Reckless Heart
Reckless Heart
Blush: This is a suggestive romance (love scenes are not graphic)
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First in the Reckless series.
Hannah and Shadow had played together as children. He taught her to fish. She shared her mother’s cookies with him because he had no mother of his own. Then, abruptly, Shadow and his people left the valley. When he returns, Hannah is a beautiful young woman and Shadow is a full-fledged warrior of the Cheyenne Nation.
Their friendship quickly turns to something much deeper and Hannah finds herself falling in love with the handsome man who sweeps her into his arms, awakening a fierce longing she has never known.
But there is talk of war between the whites and the Cheyenne, and Hannah knows Shadow will be considered the enemy. When Hannah’s homestead is attacked, Shadow comes to her rescue. Though their love grows stronger, Hannah fears the day when she will be forced to choose between his world and hers.
An Ellora’s Cave Romantica Publication
Reckless Heart
ISBN 9781419937668
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Reckless Heart Copyright © 1985, 2012 Madeline Baker
Edited by Raelene Gorlinsky
Cover art by Dar Albert
Photography: Inarik, Designwest, Anyka, Felix Mizioznikov/Fotolia.com
Electronic book publication March 2012
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Reckless Heart
Madeline Baker
Chapter One
1868-1871
I was nine years old the first time I saw the Cheyenne warrior who would one day be known as Two Hawks Flying. Of course, he wasn’t a warrior that day near the old river crossing—just a boy a few years older than I. And since he had yet to earn his proud warrior’s name, he still was called by the name his mother had given him at birth: Shadow.
I had been gathering wildflowers that lazy Sunday afternoon. Overhead, the sky was a vivid azure blue, so bright and clear it almost hurt your eyes to look at it. The grass was thick and green, wondrously cool beneath my bare feet. Birds warbled high in the tree-tops, their cheerful melodies occasionally interrupted by the fierce screech of a blue jay, or the wild, raucous cawing of a crow.
Lacy ferns of emerald green and flowers in pastel colors grew abundantly in the rich black earth. Bright yellow butterflies flitted lightly from one aromatic blossom to another, while the gentle hum of winged insects made soft music in the air.
A pine tree forest bordered this side of the river, and as I skipped along my favorite path into its sun-dappled heart, I pretended the forest was an enchanted fairyland and I was the fairy queen. The fat brown frog croaking on the riverbank was a handsome prince under an evil spell, and the masked raccoon washing its hands was a wicked witch in disguise. The distant snow-capped mountains were really a crystal palace filled with riches.
Humming softly, I penetrated deeper into the woods, my footsteps muffled by the thick layer of pine needles that carpeted the forest floor. At every turn a new bunch of daisies or a mustard yellow dandelion tempted me on, until I had wandered much further than I had intended.
It wasn’t until I glanced up and saw the big, old boulder rearing up at the end of the forest path that I realized just how far from home I had roamed. It was an unusual hunk of rock, gray in color and shaped like the head of a jack rabbit with its ears laid back. I had been warned time and time again never to venture past it. Stretching beyond Rabbit’s Head Rock lay a vast sea of yellow grass, in many places taller than I was. Somewhere out there lived the Cheyenne. And beyond the Cheyenne, the Sioux.
I was about to turn and head for home when I caught sight of a dazzling red flower, the likes of which I had never seen, shining like a beacon in a yellow sea. I glanced thoughtfully at my bouquet of pale-colored flowers, and it seemed to cry out for a bright splash of color. Surely it wouldn’t hurt if I went just a few feet out past the old rock! It would take less than no time at all to run out, grab the flower, and run back. And so, knowing I’d never be happy until I possessed that gorgeous crimson bloom, I darted across the few yards of dusty ground that separated the forest from the grassland and quickly, but carefully, picked the coveted red bud.
Smiling happily, I placed it in my bedraggled bouquet. It added just the right touch, and as I glanced around, hoping to find another, I heard a horse blow softly behind me.
Startled, I whirled around and felt a quick surge of fear as I found myself staring up at a half-naked savage mounted on a prancing, bald-faced bay mare. My carefully picked bouquet cascaded from my hands in a profusion of color as every lurid tale of redskin treachery tumbled through my mind, grisly tales of trappers who had been skinned alive, pioneers who had been covered with honey and staked out over ant hills, women and children carried off by painted warriors, never to be seen again.
Horrible visions of being tortured and scalped flooded my mind, and my knees went weak as I imagined my father finding my mutilated body lying face down in a pool of blood. Why had I come out here? I had been warned to stay close to home. Why, oh why, hadn’t I listened to Pa?
The Indian was looking at me strangely, as if I were some kind of rare oddity. Somewhat surprised that he hadn’t killed me immediately, or even made so much as a threatening gesture in my direction, I decided to take what might be my first, and last, opportunity to study a “wild” Indian up close. And as I took a good long look at him, I realized he was not a warrior at all. Relief gushed through me like water through a sieve.
“You scared me!” I accused, suddenly angry because he had frightened me so. “What’s the big idea, creeping up on a body like that? What are you doing sneaking around on our land, anyway?”
“I am not sneaking around,” he replied haughtily and in surprisingly good English. “I am hunting old Pte.”
I didn’t know who old Pte was, and in an effort to hide my ignorance, I said rather imperiously, “Well, you’ve no business hunting on our property.”
“This is not your property,” he remarked coldly. One brown-skinned hand went out in a broad gesture that encompassed all of Bear Valley and our homestead as well. “This is the land of the Tsi-tsi-tsis. And it is you who are trespassing.”
“I am not!” I retorted indignantly.
“Warriors do not argue with little girls,” he said scornfully.
“You’re no warrior!” I cried, stung by his arrogance and by his obvious disdain for my sex. “You’re just a little boy!”
A boy he might have been, but he was not little. Even then Shadow was tall and well-proportioned, with the promise of great strength in his broad shoulders and long, muscular legs. His hair was long and straight, blue-black in the harsh sunlight, but unadorned as he had not yet counted coup or killed an enemy in battle. His dark eyes were like twin chips of obsidian, glinting with anger because I had dared call him a child.
Feeling suddenly contrite, I turned on my sweetest smile and asked if he would like a cookie.
“What is cookie?” he asked suspiciously.
“Well, really!” I declared, pulling a small bandana-wrapped parcel from my pocket. “Don’t you know anything? This is a cookie.”
Stunned by his ignorance of the finer things in life, I handed him one of my mother’s delicious, melt-in-your-mouth oatmeal cookies.
Shadow took the proffered treat like it was some kind of deadly poison, sniffed it like a cat inspecting a questionable piece of meat, and then popped the whole thing into his mouth.
“Good,” he allowed grudgingly. “You have more?”
Well, my mother had sent me off with a dozen cookies, and Shadow wolfed down ten of them in less than a minute.
“I guess your mother doesn’t ever make cookies,” I remarked drily, grinning as he licked the last crumbs from his fingertips.
“I have no mother,” he replied flatly, and his dark eyes warned me not to feel sorry for him.
An uncomfortable silence fell between us after that and while I was trying to think of something cheerful to talk about, a brisk wind blew down out of the mountains, sighing mournfully as it rattled the leaves on the trees. A second gust caused the tall yellow grass to bend as if in supplication to its power. In minutes, scattered powder puff clouds veiled the setting sun, and I realized with dismay that it soon would be dark and that I had a long, cold walk ahead of me.
“I must go,” I announced abruptly. “Pa will skin me alive if I don’t get home before nightfall.”
“You have a long way to go,” Shadow remarked. It was not a question but a statement of fact, causing me to wonder, briefly, how he knew where I lived. But I had other more important things to worry about, so I said, “Yes… Well, goodbye,” and set off down the mossy trail that led to the river, my carefully collected bouquet completely forgotten.
The path I had taken through the woods earlier that day was the quickest way home, but I was afraid of the woods at night. So I hurried down the long, narrow trail that ran along the river, knowing I’d never make it home before dark and already feeling Pa’s angry hand on my backside.
I had gone only a few yards when hoofbeats rumbled behind me. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw Shadow bearing down on me, and I gasped with fear. He had decided to kill me after all!
Really scared now, I cast about for a place to hide, but it was too late. Petrified with fright, I mumbled a hurried prayer as he reined up alongside me. He looked disgusted by my fear as he plucked me from the ground as easily as I had plucked that desired red flower.
Plopping me down in front of him, he said gravely, “I would not want to see such a skinny girl-child skinned alive,” and kneed the bay mare into a gallop.
It was exhilarating, racing along the dusty river road. The wind’s icy fingers tangled my hair and stung my eyes, but I only laughed and begged Shadow to go faster.
We were careening around a sharp bend in the road when a white-tailed deer bounded across our path. With a war whoop that sent shivers down my spine, Shadow steered his mount after the frightened doe, but the bay mare was no match for the deer’s agile speed. With a flick of its tail, it leaped gracefully over a bramble bush and disappeared from sight.
Minutes later, Shadow deposited me at my front door and rode away without a word.
Our place wasn’t much to look at in those days, just a three-room log cabin on a dozen acres of newly plowed ground, but it was solid and well-built. Pa had seen to that. A split-rail fence housed our stock, four cows and a yearling calf, two draft horses, Pa’s Tennessee Walker, and my old mare Nellie. A pig and a litter of curly-tailed piglets lived in a separate pen behind the outhouse. Six Rhode Island Reds scratched in the dirt near the wood pile, clucking and cooing as they searched for worms and bugs.
Gently rolling hills, lush with grass this time of year, rose behind our house. Wild roses grew on either side of the front door, and crisp white curtains fluttered at the front windows. I thought our place was perfect!
It caused quite a stir when I told my folks an Indian boy had brought me home. Pa bawled me out ‘til he was blue in the face. Had I gone mad? Had I taken leave of my senses? Didn’t I realize I might have been kidnapped? Or killed? Or worse?
“What could be worse than getting killed?” I asked innocently, and Pa’s color changed from blue to red as he mumbled something unintelligible under his breath and stomped out of the house.
Strangely, my mother didn’t seem too worried. She even smiled, pleased, when I told her how Shadow had gobbled down ten of her cookies and would likely have polished off ten more if I’d had them.
“I’m glad you found a friend, dear,” Mother said, caressing my cheek in that special way that told me louder than words that I was loved.
Let me tell you about my folks. My father is a big man—not just tall, but big, with arms like trees and shoulders as wide as our barn door. Pa’s name is Samuel Obadiah Kincaid, but Mother calls him Curly on account of his hair is curly brown. I think Pa would take a stick to anyone else who dared call him Curly, but he kind of glows when Mother says it. Pa has long sideburns, blue eyes, and a red moustache. Bright red! And let me tell you, he has a temper to match that moustache! But he never stays mad for long. My mother is beautiful—not just pretty, but beautiful inside and out. She has clear ivory skin that refuses to tan even in the hottest weather, lovely chestnut hair usually worn in a severe bun at the nape of her neck, and the warmest gray eyes in the world. Even her name is beautiful, Katherine Mary Kincaid. I never heard my mother raise her voice in anger or an unkind word pass her lips. If ever there was an angel, it was my mother. Pa says I’ll look just like her when I grow up, except for my red hair. My eyes are the same quiet shade of gray, though they lack that special something that makes Mother’s shine. Once, when I asked her how she got that sparkle in her eyes, she smiled mysteriously and said Pa put it there. When I asked how, she blushed prettily and told me I’d understand when I was older. I have mother’s ivory skin, too, only mine tans to a deep golden brown in the summer.
I never knew two people so right for each other or so much in love. Pa told me once that he met Mother on Thursday, courted her on Friday, kissed her on Saturday, and married her on Sunday. Mother insists things didn’t happen quite that fast. Almost, but not quite.
The day after I met Shadow, I took Pa’s old fishing pole and rode Nellie down to the river. Mother had mentioned she would like some fish for dinner, and I was determined to catch her some. Pa usually did the fishing, but he was busy planting and I knew he wouldn’t have time. Grimacing a little, I baited the hook with a fat red worm, tossed my line into the water, and then sat back to wait. I guess I’d been there drowning worms for almost an hour when I decided to give up. I was pulling in my line when a familiar voice said, “You would have better luck from this side of the river.”
“How do you know?” I asked sulkily.
“Because the fish cannot see your reflection from over here.”
“My reflection? What difference does that make?”
“Try it and see,” Shadow suggested.
Frowning, I rode Nellie across the river, skewered a fresh worm, and dropped my line into the still, blue-green water. In minutes I had a bite.
Crowing with delight, I reeled in a good-sized trout. In less than twenty minutes I had three fat fish.
When I offered Shadow my thanks, he just shrugged and said, “If you are going to fish, you might as well do it right.”
I saw a lot of Shadow after that. Sometimes we met down at the river crossing, but more often than not he showed up at the house. I tried to tell myself he liked my company but honesty forced me to admit it was Mother he really came to see. Not having a mother of his own, I could understand why he was so taken with mine. Sometimes it made me jealous, the way she fussed over him. She spoiled him with cookies and praise and lots of special attention, and Shadow lapped it up like a starving kitten devouring a bowl of fresh cream. Still, I was glad for his company. There were no other families in the valley and I’d been kind of lonesome for someone to play with. Of course, Shadow never really played. He thought “girl things” were foolish and a waste of time and refused to do anything he considered silly or undignified—which was practically everything I wanted to do.