Raven and the Cowboy: A Loveswept Historical Romance Page 11
“I’m sorry, Tucker. I didn’t mean to make you angry.”
“Angry? Spirit Woman, I’m a lot of things right now, but angry isn’t one of them. Just keep quiet and let me think.”
She complied, trying to hold herself away from him, from the continuing heat of his touch.
“I think we’ll confuse him a bit,” he said.
“Isn’t this a bit like the tortoise chasing the hare?”
“Not exactly. The tortoise is going to take a short cut.” With that he left the trail and started upward, carefully threading his way through the rocks.
“Where are you going?”
“Benito talked about a village in the valley beyond the mountain. If we go there, we can find shelter and help. Relax, Raven. I’m not saying no to your offer, I’m saying wait.”
Patience was a trait Raven had never developed. But Tucker’s implied yes was intriguing enough for her to contemplate. As they made their way up, the sun followed them, moving higher in the sky. Its light erased the wispy patches of clouds, turning the glistening rocks of gray granite a silvery color. The climb was exhausting and hot, and they had no food or water.
Tucker was strong, and after her initial worry, Raven relaxed against him, her arms around his neck, her forehead tucked into the hollow beneath his chin. Once again, even in the midst of danger, he’d made her feel safe.
As they climbed he grew winded and had to stop frequently. Finally, as the sun sprang into the space directly overhead, he reached a stand of stubby mesquite trees and laid her down in the patch of shade they provided.
“I’m going to leave you here for a bit and double back.”
“Why?”
“I want to find a place where I can see behind us.” He needed to make certain they weren’t being followed. He also knew that in spite of her calm demeanor, the constant movement of her ankle caused her a great deal of pain. And sooner or later, they had to find water. With water he could clean her wound, maybe even brew up some of that red berry liquid that would ease her pain.
Raven watched him go, swallowing hard, fighting the urge to call him back. Tucker was right to be concerned, for she knew that Swift Hand wouldn’t give up. She had sensed his fear of the mountains, his uncertainty of her powers, but greed and the need to be a hero in the eyes of their people would soon override his anxiety.
She stretched out her leg and winced as she caught sight of the swelling. Being carried was pleasant, but Tucker couldn’t hold out for long. As he climbed back down the mountain, she saw that he leaned slightly to the side and carried his elbow flat against his rib cage, tribute to the pain that his efforts must have caused. She didn’t have to test her ankle to know that walking was something she wouldn’t be doing for a while. But Tucker was not invincible.
Laying her head back, she closed her eyes. Tucker couldn’t carry her forever; they’d have to find somewhere to hide before night came again. They’d wrapped Luce in Tucker’s bedroll for burial. Now with the horses gone, so was her blanket, and all their food and water.
She tried to evaluate their options. Tucker still had his pistol and she still had—she touched her neck—yes. Her medicine bag was still there. Once she took a little rest, she might be able to fashion some kind of crutch or splint so that she could manage on her own. If only she had some water, she could treat her wound. Food she could do without.
But beyond that, the question of locating the treasure still loomed large. After finding Luce and coming so close to her goal, they appeared to be heading in a totally different direction. She and Tucker had become a kind of team, but now their personal survival stood in the way of their mission, and she couldn’t let that happen. The government would soon gather her people and force them farther west. She didn’t have a lot of time.
She dozed for a while, fitfully, and when she woke she discovered that Tucker was still gone.
Despair swept over her. The pain in her leg rolled through her empty stomach toward her chest like an avalanche. She felt such loss, such pain. She’d always spent time alone, but that was before Tucker Farrell, before the raven had met her mountain lion.
“The dream was right, Grandfather. The raven was the injured one. The cougar saved her.”
Raven lay, freeing her mind. This time she consciously willed a vision. She needed direction. She needed some kind of confirmation that all was not lost. Slowly at first, the drums came, growing louder as she waited. Then the chanting began, familiar words, a children’s song about games. But the chanting became louder and she joined in repeating the words.
Natinachabena!
[Now I go to seek my horses!]
Ni nananaechana!
[So here I stand and look about me!]
Ni nananaechana!
[So here I stand and look about me!]
Natinachabena!
[Now I go to seek my horses!]
The sound grew and grew until she felt her body begin to flutter. Her feet left the earth and she began to rise. Soon she was high in the sky, looking down at the woman sleeping beneath the mesquite trees below.
Feeling the wind beneath her wings, she soared, leaving pain and uncertainty behind, allowing the earth and the sky to cleanse her, free her to fly.
Still the song echoed in her mind. Seek the horses! Seek the horses! Then she saw them, Yank and Onawa racing through the rocks and scrub as if they, too, felt the wind against their chests, their manes flying in the breeze that swept them along.
Through the eyes of the raven, she searched the terrain until she saw Tucker, leaning against a boulder, pressing his hand against his ribs. He was tired, in pain, but he only stopped for a moment, then forced himself to turn and head back up the mountain toward the spot where he’d left her.
The flying black bird could see no sign of Swift Hand and his warriors. Dipping her wing, she allowed the current to sweep her toward the horses. Hear my words, Onawa, follow the raven.
The small mare lifted her head and snorted, studying the sky, pawing at the earth anxiously.
Come, faithful friend. Bring Yank and follow me.
After several moments of indecision, the horse began to move, slinging her head often to keep the black bird in sight. The travel for the horses was slow and often dangerous, for they had to forge through steep areas where there was no trail. A false step could have meant death. Yet Onawa kept coming. And Yank followed nervously behind.
The raven began to tire. She was thirsty and there was no water close enough for her to drink. The horses were thirsty, too, and unsettled. Never before had they followed a spirit guide.
The winds dropped. The raven’s wings grew heavy, and, like a leaf falling from the tree, the bird came slowly back to earth, disappearing as if it had never been. The drums hushed. The voices quieted. Raven slept.
Swift Hand reined in his horse and brought his men to a stop.
“Why did we flee?” Little Eagle asked.
“The spirits were not happy. They moved the mountain to show their displeasure. We will wait until the medicine woman finds the treasure. Then we will take it from her.”
“Our bellies are empty now. What shall we do?”
“There is a ranch near Santa Fe. It covers all the land that once belonged to our people.” Swift Hand thought for a moment, then whirled and rode away. “We ride down from the mountain and take what we want from those who took from our forefathers. Aieee!”
9
When Tucker returned, he carried a shovel with a broken handle. Somewhere along the way, he’d removed his bandanna from around his neck, tying it around his forehead like the wild Apache he’d accused Raven of being.
The tear in the knee of his pants had widened, allowing almost his entire kneecap to poke through. Perspiration stained the denim of his shirt. A cowboy he might be, but becoming a mountain man in hiding wore uneasily on the big, tawny man.
“Raven,” he said, relieved to see that she was watching him as he came to her side. “How is the leg?”
“No. I think they must have kept riding.” He didn’t tell her that the Indian was probably smart enough to figure out that the best way to find the treasure was to let Raven lead them to it. Why risk losing the location by confrontation?
There was no sign of her captor now, but with his skills, Swift Hand would be able to track a wounded woman and a man on foot. Somebody would be watching, sooner or later.
He tried to erase the frown of concern from his face. He knew that her endurance was being tested as much as his own.
“It’s all right, Tucker. I understand how bad the situation is. But our horses will be here soon, and we can ride over the ridge to Benito’s village.”
Tucker hadn’t seen any sign of the horses either, but he was too whipped to argue. He’d been moving all night and he was tired and thirsty. “First things first.” He started to dig at the base of the mesquite tree.
“What are you doing?”
“Surely you know about the mesquite tree’s roots seeking water. An old rancher told me once, the only way they can survive out here is if there’s water. We just have to go deep enough to find it.”
“I know about mesquite trees, Tucker, but you can’t dig deep enough up here to find water. This ground is almost solid rock. We’d do better to get moving. Onawa will soon be here and we’ll make better time.”
“And how do you know that?”
“I just know that she and Yank are near.”
Tucker’s argument was cut off by the sound of movement behind them. Seconds later Onawa picked her way across the loose boulders and came into sight, followed by Yank and a complaining burro.
“Christ, how do you do that?” His voice was cross. He’d had as much mysticism as he could stand. “Do you and the horse share some kind of mental connection?”
“I do not know. It has always been so.”
It might have been, but the idea unnerved Tucker. At least he didn’t have to dig halfway to China. “Now we have the horses, who also need water,” Tucker said, hoping their canteens were still in the burro’s pack. They were. They could drink from the tin cup in the saddlebag, but his hat was gone, and damned if he intended to fill his boot with water so that the animals could drink.
Searching further, he pulled out the tin pan. “Too bad I put holes in this. They never made any sense and now it’s worthless. I ought to throw it away.”
“No. I’m certain we’ll find a use for your map. Look again. The cup should be there.”
It was. Tucker uncapped one of the canteens and poured a small amount of the liquid into it. He first offered it to Raven, who refused to take more than a sip. Next he drank, sparingly, but more deeply than Raven. He allowed each horse a small amount of the precious liquid, then recapped the container and packed it in the saddlebags once more.
“I don’t suppose you’d like to dream us up a nice stream and a fat rabbit, would you?”
“I wish I could, Tucker. But I don’t always have control over my visions. They come from the spirit world.”
“Well, maybe we’ll get lucky. Let’s keep moving.”
By now the sun had slipped over the rim of the ridge behind them. They needed to move quickly since they could more easily be tracked in the daytime. Delaying the treatment of Raven’s injury, Tucker set her on Onawa’s bare back. Then he mounted Yank, who for once didn’t protest, and rode the big horse toward the summit.
“Just let the horses choose,” he instructed Raven. “They’ll find the way better than you or I.”
They reached the top of the ridge by late afternoon and started down. The horses were tentative at first, then moved more eagerly. Suddenly Onawa came to a stop, forcing Yank to do the same.
In the twilight’s dead quiet, Tucker heard the sound of the wind sweeping down the draw. The leaves of the cottonwood trees rustled below, faintly at first, then louder. Someone was moving there.
Tucker slowly drew his pistol from its holster. He narrowed his eyes, studying the shadows. If Swift Hand lay in wait, there was little Tucker could do. They were all exhausted. The ridge was behind them and the intruder was waiting below.
Then Tucker let out a chuckle and a deep breath. “It’s okay, Raven. It’s just a wild animal. Maybe a deer. If I dared fire this pistol, we’d have supper.”
“How can you be sure?”
He didn’t have to show her. The burro, untethered, bounded down the trail. His screams of pleasure frightened a small mountain goat, who ran from the trees, scrambled up the rocks, and disappeared into the shadows.
“I think we can be sure that we’re alone.” Tucker relaxed for the first time since they’d crested the ridge. “Otherwise that goat wouldn’t have been grazing down there. From the burro’s behavior, I’d say there is water beyond those trees. That’s where the horses have been heading all along.”
Yank and Onawa moved quickly down the draw, into the stand of cottonwood and piñon. Tucker climbed down. He heard the soft ripple of a stream rolling over stones and hitting a pool below. Soon the animals were drinking noisily.
He could tell from the slump of Raven’s shoulders that she’d gone as far as she could go. “I’ll help you down.”
“Yes. Can we have a fire? I’m suddenly getting very cold.”
“ ‘Can we have a fire?’ Is the general abdicating her post?” he asked with a smile.
“The general is too weary to worry.”
Tucker put his arms around her waist and swung her down, being careful not to touch her swollen leg to the ground. He held her, for just a moment, then chastised himself for his thoughtlessness. She was hungry, thirsty, and exhausted, and here he was acting like some randy cowboy with nothing but lust on his mind. Looking around, he settled her on a tree stump by the water.
“I’ll lay out your bedroll. I guess we’re fortunate that Swift Hand decided to make you sleep sitting up. Otherwise we’d have left it behind.”
She didn’t answer, but seemed content to watch him make camp.
As quickly as he could, Tucker cleared the ground and unrolled the mat. Once more he moved Raven, placing her on the blanket. He removed his vest and folded it, sliding it beneath her head as a pillow. For just a second, he allowed himself to look at her, then reluctantly moved away to gather dry wood for a fire. Using one of his precious matches, he lit the moss and watched it blaze up. Soon the fire licked red tongues around the dry branches.
“Isn’t it dangerous to build a fire?” Raven asked wearily.
“I don’t think it matters. We’re over the ridge in a low place, in the trees. If Swift Hand is following us, he already knows where we are. We’ll have to make do with cold tortillas I took from one of the Indians’ ponies.”
Raven licked her dry lips. “We wouldn’t have that, except his braves were more interested in the whiskey they found than the food.”
Whiskey. His whiskey. He fumbled through his saddlebag. “Damn!”
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I guess it was too much to hope that they wouldn’t find it. At least our escape makes more sense.”
“Sorry about your whiskey. Guess you’ll just have to drink water,” she said.
The cornmeal fritters were hard and dry, but after being dipped into the cup of spring water, they were eatable. After they’d finished the meal, Tucker filled the tin cup once again and set it in the fire to boil.
“Do you have any more of that root and berry medicine?”
Raven pulled her medicine bag out from beneath her buckskin dress and pulled it open. “Yes, a small amount.”
“The berry concoction takes away the pain?”
“Yes, but I don’t think I’ll need it.” She handed him the last piece of the healing root. “Place this in the water and boil it.”
He followed her directions, then muttered, “I wish I still had the whiskey.”
“Well, I could probably
find some bark and make you a nice tea,” Raven said.
“I didn’t intend to drink it. I was going to treat your wound with it.” Wetting his bandanna in the stream, he sat down beside Raven.
Her sun-kissed legs were long and supple, used to walking, but not to a man’s touch. At first she started, then let out a deep breath and visibly forced herself to relax as he lifted her foot with one hand and her knee with the other. Carefully he washed the cut, pleased that so far as he could see in the lengthening shadows, it didn’t look angry.
He continued to wash and touch her long after his need to treat the wound was done. She was a beautiful woman, openly showing her trust in him. He couldn’t justify or restrain his growing reaction to her body.
Forget it, Tucker. This woman is hurt. Put your mind out of its misery and get to the job of treating her wound.
After he’d poured the root liquid into the cut, he put the cup back on the fire and heated more water. Then, dipping his bandanna into the water, he applied the hot cloth to the wound. Over and over, he repeated this until he was satisfied that the leg was totally warmed. Finally he stood.
“I hope Swift Hand’s braves didn’t get a hankering to take a lady’s petticoat back to the village.” He removed their packs from the horses, opened hers, and drew out the soft white cotton garment. “Nope, it’s still here.”
Ripping the rest of the ruffle away, he bandaged the wound, then bound the ankle, splitting the end of the strand of material and tying it to hold the fabric tight. By the time he’d finished, Raven was half asleep.
He covered her with her blanket, then piled more wood on the fire and lay down on the ground beside her, but far enough away to keep from touching. “I’m sorry you had to use your bedroll to bury Luce,” she whispered drowsily.
“Don’t worry about it. I’ve slept on the ground plenty of nights.”
She pulled back her blanket. “Don’t be silly, Tucker. Come here.”
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea, Raven.”