Sacred Ground

Dedication

 
I dedicate this book with love to those who have been so supportive of me all these years; my loving husband, Dennis, and my beautiful children, Jamie and Christopher. They always gave me the time to write, and never complained when I was clicking the keyboard or using my noisy printer at the wee late or early hours. Thank you so much. I love you for believing in me
.

Chapter One

"Keep your damn buffalo on your side of the fence," Brett Turner shouted.

Willow Howling Moon watched the most irritating man she knew stand in the stirrups and stare down the fence line, his glare unmistakably fueled by his anger. If she could get past his arrogance and narrow-mindedness, she might admit he bordered on handsome, with that curly wheat-colored hair edging his collar beneath a worn Stetson hat. Ranch work rendered him lean and muscular and in better shape than most men who worked out.

"My damn buffalo haven't crossed onto your property since 1890! As usual, your mouth is speaking before you've had a chance to think, if you think at all," she snapped, gritting her teeth.

"You think twenty head of my prized cows died from brucellosis without one or more of your ancient beasts giving it to them?" He wiped his brow on the back of his leather glove.

The gesture didn't fit the spoiled, rich-boy image she had of him. Uncomfortable under his steady gaze, she swung into the saddle. This cowboy had a way of unraveling her nerves. She raised her chin and stiffened her back.

"My buffalo have been tested for brucellosis," she informed him, looking directly into baby blue eyes flanked by too-long dark lashes. They gave him a look of innocence she knew didn't exist. "Your sickly cattle didn't die from any buffalo of mine." She gave his herd a glaring once-over. "Find someone else to blame for your misfortunes." She reined her mount away from the barbed fence, then into a slow trot away from Brett Turner.

"I catch one of those ugly horned beasts on my property, and I'll shoot it!" Brett shouted.

"You'd better think long and hard about firing a gun at my stock." She reined and turned in the saddle to face him. "You can't afford to spend any time in jail now, can you?" Noticing his clenched jaw, Willow Howling Moon paused. She caught a glimpse of a faraway gaze, an almost sad expression, before he quickly covered it with a look of defiance.

"Keep them on your side of the fence and you won't have to worry about it. I suggest you keep that wild kid of yours on your property, too!" A smug smile tipped the corners of his mouth.

She brought her horse to a complete turnaround and raced back toward him, moving as one with her mount. Her hair had escaped from the leather tie and flew behind her like the mane of her horse. She didn’t care how it looked at this point. She glared at him. If he had any smarts he'd read the fury and back down.

"Listen, Brett, I can take your accusations and insults with a grain. But, I won't tolerate them when it comes to my son. Lance hasn't been on your property―"

"Since 1890?
I've heard that one," Brett interrupted. "I thought I'd remind you, again. I don't like Sean associating with any―"

"Indians?" she spewed the word out with an inflection of disgust. "I know how you feel about Indians. Bear in mind, I don't have control over your son. He comes over to play, and I'm not about to make him feel unwanted. He's welcome; it's more than I can say for you."

Lifting the reins, she moved her mount closer. "Sean doesn't seem to notice Lance is Indian. Prejudice is a learned behavior. I'm sure, given time, you'll have him hating us too."

"I don't hate you,
Willow
, but I do hate drunken Indians as a whole. Always have their hands out, expecting to be paid for the injustices done their ancestors. Hell, we've all had life kick us in the ass. We all could be waiting for a handout. You have this great ranch, and you're still out there fighting for Native American rights.
Makes me sick."

Willow
took a deep breath. "You’re so narrow-
minded,
you wouldn't know the right and wrongs of it if I spent hours explaining. I don't expect you to change nor to understand. You have no idea what we face today."

"They face large handouts and do squat with the money."

"Shows how much you know," she snapped. "The average Indian lives in poverty. The reservations are nothing but a place to hide from the rest of society. Many are still waiting for forgotten promises."

"They should close those damn reservations and make the Indians mix with society. This Indian revival thing is crazy.
Learning the language of their ancestors . . . how stupid.
Who are they going to talk to?" Brett snickered.

"Somewhere in that ignorant persona you must feel a certain respect for other cultures. Native Americans were forced to forget their belief in
Napi
, the Great Spirit. They were forced to speak English and punished if they spoke their native language. They weren’t allowed to dress or practice the old ways. Their code of ethics would put today’s society to shame." She wondered why she bothered explaining anything to this man.

"Native Americans should be a thing of the past, like Vikings and knights in shining armor. Indians have to learn to blend with society. You're wasting your time trying to convince me otherwise. Nothing would, or could, change my mind." Brett adjusted his hat. "And I repeat; I don't want Sean playing at your place. Indians don't supervise their kids. They just let them run wild."

"That's a crock and you know it!"
Willow
exploded. "We don't raise our children any different from the typical American. Where do you get these warped ideas?" She shook her head in disgust. "Sean’s a nice kid. He and Lance love feeding the
ponies
and―"

"I don't want him at your place," Brett interrupted. "It's as simple as that! Nine-year-olds don't think about consequences. If Sean gets hurt, I'm holding you personally responsible."

"It's surprising he doesn't have that spoiled little rich kid syndrome like his father."

"You may have a cute little ass and a face that puts most women to shame, but once you open your mouth, a man forgets all the rest. I don't want Sean playing with Lance. That's all there is to say. Remember it!" He whirled his chestnut around and pushed the animal into a hard, full run away from her.

Willow
couldn't remember them ever talking without arguing. It always ended with one or the other running in the opposite direction.

Amidst her anger, his comment about her cute behind and a face that put most women to shame came to mind. Did he really think that? She refused to allow his semi-compliment to soften her anger . . . she told herself, even though it already had.

* * *

Damn, that woman got his blood pumping, and he’d pushed his horse harder than he intended. Brett brought the animal to a halt on top of the ridge and led him around to face the backside of his property.

Willow
rode across the plush green meadow,
then
crossed the trickling Dog Creek. As always, the sparkling water angered him. He gritted his teeth and drew in a deep breath. A lack of water had always been his major concern. Damn his great-grandfather. What could have possessed him to buy land without obtaining water rights? Plain stupid!

Endless times Brett wanted to put Willow Howling Moon Jenkins in her place. If she ever decided to reroute the water and bypass his property, he'd lose everything, plain and simple. The entire situation graveled him. Whenever he allowed himself to think about it, which wasn't often, his blood pressure skyrocketed. To be controlled by a woman, an Indian woman on top of
it,
wore on his pride.

Now, as he watched her, he couldn't help feel a stirring. When she rode that prized pinto, she was beauty in motion. He hadn't missed how her full breasts moved seductively beneath her beaded Indian shirt. She always wore her long shiny black hair pulled back at the nape of her neck, secured with a single beaded and feathered leather tie. When her hair worked loose and flowed around her, primitive and free, it excited him. Her shapely bottom bounced sexily in the saddle. She posed an impressive looking woman for an Indian.

He couldn't stand Willow Howling Moon Jenkins, yet something about her intrigued him, pulled him toward her. God, he hated what the Indians had become, yet she radiated a vitality that drew her to him like a magnet. Damn! He wouldn't allow himself to think about her.

Brett gently nudged the belly of his chestnut and headed for home. His anger had settled, not as quickly as it had erupted, but that was something he'd always worked hard to control.
Willow
pushed all the wrong buttons, making him forget to hold back. His comments had been cruel, and he wasn't proud of himself. Honest, but not proud. The hurt look in her eyes told him he wasn't being fair or considerate. Insensitive might be the right word.

If only he could believe she had nothing to do with his recent streak of bad luck.
If only . . .

* * *

"If only that man didn't get me so damn riled," Willow Howling Moon said under her breath. The sound of pounding horse's hooves drew her attention across the valley. She watched her son race toward her. He waved, and she returned the gesture. Lying low on Spirit Dancer's back for greater speed, he passed by her in a cloud of dust, giving a shrill whoop. He would have made a fine warrior, she thought, smiling at him proudly.

"
A-pe-ech-eken
," he shouted at her.

"Why?” she asked, pleased he'd chosen to speak Blackfoot. She'd struggled to instill pride in his heritage. His looking more like his
white
father than Indian didn't help with her goal. He loved the horses and the tribal dancing, and she used those interests to encourage him to learn others he didn't find as important. "I'd planned a leisurely ride home. Give me a good reason to hurry and I'll consider it."