Chapter Two

Near Denver City

June, 1864

It rained last night. Warm air blowing over the Rockies from the Gulf of Mexico had conjured up a violent thunderstorm, rare for this part of the country. Francesca Duvall missed the sound of rain dashing against her window. She missed New York. Four years ago, she'd bid a final, tearful farewell at her mother's grave and steeled herself for the overland journey.

She hadn't been able to dispel the gold fever consuming her father, LeGrande, or dissuade her brother Marshall, two years her junior, from the wanderlust claiming their souls. Now their home stood along the Platte River near the mining camps of Charles City and Auraria in Colorado. A lonely life for a young woman of eighteen whose father insisted she dress like a boy.

"Miners are an unscrupulous lot," her father often said. "They'll slake their lust on the nearest woman while I'm panning for gold."

She'd grown accustomed to binding her chest with strips of cotton fabric, donning a pair of Marsh's old britches and one of his cotton shirts to camouflage her soft curves, but that didn't mean she liked it. Her long, black hair tucked beneath an old straw hat completed the masquerade. Everyone in camp believed the old widower Duvall broke his back day after day flashing for gold in Cherry Creek while his two motherless sons kept the home fires burning.

Francesca cracked open six eggs and tossed them into the skillet next to a slab of bacon. Battling impatience, she walked onto the porch, cupped her hand over her brow, and searched for Marsh across her father's wheat field. The scent of damp earth reached her nostrils and next, the enticing aroma of dew-kissed bluebells and prairie grass. The land was so eerily still, she jumped from her skin when the hoarse trill of a raven in a nearby cottonwood split the air.

She scanned the flat, windswept prairie, cupped a hand over her mouth and called out for Marsh. In the distance, ribbons of black smoke snaked skyward and scattered under the clear blue sky.

Cesca clasped a hand to her throat. Mrs. Peabody, their closest neighbor, insisted the day would come. "The Cheyenne and Arapaho are on the war path," the woman had said. "Not all went willingly to the reservation, and now the country blazes with terror."

Cesca's father had agonized over the woman's admonitions, threatened to abandon his claim and head back east. Shanghaied by an almighty lust for gold, he dashed the notion the moment Mrs. Peabody fled to safety. The woman swore on the Good Book not a soul would survive. "Anyone with a whit of sense would flee. Gold or no gold." True to her word, Elmira had taken flight last week in a buckboard, her jowls aflutter, her keen eyes wide and alert.

Her brother's voice came to her now on the wings of panic. "Run, Cesca, run!"

He sprinted over a small knoll, his hand clasping his side. His sandy locks shone brilliant beneath the harsh rays of the morning sun. Terror struck his blue eyes and Francesca felt the color drain from her face.

With fright choking her, Marsh pushed her into the cabin. He ran to the sideboard, pulled a derringer from the drawer and shoved it into her hand. "Through the bedroom window!" he shouted. "There's little time!"

"Oh, Marsh!" Sobs cracked her voice. "We're going to die!"

"No, Cesca!" He grabbed her arm and dragged her to the other side of the room. "You'll live if you do as I say."

The pounding of hooves against the earth reached them, and next, the triumphant cries of banshees. Cesca peered through the open door and almost crumbled. Riding well-muscled ponies, ten braves trampled through her father's field. Their faces awash in hideous black, blue and yellow war paint, they advanced on the small cabin.

Marsh lifted the sash and pushed her through the open window. "Run as fast as you can to the river, hide in the tall grass."

"Oh, please don't ask me to leave you. Come with me."

"You must listen!" He grasped her shoulders through the open pane, his expression grim. "Do you know what they do to white women? Please, Cesca, go now!"

Through an open field she sprinted and glanced over her shoulder, stunned to see the invaders had already entered the house. Gunshots bounced off the trees. Papa's rifle. Marsh would try to hold them off until she made it to the river. His face loomed before her—so innocent and brave. Agony gripped her heart. He had forfeited his life so she could live. The thought she'd never see him again tore at her innards.

In the pale light of morning, Francesca spied the tall prairie grass ahead, smelled the ashen waters of the river. A blue jay screeched from a low-hanging branch as she passed with the derringer clutched in her hand. Thank God her father had shown her how to shoot. A single shot, that's all that stood between her and death.

She remembered the acrid, black smoke and the direction from which it came - Auraria, the miner's camp. Her father must be dead too. Please, God, don't let them find me. Tall spikes rose to her hips and rustled against her twill pants as she threshed toward the river. A desperate desire to survive coursed through her blood. She'd grab a hefty branch, float down the river so they couldn't track her, would never find her.

Moments later, she emerged from the tall grass and her stomach lurched. On the opposite bank of the river stood the most frightening sight she'd ever laid eyes on.

She froze, her heart pounding in triple beats. Pewter eyes locked with hers and she uttered a low cry of fear. Grotesque war paint covered his face and bloody scalps hung from his waist. She was as good as dead.

Recovering her senses, she raised the derringer, her hands shaking like a rattler's tail. "Don't come near me! I know how to use this. Take one step and I'll shoot."

A flicker of admiration flashed in the gunmetal orbs. And something else. Oh, God, has he seen through my ruse, knows I'm not a boy? Her heart sank.

Treading through the shallow water, he advanced and she retreated, tripping over her feet. She drew back on the trigger and fired. Morbid fascination gripped her when the bullet whirred by his head and carved out a shallow furrow along his temple. A stream of blood trickled from the wound and ran down his cheek. And what fine cheeks he possessed. Every feature of his face deftly carved, they reminded her of the savages in her father's picture books.

She sprinted toward the marsh grass, only to be slammed to the ground when a rock-hard body struck her from behind. Although crushed by the man's weight, she clawed at the earth. Gritty sand and damp moss spiraled up her nose. Amid the white-hot pain in her ribs, she struggled to remain conscious. Her life depended on keeping her faculties.

Strong hands bound her hands behind her back before darkness found her.

* * *

Meko thought he'd crushed the boy during the desperate lunge to bring him down. His frail body lay across his thighs, eliciting a jumble of conflicting sensations. His gut warned him something was amiss. Before the boy drew the hammer back, Meko's pulse had raced. He rolled him over, his innards stirring with an odd sort of heat. No wonder the People called them ghost face. The white-eye's smooth, satiny skin bore a resemblance to the alabaster shell stones found along the river banks.

He flicked the straw hat aside, astonished to see a profusion of black hair framing the delicate face. Long, bristled lashes rested against the pale cheeks, and although slack, the full lips were pink and inviting. He traced them with his thumb and moved on to the soft curve of her jaw line, mesmerized by the perfect features in the oval face. Heat coursed through his blood.

Meko sat back on his haunches, studied the girl and cursed under his breath. Kâse'eehe, young woman. He should have known. Didn't the frantic pounding of his heart, the sudden tightening in his loins alert him when he first looked into the dark green eyes?

With great difficulty, her chest rose and fell. Had he broken her ribs? He unbuttoned her shirt and discovered wide strips binding her chest. So, the little wildcat tried to hide her gender, wanted everyone to believe she was a he. Hauling her up gently, he draped her across his arm and searched for the end of the fabric. The soft swell of her breasts rose up to meet him, knocking the air from his lungs. He unwound the binding and then unbuttoned her trousers, expecting to see a crushed pelvis. Narrow hip bones, spanning the length of his hand, topped long, sleek limbs. Nothing appeared broken. Her eyelids fluttered and he thought she might awaken, but they stilled again and her breathing returned to normal.

A soft whistle from his lips brought Night Walker splashing through the water. He lifted the woman from the ground, mounted, and cradled her in his arms. Cursing the Fates for placing this unexpected problem in his path, he had no idea what to do with a skinny woman who preferred to dress like a boy. He rode from the river with the acrid smell of smoke in his nostrils and wondered what the girl would do when she realized she was alone in the world now.

* * *

"Francesca!" Marsh struggled against the leather thong binding his wrists and watched his sister ride into the clearing on a black and white paint. His captor raised his tomahawk, warning him into silence. Marsh's eyes wandered to the red man behind Cesca—the most fearsome man to ever walk the earth. Black and yellow stripes ran from the bottom of his nose to the top of his forehead. He wore a headdress of feathers from the magpie, the owl, and the raven. A whistle made from the bone of an eagle's wing hung from a strip of rawhide about his neck, and a long knife sheathed in leather at his waist accompanied a bow and a quiver of arrows draped over his left shoulder.

Doeskin leggings, adorned at the waist with a sash of skunk skins, clung to his long, muscular legs. A snake rattle, meant to put the fear of God in his enemy, hung from his waistband. Over his right shoulder, a band of cloth decorated in porcupine quills and eagle feathers almost met the ground.

When Cesca moaned, Marsh thrashed against his restraints. Her captor's eyes narrowed, scattering any foolish thought on his part to run to her. The warrior motioned to his comrades, the horses bolted and soon they were clipping along the banks of the Platte. Running behind the stallion, Marsh struggled to keep up, knowing if he faltered or fell, he'd be killed without hesitation. Miles later, and much to Marsh's relief, they stopped to water the horses. Gasping for breath, he placed his hands at his knees, bent at the waist, and devoured the thin air.

Cesca's captor lifted her from his mount, laid her on the ground, and removed his headdress. The sash he draped over his saddle. Marsh held his breath when the red man dipped a cloth in the nearby river and dropped to one knee to wipe the smudge from his sister's face. Cesca's eyes fluttered open and without warning, vomit spewed from her throat. In an act of unexpected kindness, the warrior put the cool cloth to her head.

Marsh choked down his fear and called out to Cesca when she slapped the man's hand away. "Don't fight him! There's nothing you can do against so many!"

Relief crossed her features as she labored to rise. "Marsh, oh, God, I thought you dead!"

Her captor pushed her to the ground with a firm shove to her shoulder. Faster than an eel striking, she slapped his face. Without missing a beat, he slapped her back. Not enough to send her head reeling but hard enough to warn her. Marsh prayed she'd heed that warning. The man could snap Cesca's neck like a twig if he desired.

Well-acquainted with her explosive temper, Marsh moaned when fire flashed in his sister's eyes. Her hand aimed for his face, her fingers rigid and spread for attack. A string of every curse word in her dictionary—French and English—spewed from her lips.

His face fierce, the painted ghoul pinned her arms to her sides and gave a nod to his comrade. A giant of a man slid from his mount and walked toward Marsh with hatchet raised. He sent a prayer skyward and waited for the blow that would crush his skull.

"No, please!" Cesca shouted. "I submit."

With another nod from his leader, the Indian lowered the weapon and Marsh expelled a long breath. He'd live, at least for now.

* * *

Cesca locked eyes with the renegade pinning her to the ground, her mind reeling with hateful thoughts of what she'd do to him given the chance. A sneer curled his lips and for a brief moment she wondered if he could read her mind. She shoved his hand away when he freed the top button of her shirt. Did he mean to rape her in front of God and everyone?

Gentle fingers lifted her chin. "I check for broken ribs."

Her words followed a shocked gasp. "You speak English!"

He nodded and slipped his long fingers inside her shirt. How she tried to ignore the peculiar heat pedaling through her veins. She averted her face and reminded her brain he was a savage, a primitive, untamed beast. With a hopeless moan, she remembered the linen strips binding her chest. Dear God, someone had removed them. Too mortified to speak, a warm flush had found her cheeks by the time he finished his bold assessment.

"Nothing broken," he said as if examining the injured leg of a pony.

He lifted her from the ground and plopped her into the saddle amid a round of titters and guttural words from his warriors. She knew instinctively the exchange concerned her. In one fluid movement, the dark warrior mounted behind her and pulled her against his torso. She struggled to free herself from the iron grip, but he laughed and pulled her closer.

Cesca glanced over her shoulder. "Wait! You can't mean to have my brother run all the way to—to wherever it is you're taking us." She shifted to face him with her chin thrust out. "If so, I'll run too."

In the ensuing pause, she thought the native meant to push her from the horse. Instead, he signed to his friend and Marsh's captor hauled him onto the stallion.

"Thank you," she uttered.

She drifted in and out for hours, lulled by the pony's hooves pounding the prairie. A strong arm held her against the steel body, offering a false sense of security. She wandered between dreams of haunting memories. Her father stroked her hair while reading her a book by candlelight, Marsh raced across an open meadow, the wind rustling through his sandy locks. He called out to her, "Hurry, Cesca, we're almost there."

She pushed the comforting thoughts to the back of her mind. Their carefree days of youth were gone, dead, like their parents. She snuck a glance at Marsh. Fighting to stay awake, his head bobbed as he clung to the thick waist of his captor. Somehow, she'd think of a way to escape. If they lived to see the sunrise again.

As if to summon her thoughts, the grip tightened around her chest. She felt the man's warm breath against her ear. "Don't even think of running, little wildcat. You're mine now. I'll hunt you down and when I find you, you'll wish you'd been taken by Choking Wolf." Clutching her chin between his fingers, he turned her head toward Marsh's captor.

With a shiver, she looked away and allowed her mind to wander to the moment she first spied the dark warrior across the river. The image frightened and enthralled her. Surpassing the other renegades in height, his broad shoulders topped a narrow waist and muscular legs. Long black hair, the color of the crow's wing, framed his firm, square jaw and high cheekbones. Gray eyes caught hers across the expanse, and the generous mouth, much too attractive for a native, had curled into a smirk. Twice now, she'd seen that beguiling smile. First, when she discovered Marsh still lived, and again when he slipped his hand inside her shirt and checked for broken ribs.

Believing it impossible for an Indian to harbor compassion or exhibit tenderness to a white, she sighed. What a muddled mess. Yesterday, she'd been running through a field of wildflowers chasing butterflies, and now she and Marsh were in the hands of renegade cutthroats.

Her thoughts turned to her mother, or what she remembered of her. Maman died giving birth to Marsh, and Cesca could only recall the horrific screams from her mother's room. And blood, an endless river of crimson. She'd never hold the daguerreotype of pretty Delphine Duvall, a frail, wisp of a woman with hair as black as night, in her hands. The savages had torched the house.

She thought of her father and her heart splintered. The man had done everything in his power to bring a sense of normalcy to their lives, despite his loneliness after his wife's passing. Several women had trampled through their lives and left. Cesca imagined Papa kept them long enough to appease his sexual appetite.

Their father had raised his children according to their mother's wishes; made sure they received a proper education and attended Catholic services once a week. After they arrived in the territory, he dragged them to the mining camp every Sunday morning. Father Tisdale delivered the sermon beneath a white canvas tent, complete with the appropriate Hail Mary's.

Cesca wouldn't tell Marsh their father had died. Let him think he'd survived the Indian attack. She knew the truth, had studied every renegade in the clearing. Her father's thick, dark hair hung from the belt of the one called Choking Wolf. She wanted to kill the man when she saw it, would have if she wouldn't be sealing Marsh's fate. Soon the heathen would adorn his war shirt with tufts of her father's scalp. Lord, help her if Marsh recognized Papa's hair.

She sensed her brother's fright and fought to keep her own terror at bay. The Rocky Mountain News often reported about the depravations the savages committed against the whites, particularly women. Bile rose in her throat and she fought back the urge to retch again.

Struggling against the rigid arm binding her to his chest, she whispered aloud the words she'd read in the paper last week. "The only good Indian is a dead Indian."

His cool retort stoked the anger in her belly. "Didn't your mother tell you not to bite the hand that feeds you?"

She didn't need to turn around to know those arrogant lips mocked her. He seemed to enjoy her discomfort. The thought infuriated her.

Glancing to the horizon ahead, a shudder tore through her. The outline of tipis reaching for the sky appeared, their thick, gray smoke drifting toward the dismal clouds. People milled about, went through the everyday motions of living, yet she and Marsh would soon be delivered to the gates of Hell. She shrank into the rigid torso behind her, terrified of the plight awaiting them.

A pleasing aroma of sandalwood and manly heat assailed her senses when he whispered against her ear. "Where is the little, green-eyed cat's courage now?"

The sun shone warm upon her face. Cesca took the offered strength, squared her shoulders, and lifted her chin. No matter what happened, she wouldn't show these heathens cowardice.