Tallchief for Keeps (2 page)

Every year at this time, she came to Tallchief Mountain to mourn, and her brothers had wanted to ensure her safety during her retreat. When she arrived today, she’d found the tepee ready for her, fresh wood cut and stacked nearby. Fish waited in the lake’s weir for her dinner. Inside the tepee she’d found a bag of Tallchief wool to hand card, the routine and rhythm giving her peace at the evening fire. There were bundles of her favorite herbs neatly hung from a cross pole, a blackened teakettle, a china pot with a matching cup and saucer—all the necessities Elspeth would need. Another cross pole held the branch waiting for her free-style weaving. She had in mind a wall hanging, the first of an exclusive contract with a Denver art dealer. She’d needed only a backpack filled with her clothing, her Navajo spindle and her Tallchief tartan shawl.

She gathered the soft length of green-and-blue wool to her, holding it tightly. Elspeth closed her eyes;
she needed this respite from her family, though she loved them more than herself.

Duncan’s second marriage brought him joy, and Calum’s new wife would have his baby. Engaged twice before, Birk was circling Chelsey Lang, a gentle heart and a good friend. Always a rebel, Elspeth’s sister, Fiona, fought her current war against “predators of the environment” in Wisconsin.

Una’s journals spoke of the loss of her dowry, sold to protect Tallchief Mountain. To each item was attached a legend, and two of the legends in Una’s dowry had come true—Duncan and Calum had claimed their true loves.

As a girl, Elspeth had dreamed of Una’s paisley shawl and the legend attached to it. She’d pledged to find the shawl and bring it safely to the Tallchiefs, but the relevant journal entry had been smeared, perhaps by tears, and the legend had escaped Elspeth.

As a woman, one night in Scotland had her wanting to forget the legend entirely.

When she had returned
home from Scotland, she’d ripped the page from Una’s journal and torn it in pieces. Regretting that her temper had ruled her and that she’d destroyed part of her inheritance, Elspeth had then placed the pieces in an envelope for safe-keeping. There would be no true love legend for Elspeth now; she no longer believed in a love for herself. She wanted the paisley shawl now for the beauty of the merino wool, the fiery golds and reds blending in a paisley design. More, the shawl was hers by right of an inheritance, and she wanted it wrapped around her like her family.

Elspeth traced the bold vermilion streak she had added to the Fearghus tartan on her lap. The red stood for the Native American Tallchief blood, and its addition to the tartan indicated that the two fierce clans had been woven together. She was restless; perhaps it was the seer blood passed down to her through her Scottish great-great-grandmother, added to the shaman inheritance from Tallchief. A woman bred from warrior chieftains would be restless on a day like this, when the
wind tossed the black waves of Tallchief Lake and the mountain jutted into the mist. The untamed tempest and the isolation of this special place quieted the stormy darkness within her.

Una, a bondwoman captured by an arrogant Sioux chieftain, had reveled in the tempest. But Elspeth wanted no more storms in her life; she’d had enough pain to last her two lifetimes. She wanted the rest of her life to be as smooth as the doeskin shift she wore, or the silk thermal sweater and pants beneath it. She’d put order into her life, wrapped the safety around her like the blue-and-green tartan, and so it would stay.

In the center of her tepee, smoke curled upward, soon caught by the fierce wind.

Alek Petrovna had been her fierce wind, taking her innocence upon an ancient Scottish stone and giving her a child. Elspeth the elegant was taken by a laughing gypsy of a man after a few
traditional dances around the bonfire.

“As good as I’ve had,” he’d said as though comparing dinner fare, rather than making love. “Is this enough money?”

Bit by bit, she’d pasted herself together, warmed herself with the joys of her family, and now, at thirty-three, she’d finally found a measure of peace. She wanted quiet now, and Calum’s marriage to Talia Petrovna, Alek’s sister, could destroy that.

Elspeth held very still, drawing the sounds into her—winter wind whipping the snow-laden trees, branches snapping beneath the weight. Mist shrouded the mountain, and somehow that comforted her, a reminder of the fierce elements that had always been there since the beginning of time.

She studied the tepee slowly, considering the neat contents and the branch-rack waiting for her new wall hanging. Her unique designs had drawn attention at the last weaver’s fair, and with pride Elspeth had signed a generous contract for her work. She had constructed her life as tightly as her weaving,
carefully planning the threads of it. Only in March did the fabric of her life weaken, and she came to Tallchief Mountain to strengthen herself in an age-old tradition.

Talia Petrovna’s marriage to Calum would draw

Alek to the Tallchiefs.
Elspeth wanted to be strong when next they met—and she knew that day would be soon.

Alek Petrovna cursed as he ducked a pine branch laden with snow and ice, only to have another hit his scarred cheek.

Alek impatiently snapped the branch and tossed it aside. He had scars earned from years of reporting on wars. Not one of them compared to the pain caused by the black-haired witch he sought, Elspeth Tallchief.

As a journalist specializing in war zones, he’d seen too many orphaned children. He’d ached for years for a child of his own, only to discover that Elspeth Tallchief had hidden his…what? A boy…a girl?

Alek’s research had been thorough. Not even her family knew of his child…and Elspeth’s. She’d hidden his child
away so neatly that not even the Tallchiefs knew her secret. He’d get it out of her. One way or another, he would make Elspeth dance to his tune.

So she would camp on a mountaintop by herself, would she, when March caught the Rocky Mountains in a wintry shroud? “Damn fool idea, setting up a tepee in zero-degree weather. Her brothers shouldn’t have—”

Years of covering stories in frozen war zones had prepared him for the elusive, dangerous trail that wound upward to Tallchief Lake. The mountain soared, bleak and ominous, against the gray sky. Mist layered the top, obscuring it and a fierce wind threw the pine branches at Alek, like blows to a warrior running a gauntlet.

Elspeth traced her bloodline to Sioux, but Alek’s tracking ability had come from his Apache ancestor…as perhaps had his need for revenge.

He thrust aside another punishing branch. He’d find Elspeth Tallchief, dig her out of her safe hole and make her pay for what he’d missed, that precious time a
father spends with his child.

Alek fought the tight pain in his chest, the cold that invaded his flesh, though he was dressed in layers of clothing and a heavy Arctic parka. His Russian blood reveled in the freezing temperature, heated by the passion of anger that had churned within him for months.

He leapt over a broken limb, his boots sinking into a mound of snow. He’d only just discovered Elspeth’s little secret when he’d had to go on assignment. He’d made a promise to a dying friend that he would complete the project. Now Alek had missed an additional four months of his child’s life by covering a senseless war and trying to stay alive through it.

Talia’s wedding photos had arrived last December in the middle of a storm, the sound of thunder matching the battery of gunfire and the rockets. Tucked neatly into his sister’s wedding party was, unmistakably, one Elspeth Fearghus.
Tallchief,
he corrected bitterly.

He wiped away the
snow that clung to his beard, tossed it away just like Elspeth had done his child. He’d set his traps for her, one by one, and she’d have a fine time escaping him.

Alek stepped into a clearing, searching the shadows enfolding the lake. Outlined against the fierce, wind-tossed lake was Elspeth.

Her long black hair flew up and away in the wind. In the dying light, her face was blurred, a pale oval turned to the mist high on the mountain. She leaned into the wind as though it were her lover, as though something wild and fierce within her matched the icy blast. Her fringed leather shift offered little protection against the cold. Her legs were encased in leather with thongs laced around them to keep them tight.

She walked slowly by the black fury of the lake, blending with the elements rather than fighting them. The wind bowed and battered the cattail reeds bordering the lake; it pasted the shawl and her shift against her, the dim light revealing the
trim, lithe outline of her body.

Alek controlled his need to rage at her; control ran contrary to his impulsive, passionate Petrovna blood. So she thought she was safe here, did she, a lady strolling through a winter storm? A private retreat away from her brothers and family where nothing could harm her?

Family wouldn’t keep her safe against him, not this time. Alek stripped away his gloves and fished for a small box from a safely buttoned inner pocket designed to hold camera film. The earring, a fragile affair of dangling beads that ended in a silver feather, seemed to leap into his hand and nestled there, taunting him—as it had hundreds of times before—with the memory of that night.

He smoothed his thumb over the earring. He’d come through hell to face this woman and to claim his child.

“Alek.” The
name cut through the emotion that tightened her throat.

He stood in the shadows of the pines bordering her clearing. There was no mistaking the set of his shoulders beneath the battered parka or the arrogant stance of his long legs clad in camouflage print.

He shoved back his parka hood, and that same black stare locked on her, this time without the laughter. His hair curled wildly, tossed by the wind, and there was nothing gentle in his set jaw darkened by stubble.

One look at Alek Petrovna, and Elspeth fought a wild rage she hadn’t known since her parents’ death.

One look at Alek Petrovna, and she knew he’d come for her, like a black wolf facing his prey.

The first time she’d seen him, almost five years ago, she knew that fire stirred between them—like flint striking sparks on flint. They’d come together, full circle, and with the look in his eye and the emotions unravelling her, they would surely lift swords—

Elspeth inhaled and
held her breath, steadying her impulse to run from him. Alek wouldn’t raise her emotions, not this time. She’d worked through her pain, and now it was ashes.

Elspeth straightened and watched him walk to her, that swaggering, loose walk of an athletic big man, focused and sure of his purpose.

Alek didn’t stand near her; he loomed over her, his black eyes locking with hers. “Say something.”

Just like that. A demand drawled in the deep tones of a Texan, skipping the pleasantries. He was nothing like his fair-skinned, light-hearted sister Talia.

“Hello, Alek.”

She noted the scarring on his left cheek and throat; she remembered as though it were yesterday, instead of almost five years ago, the burned-smooth texture beneath her fingertips when they made love. A new scar ripped through a black eyebrow, and another ran from his bottom lip into his chin.

“Hello, fair Elspeth. Or should I say sister-in-law? We’re related, aren’t we?” He pushed the fact at her
like a spear. “Too bad I missed the wedding. I was trapped by the siege for two weeks.” He caught the wild spray of her hair in one big hand, taming it. “But I’m here now.”

In the next heartbeat, Alek lightly jerked her head back, lifting it for his inspection. “Older,” he murmured, not sparing her in his appraisal.

“Wiser.” She eased her hair away from his grasp, and wondered if anyone escaped Alek Petrovna unless he granted permission. But she would, because she’d already paid the price.

“Where’s my child?”

His question slammed into her, shattering the layers of protection she’d pasted around her. There was no way he could know—Elspeth fought for the smooth level of her tone. “Please explain.”

The line between his brows deepened. He spaced the words precisely, a predator more than a journalist marshaling facts. “Our child. I know the how of it. Where is it?
What
is it, a boy or a girl? And again,
where is our child?”

She refused to let him
tear open her private wound. She wouldn’t let him push her back into her pain. Elspeth straightened her shoulders, meeting his searing stare with her calm one. “I’ve just put tea on to steep. If left too long—”

“Dismissing me? Just tell me what I want to know, and then I’ll leave. I want to see my child.”

She would not allow him to pounce in and out of her life so easily. “But you’ll come back because you’re angry. More than angry. You want to hurt me.”

“Damn right I do. And I will,” he shot at her in a low, passionate voice. His lips tightened. “You should have told me. I’m easy enough to find.”

Elspeth glanced at Aide’s powerful six feet four-inch body, then lifted her chin. She had given him more than what was safe, and now she owed him nothing.

“I know your strength, fair Elspeth, and your passion. You can clasp a man dry…wring a child from him, then—Is the child mine or—?”

She gripped the Tallchief
tartan shawl to keep her hand from flying at his face. She refused to enter a verbal duel with Alek, now or ever again.

The doctor had thought her baby had been a boy.
…

She lifted her face to the wind, letting its bite cool her heating temper. “You’d better leave. More snow is coming.” Then she turned and walked toward her tepee.

No sooner was the tepee flap closed behind her than Alek ripped it open and stepped inside in a blast of wind and snow. She let him loom, his head angled from the slanting, insulated canvas of the tepee. Elspeth ignored him; she kneeled to toss wood on the fire. She watched the flames lick and grow, and then settled to pour tea into a china cup. She folded the tartan and glanced up, only to find him glowering down at her. His anger vibrated in the small space.

She resented his harsh presence in the soothing tepee, draped with bundles of herbs. The disquieting scent of an enraged man swirled through the small space.