahan children, this one had always been the one most at odds with his mixed heritage. Even his physical characteristics couldn't seem to decide if he was Irish or Indian. Sean's hair, cut short at the neck, appeared as black as Sunny's on first glance. But in the sunlight or upon closer inspection, amber strands glistened with Irish pride.

And those eyes, Patrick thought with a sigh, Sean's eyes told the real story. Clear and shining one moment, they battled from within, turning a murky hazel color when he was angered, to a surprising deep river-blue when pleased.

Even his body showed a distinct division. At six feet, the young man was four inches taller than Patrick, yet of average height for a Quechan male. But in place of the lean, slender silhouette of a
Yuman
Indian, he'd inherited his father's muscular arms, powerful shoulders, and thick chest.

Patrick returned his gaze to the river, to the frothy wake kicked up by the rotating wheel. He had no choice. If there was any chance at all that the lad's dream had indeed been a vision, he would have to put off his own dream of finding gold.
Again.

"So ye really
b'lieve
yer
mum and Sunny and Mike are in danger?" Patrick said quietly.

"Yes, I do," Sean replied, but he didn't mention the vision had also told him one or two of them were already beyond danger.

Patrick moved his gaze to the southeast and settled his sky-blue eyes on the strange configuration known as Castle Dome. This giant rock formation, hundreds of feet square and shaped like a great castle, could be seen for many miles in several directions. To Patrick, its base represented a one-day journey to his home.

"How long a ride do ye think it to be from Ehrenberg to Castle Dome, lad?"

With a shrug, Sean guessed, "Around two days or so."

"Then we won't be waitin' around for another steamboat. We're due to dock in Ehrenberg this morning. The minute they lower the
stageplank
, we'll get on the mules and head home."

With an anxious glance to the south of Castle Dome, Patrick quietly added, "
Faith,
and I hope we'll not be too late."

But they were. Seven days late.

"Oh, me darlin', me second son," Patrick cried as he buried his
greying
head in his palms. Resting his trembling elbows on the dining table as an anguished sob nearly tore him in half, he glanced around his once-happy home.

Patrick could almost hear Moonstar's shy giggles, Mike's deep voice as he teased
her,
and Sunny with her unmerciful good humor.
Sunny,
he suddenly thought, worry tempering his grief. Where was his mischievous little Leprechaun? How had she managed this terrible ordeal alone?

When he and Sean had ridden into the farmyard an hour ago, the first thing Patrick spotted was the remnants of the funeral pyre. Obviously, Sunny had dug a small pit, dragged Mike's rope and wood bed out to the yard, and positioned it above the hole. Then she'd surrounded the bed with the family's entire store of firewood, and arranged the bodies of her loved ones and their belongings above their final resting place. After the fire burned out and the ashes had fallen into the pit, Sunny had covered the grave with earth and ridden off.

Moonstar would have burned the house as well. He supposed he should be grateful Sunny was either unaware of that custom or hadn't been able to destroy her desecrated home. All Patrick had left of the woman he'd loved so long and so well was a few beads and shells from her marriage necklace. Had it been torn from her throat during the attack? In shock, he fingered a single blue seashell, the center and most precious part of the necklace.

"Oh, Pop," Sean moaned after he read Sunny's note again. "What are we going to do?"

But the older man continued to stare at the floor, his heart and spirit broken.

Resting a comforting hand on his father's trembling shoulder, Sean considered the information in Sunny's letter. Devoid of detail, the note informed them only that Moonstar and Mike had been murdered by two white men riding shod horses towards the direction of Yuma. Sunny was in pursuit and would send a wire once the killers were identified.
And then what?
Had she seen the men commit their
deed,
could she bear witness against them in a court of law?

He thought of his younger sister—innocent, beautiful, and alone in this untamed land. He thought of the outlaws— ducking, hiding,
ambushing
many an unwary traveler in their attempts to survive unpunished. Then he thought of the few bands of renegade Indians, especially of Geronimo's last escape to freedom and the havoc he was causing settlers and army alike. Sean's heart grew cold.

"Pop," he said, fighting the tremors in his voice. "Our grieving must come later.
Sunny's in danger."

With a heavy sob, Patrick took a great lungful of air and pointed to the corner of the cabin. "A cup of
yer
mum's poteen, son."