Warrior's Embrace (64 page)

“Whoa,” the witch woman screamed. “Whoa,
Mahli.”

But it was too late. Nothing could stop her
headlong plunge toward the ground. Nothing could cushion her fall
against the rocks. Nothing and no one.

She lay with her left foot at a crazy angle
and her arms outflung, as if at the last minute she’d tried to call
upon her own gods to save her. Beside her, the black bag was open,
its contents spilling onto the ground.

Mahli stood watch for a long while, her
saddle hanging sideways and her bridle dragging the ground. She
whinnied softly then flattened her ears as if she were waiting for
her mistress’s voice to tell her what to do.

The white witch woman’s skin glowed like
death.

High above her, the avenger opened himself
for a vision—fires leaping into the sky, burning away the darkness
until there was nothing left except light.

With the stealth of a night creature he left
his watch on the rocks. Below him the witch woman lay broken, her
powers forever ended.

Winston Mingo sat beside the fire, wrapped in
a woven blanket while Eagle stood with his arm propped on the
mantel. Even in repose he looked tense, wired for action. Winston
sometimes wondered if he’d made a mistake when he named his oldest
son his successor.

It was not a question of what was good for
the nation: Eagle had done a magnificent job as leader of the
Chickasaws. But had the mantle of duty been the undoing of his
soul? To the casual observer he was a powerful, intelligent man in
his prime. But to a father he was a haunted man, a man who hid his
bleak heart behind a stern face and careful manners.

Winston rocked back and forth, letting the
rhythm of the rush-bottomed rocking chair and the flicker of
firelight comfort him. He was like the largest limb on the old tree
outside his window, dried up and withered. Soon he would fall to
the ground and become a part of Mother Earth so other, greener
branches could grow in his place.

The time had come to speak truth.

“My days are slipping away.”

“The doctors say you have many good years
left. With patience and therapy you’ll regain some of your
strength.”

“I no longer have the luxury of
patience.”

The thunder outside punctuated Winston’s
statement. Fierce and terrible, it roared over the mountains and
threatened the valley.

“There’s a bad storm coming.” Winston never
changed topics without a reason, and now he was finished with the
old one and no amount of persuasion could make him return to
it.

Eagle looked out the window. Already rain was
beginning to fall, not the soft, warm rain of summer, but a
hard-driving rain that would turn to sleet as the night drew near
and the temperature dropped.

“In weather like this a man should be in
front of his own fire with his wife and children.”

Eagle let the remark slide. Winston eased the
blanket closer around his shoulders. He wasn’t finished with his
son yet. Not by a long shot.

“What are your intentions concerning Deborah
Lightfoot?”

One of the things Winston liked best about
old age was that old men didn’t have to be subtle. He watched the
changing emotions on his son’s face, and he knew with a father’s
certainty that the white woman was still in Eagle’s blood.

For a moment Eagle bowed his head and stared
into the fire. When he looked up, his face was filled with
resignation and resolution.

“She will bear my name and my children.”

“It is good. She is full-blood.”

“Yes, she is full-blood.”

“You will court her properly then tell her of
this soon?”

A spear of white lightning split the sky, and
rain lashed against the windowpanes. North wind moaned around the
eaves and rattled the shutters.

“I have no time for courtship. I’m going to
tell her tonight. The marriage will be quick and painless.”

Winston thought of Dovie and of how he
sometimes could still feel his passion rising just thinking of her
soft body lying next to his. He was filled with sorrow for his son,
but he kept his tears inside.

“May the Great Spirit be with you, my
son.”

Cold winds entered the house when Eagle left,
and Winston pulled his blanket closer. His son was virile and
passionate. Soon he’d have grandbabies on both knees to keep him
warm.

o0o

When Eagle had been eleven years old he took
every chance he could to visit Luther Mattox. Luther would grin his
toothless smile and say, “Pull up a chair, young sprout. I know
just what you want.” Then he would unlock the glass door of a
cabinet and take out the most exquisite knife Eagle had ever seen.
It had a curved six-inch blade of the finest steel and a handle
made from the horn of a deer. Luther had carved the handle and set
turquoise and coral in the niches.

Eagle wanted that knife more than anything in
the world. He wanted it so badly, he’d have done almost anything to
have it. At home he volunteered for jobs he didn’t have to do, even
girl chores like mopping the floor. He did things without being
told, such as taking a bath and doing his homework and turning the
lights out at ten. Hope sang through him like the sweet waters of
the Blue River. His birthday was coming up, and he knew he’d get
the knife with the carved bone handle and the beautiful stones.

When the big day arrived, his father handed
him a package. It was exactly the right size, long enough for the
six-inch blade and the handle that fit perfectly in the palm of his
hand. He was so nervous opening the package that his hands were
sweaty.

Inside was a knife, an ordinary knife with a
straight blade and a plain handle. He tested the shiny steel blade
and found it good, hefted the weight of the knife and found it
true.

“This is exactly what I need,” he’d told his
parents, all the while still wanting the knife with the curved
blade and the dazzling stones.

That was how Eagle felt as he drove home in
the rain to call Deborah Lightfoot. She was good and true, but
still he wanted the woman he couldn’t have, the woman with the
white skin and the dazzling hair.

Deborah was at the clinic, and answered on
the first ring.

“This is Eagle. I have something of great
importance to discuss with you.” A compromise. A business
proposition. He’d have told Winston without being asked, for the
decision had been made long ago, the day he’d stood at his window
and watched Kate drive away with Mark Grant. “Are you free
tonight?”

In his single-minded pursuit of ensuring the
family dynasty, was he robbing Deborah of love? Feeling like a
thief, he waited for her answer.

“Eagle.” She sounded rushed and breathless.
“I’m so glad you called . I was going to call you. I didn’t know
what else to do.”

“Deborah, slow down. What’s wrong?”

“It’s Kate.”

Was it possible to die of fear and still be
standing upright, talking into the telephone?

“What about her, Deborah?”

“She hasn’t been here all day.”

“Maybe she’s on a house call. Is her car
there?”

“It’s still in the garage.”

“What about her horse?”

“I don’t know. Mahli’s so old, I didn’t think
about checking. I’ll do that now.”

“There’s no need for you to get out in this
weather when I’m only a few minutes away. I’ll be right—”

“Eagle!” Deborah’s scream raised hairs on the
back of his neck. “It’s Mahli . . .”

“Kate? What about Kate?”

“The saddle is empty.”

o0o

This was the part of his job Martin hated
most, searching for the victim. Standing in Kate’s stable, he
inspected the saddle once more. The girth had been cut; there was
no doubt about it. Martin ground out his cigarette and pulled up
the collar of his rain slicker. The weather was a bitch. Tracking
Kate Malone would be next to impossible. And the chances of finding
her were even worse.

“How long did you say she’s been
missing?”

Deborah Lightfoot looked as if she might
faint. That’s all he needed, a swooning woman.

“I came in at six this morning, and she
wasn’t here.”

“Shit.”

Deborah glanced out at the sleet, coming down
in thick sheets now, rattling hard against the stable’s tin roof.
They were both thinking the same thing: If Kate Malone was out
there somewhere, injured, how would she survive the weather?

“You have to find her,” Deborah said.

“How long ago did you say Eagle left?”

“About an hour ago. Do you think he can find
her?”

“If anybody can, it’s Eagle Mingo. Let’s just
pray he’s not too late.”

o0o

Hidden by trees, the avenger stood atop the
hill above Kate’s clinic and peered through the heavy sleet. There
was no mistaking the black stallion or its rider.

Eagle. The man of legend.

With the power of the Great Spirit hovering
like wings over his shoulders.

With the valor of his namesake and the heart
of a dove.

With the mark of the mighty warrior bird on
his thigh.

The avenger flung himself facedown on the
ground, stretching his arms to embrace Mother Earth. In the
prostrate position he sought a vision. He waited for the thundering
approach of the white buffalo and for the magic circle of life and
light.

He waited and waited. But nothing came except
the pounding of horse’s hooves as Eagle set out in search of Kate
Malone.

Streaked with mud and shivering, the avenger
left his watch above the clinic.

o0o

All hopes of finding Kate’s trail had
vanished. Heavy sleet obscured his vision as Eagle sat on his horse
and tried to decide which direction to go. When he’d left Kate’s
stable, he’d been able to follow her trail for a short while. The
ground near the clinic was protected by trees, and although the
hoof prints were faint, they were still clear enough for him to
know that she had headed west.

West lay the bluffs that had been scarlet
with Indian paintbrush all summer, and the Blue River, swollen and
threatening to overflow its banks. West lay the Arbuckle Mountains,
their peaks hidden under a blanket of snow.

He’d come as far as the river, and now he had
a choice to make. If he followed the course of the river, he would
come to several small ranches, all of them owned by people who had
at one time or another been Kate’s patients. If he veered instead
toward the mountains, he would come to the treacherous trail
leading to the remote Kent cabin. Because of the weather, the trail
would be even more dangerous.

Restless, his stallion pawed the ground,
waiting for Eagle to make a decision. He dismounted and searched
for clues, any tiny shred of evidence that would help him locate
Kate. He found nothing, just as he’d known he would.

Nothing could help him now except his
instincts— and perhaps divine intervention. Eagle lifted his head
toward the heavy gray sky. It would be dark soon. High in the
mountains, a wolf howled.

Eagle raised his fists to the sky.

“Loak-Ishtohoollo-Aba,” he cried. But the
Great Spirit wouldn’t be moved by false piety. He hid His face from
Eagle and would not be found.

Eagle mounted his impatient stallion and
began to follow the meandering path of the river. Suddenly he
veered his mount and changed course toward the distant mountains.
They rose silently out of the mists of sleet and shadow, calling to
him in urgent voices disguised as the howling of the wolf.

He pushed his mount as hard as he dared,
mindful of the slick rocks and the sheer three-hundred-foot drop on
his right. Darkness covered the mountains, and the urgent howling
of the wolf sounded closer.

Around a treacherous curve the stallion’s
foot dislodged a rock that started a slide. The horse reared,
screaming, while Eagle fought for control. In the ravine, the
falling rocks echoed like thunder.

Flattened against the stallion’s back, Eagle
used the ancient tongue of his people to bring the horse under
control; then he dismounted and led his stallion around the rock
slide.

His foot touched something soft, something
that didn’t belong on the mountain. Eagle knelt down and picked it
up. Kate’s medical bag. Groping in the dark, he found her scattered
supplies and her gun ...and the rock covered with blood. Chance had
led him there, and a miracle had protected the evidence. An
overhanging shelf of rock had kept it safe and dry during the
storm.

“Kate,” he called, on his knees, searching
for her, his hands covered with blood. “
Kate
!”

Her name echoed back to him from the
mountains. And then, out of the darkness, came another sound, a
bone-chilling sound that froze Eagle’s soul—the frenzied cry of
wild animals smelling fresh blood.

Eagle pulled his rifle from its scabbard and
followed the howling of wolves.

She crouched in the shallow cave, watching
the glowing yellow eyes. The wolves stared back at her. Their
demonic howls pierced through the gray fog of pain and hunger that
threatened to overcome her, and the stench of their hot breaths
filled her rocky shelter.

Kate ran her hands over the floor of the
cave, searching for the only weapon she had, the scalpel that had
fallen out of her medical bag. Her hands closed around the steel,
and she forced herself to an upright position. She hadn’t survived
a fall from her horse and a day in freezing rains only to be eaten
by wolves.

“Just try to come and get me, you
bastards.”

The yellow eyes grew bigger. Six of them. The
wolves were closing in.

Her hands were so cold, she could hardly feel
her fingers, and she wondered if anybody would ever find her
bones.

“Stop it, Kate Malone. You’re going to
survive.”

A wave of dizziness caught her, and for a
moment the yellow eyes faded. She bit down on her lip hard enough
to draw blood. If she blacked out now, she was as good as dead.
She’d heard that the dying have moments of epiphany, though how
anybody could know that was beyond her, since the dead couldn’t
talk. Instead of thinking about lofty moments such as the summer
when she discovered love or the winter when she knew she would be a
doctor, she pictured a lobster dinner with all the trimmings. Which
all proved the theory of epiphany was hogwash, for if the howls of
the wolves were indication, she was about to die.