Ride The Wild Wind (Time Travel Historical Romance) (3 page)

Stella began to
glow again, as if someone had dusted her with a fine sheen of golden glitter.
From overhead came a soft whirring noise, like the flight of a thousand
butterflies. The wind began to whirl around them as a tight drawing sensation
began in the top of Halle’s head, then spread downward to her toes. She sucked
in a breath as her heart pounded with both excitement and fear.

“Stella, what’s
happening?”

Stella’s hands
remained firm on her shoulders. “The vortex is nothing to be afraid of, but
it’s very bright so you must keep your eyes closed. In a moment you’ll make the
transition through the light, back in time, body and soul with the full memory
of your former life intact, although you might not remember your jaunt.”

“What about you?
Where will you be?”

“Oh, I’ll be with
you when you need me along your journey. I’ve always been there, Halle,
watching over you. Now close your eyes and hang on tight, baby girl. This is
going to be the wildest ride of your life.”

CHAPTER TWO

Near Albuquerque, New Mexico
Territory

June 1863

The horse’s hooves
tore at the earth, propelling clods of dirt and sod into the air. Sweat poured
into Antonio Whitehorse’s eyes, burning, blurring his vision. He spurred his
mount northwest toward Albuquerque, his long hair whipping his face as clouds
of thick red dust trailed in his wake. Earlier that day, he was spotted by a
group of men in blue uniforms camped near a ranch forty miles north of Fort
Sumner.
Kit Carson’s New Mexico Volunteers
. They pursued him several
miles before losing him.

General James
Carleton had given the Navajo thirty days to surrender. But after his brief
encounter with soldiers, Antonio had no doubt troops were en route to
Albuquerque with plans to prematurely advance northward upon Navajo lands. He
must move fast. If his instincts were on target, these men—reconnaissance
detachments—had been deployed ahead of the deadline.

Diablo Cortez, his
arms supplier, would be in Albuquerque two more days. Cortez would not linger,
particularly if he caught wind of the soldier’s plans.

Slowing his mount,
Antonio guided the bay down into the arroyo through thick, spreading chamisa
brush. Near a shallow, trickling wash at the bottom of the canyon where he
camped two nights before, he reined in the horse. Sliding wearily from its
back, he trotted the lathered animal over wide, flat, sun-polished rocks to the
stream. Fast moving rains from the other night had replenished the dry creek
bed with life giving water, and for that he was thankful.

Dropping to his
hands and knees, he drank his fill and then splashed copious amounts of water
over his head. He pulled the blue bandanna from around his neck and dried his
face. Still kneeling, he slipped off his vest and laid it beside him, patting
the lump in his left pocket. Two licorice sticks and a small, pearl-handled pocket
knife for his son, Lukachukai.

After stripping
off his sweat-soaked shirt, he dipped the neckerchief into the water and wrung
it out. He slung the cool cloth around his neck and sat back on his haunches,
taking in a deep, cleansing breath. It was good to finally be still. It would
feel even better to be home in Dinetah.

Dinishwo drank
heartily a few yards downstream. “Enough, boy,” Antonio called to the horse.

The bay snorted
and lifted his head, then shook it as if to say he was not finished.

Antonio chuckled.
“You are becoming argumentative in your old age.” The bay ignored him and
returned to guzzling.

He tied the horse
away from the stream and scouted the site. Far enough from the main road to
remain hidden in dense brush. From trails of fresh rabbit pellets and its
proximity to clean water, this location was an excellent place to hunt and rest
a few hours.

He stretched out
like a cat, but dared not nod off. His mind raced with thoughts of his earlier
brush with soldiers. He closed his eyes, every muscle in his body tense and
aching from the exhaustion of days of hard riding and little sleep. Still, his
senses remained alert to every breeze, every rustle. An hour’s rest and he
would be on his way.

He’d not found the
woman yet. Not that it surprised him. Like sailors at sea for months on end,
he’d begun to believe he had simply imagined the red haired siren. Loneliness
had a way of doing that to a man.

* *
* * *

He awoke with a
start and scrambled to his feet, squinting at the bright sky overhead. How long
had he slept? From the position of the sun, he estimated no more than an hour
or two. Time to move.

He had just
mounted up when soft moans beyond the brush caught his attention. The hair
lifted on the back of his neck. An animal? No. It sounded human. Drawing his
revolver, he slid from the horse’s back and crept silently through the brush
toward the sound. In the clearing, he spied a woman lying on her back. A woman
with red hair. He blinked hard, stared as his chest tightened.

It was her!

He scanned the
horizon, making certain she was alone. A chill shook him at the dead silence of
the canyon. Crouched in the brush, he waited a moment before inching closer.

There were no
rutted trails in the dried mud to suggest anyone had been there recently, no
hoof prints—not even his own, although he camped in this spot three days ago.

Who was she, and
why was she alone? Was this an ambush, one forewarned by his dream? Was he
walking into a trap? He froze as fear knotted in his spine.

She moaned in
obvious misery. Then he heard another sound—an undeterminable high pitched
whine in her vicinity. Cautious, he crept closer.

A tiny creature
uncoiled from the crook of the woman’s arm and sprang to its feet. He drew his
gun, his heart lurching in his chest as he stared down a snarling animal which
resembled a bug-eyed rat. A dog? Likely a pup.

“Easy.” He soothed
the animal as he approached the nearly unconscious woman.

He swallowed hard,
noting her heart-shaped face and dainty upturned nose.

Yes, it was her.

He reached into
his vest pocket and pulled a strip of jerked venison and tossed it to the side.
While the dog gnawed happily nearby, he checked the pulse in her neck. To his
surprise it was strong. Examining her head, he found no cuts or contusions.

He lifted the hem
of her black skirt, eyeing the peculiar hosiery which oddly reminded him of
spider webbing. Flies swarmed an encrusted patch of dried blood on her knee.
Her right ankle was swollen. Taking her foot in hand, he manipulated her foot,
determining the ankle was only slightly sprained, not broken. Other than a few
blisters from insect bites on her arms she appeared to have no broken bones.
Likely, she was simply weak and dehydrated.

Her black
fingernails caught his attention.
Gangrene?
A closer inspection revealed
they were painted, not infected. He dragged a hand down his face, perplexed.
Why would a woman paint her nails black? And why did she have streaks of purple
paint in her hair?

After loosening
her blouse, he checked for further injuries. Girlish breasts were bound with
two lacy scraps of constricting, triangular fabric which he removed for her
comfort. She did not appear to be pregnant or nursing a babe. Greenish yellow
bruises on her rib cage indicated the injury occurred days ago. Had she fallen
from a passing horse or wagon? They were miles from the nearest settlement—at
least a half day’s ride. He inspected her shoes. An odd style with a spike for
a heel. A smooth sole suggested she had not walked far.

He
unloaded
his saddlebag and blanket, and then returned with a cloth and water canteen. He
peeled her blood soaked hosiery down her legs, followed by the black skirt. The
woman barked, startling him. Rat dog’s ears shot up and he growled, but the
little fellow never ceased gnawing on his prize.

Antonio sat back
on his haunches, expecting she might awaken. When she didn’t, he drew the skirt
down further past her hips, discovering another lacy wisp of fabric beneath,
its pattern similar to the one that had covered her breasts. Having never seen
anything like it, he stared at the scanty patch of cloth that barely covered
her intimate areas.
A new fashion of underclothes
?

The woman snarled
and bared her teeth. Antonio jerked his hand away.

Rat dog dropped
his meat and growled, too.

A dog he could
handle, but not the woman. He had been bitten once by a crazy cousin and had no
desire to repeat the experience. After whisking the short pantalets away, he
made an unusual discovery. Her pubic hair was black,
not
a brilliant
shade of red as the hair
on her head.

Realizing he had
stared a bit too long, he covered her with his blanket.

At the stream, he
rinsed her curious stockings and sweat soaked clothes. Although the sun was
still high in the sky—at least six hours until dark—he knew she could not ride
in her weakened condition. If he sutured the cut in her knee, wrapped her ankle
with a strip of cloth and bound her bruised ribs, and perhaps got some food and
warm drink in her, she might be strong enough to sit a horse by morning. The
ride would hurt like hell, but what choice did he have? He needed to be out of
Albuquerque tomorrow night.

He blew out an
exasperated breath. He’d dreamed of this woman for months, anticipating the day
when they’d finally meet. But finding her only served to complicate matters.
What would he do with her once they reached Albuquerque? Could he entrust her
into his mistress’ care until his return? Or should he risk taking her with him
to his family in
Dinetah
?

He wrung the water
from her clothes and spread them across sunlit rocks to dry. What was he to do?
He sighed, dragged a hand down his face.  Perhaps the best course of
action was to stay put for tonight. They were reasonably safe, concealed in the
arroyo. And he did need rest, as well as a filling meal, preferably one including
fresh game.

He glanced at the
dog. Not enough meat.

While the woman
rested soundly, he scouted the area, collecting little more than a fistful of
snake weed. After boiling leaves and stems in a small pot of water, he soaked
swatches of cloth cut from one sleeve of his shirt in the healing infusion.
Once it cooled, he applied it to the reddened insect bites on her legs and
arms.

Rummaging through
his leather pouch, he located a small suturing kit. His stomach growled as he
closed the cut in her knee, reminding him he hadn’t eaten since yesterday. His
hands trembled like the tiny dog beside him.
Exhaustion
.

“You are nervous?”
He eyed the animal.

The bug-eyed dog
yawned.

“Have no fear. I
am a—” He stopped short of saying
physician.
There was no point. The
past was over. Who and what he had once been no longer mattered. Now, he was
simply a fugitive.

He worked quickly
with limited supplies. Usually he carried a small, but well stocked medical bag
along with a few surgical supplies, but in his haste to escape the soldier’s
pursuit he left the kit and most of his food rations behind.

After cutting
long, wide strips from his shirt to bind her ribs and ankle, he fashioned
another thick, squared patch to dress the wound on her knee.

The dog curled up
in the crook of the girl’s elbow and settled down to sleep.

Antonio stroked
each stiff, red and purple spike of her odd coiffure with his fingertips,
noting the way sunlight sparked in it like falling embers at twilight. “Sleep
yahzi.”

His stomach
growled again, this time more insistent. He donned his vest and tied the blue
neckerchief around his forehead to keep sweat from running into his eyes, then
pulled his rifle from the scabbard. Rat dog trotted alongside him.

Antonio paused.
The dog stopped too, keeping a safe distance.  “Stay with your mistress,”
he commanded.

   
The animal yawned and stretched out his forelegs in a begging gesture.

Antonio bit back a
grin. “No, you cannot follow. There are rabbits in the brush four times your
size. They’ll have
you
for a meal.”

The dog lay on his
belly and slowly dragged his body toward Antonio. He chuckled. “Very well. You
may come along, but don’t get in my line of sight.”

Shaking his head, Antonio
followed the trail of jackrabbit pellets into the arroyo, aware the stubborn
animal was on his heels the entire time.

*
* * * *

Canyon de Chelly, Arizona
Territory

Eight year old
Lukachukai Whitehorse pulled the woven blanket beneath his chin and breathed in
the cool, earthy essence of night. Settled down for sleep on the hard packed
hogan floor, he listened to the faint murmurs of his aunt and older cousin as
they spoke outside in hushed tones. Soldiers were coming, they feared, and
soon.

His father had not
made it back to their encampment with food and guns and was several days
overdue. But that did not worry Lukachukai. His father was brave and strong,
much smarter than any white man’s soldier. He would return. He always did.

By fading
firelight, Lukachukai traced the jagged patterns of his blanket with his
fingertip—blue and black zigzags on a background of light gray. Some of the
older children had begun to tease him about his missing hand. The blanket had
become his most prized possession. His aunt said she had made the new blanket
for him to wear during the coming winter, but Lukachukai knew it was because he
had outgrown the old one. She had made this one wider to better shield his
stump from the hurtful stares and callous remarks of playmates.

He watched the
orange flames in the small fire pit in the center of the hogan lick at white,
misshapen logs. Fire. The color of the woman’s hair in his dream last night. He
had told Son of the Old Ways,
his older cousin and the tribe’s
hataalii,
of the strange recurring dreams about the woman. Son of the Old Ways
reported
he
had seen her in a vision in the sweat lodge. She was coming, he said,
and
Dinetah
would be forever changed.

Lukachukai closed
his eyes, allowing the women’s soft humming to lull him to sleep.

He traveled
through a blue swirling mist, riding on the brown and white spotted pony his
father had given him on his sixth birthday. Suddenly, he burst into the bright
light. Midday sun beat down hot upon his bare head. Horses snorted in the heat,
their tails swishing flies as they bustled past Navajo women selling their
wares—beaded jewelry, tanned hides, and woven baskets along the walk way.

He was at the
fort again.

After securing
his pony to a post, he wandered through the crowd of mostly soldiers, searching
for his mother and the baby, Mariposa. A group of Dine—Navajo men—and
bilagaana—whites, argued. The crack of a rifle split the air, followed by
another shot. Women and children screamed. People ran this way and that,
shoving into him. He smelled the acrid odor of burnt gunpowder, heard the cries
of the women and children as they rushed to avoid the soldier’s bullets. From
out of nowhere his mother burst toward him, knocked him to the ground. Her body
covered his.