Masquerade (13 page)

He glanced up at the vast indigo sky and grinned. "Yes, perhaps I'll do that."

He had a wonderful smile, she thought, and almost ran them into a fence because she was watching him instead of the road.

A few minutes later she made a left turn onto the tree-lined dirt road that led to the big, ranch-style house where she had been born. It was a little run down now, but as soon as she got a little money ahead, she was going to get it fixed up. So many things that needed doing, she thought as she reined the team to a halt in front of the house. The shutters at the windows, once a deep forest green, were badly faded. The barn roof was in need of repair. The bunkhouse needed a new roof. One of the corrals out back needed a new gate. But there were good things, too. She loved the verandah wrapped around the front of the house, and the flowers that grew in wild profusion on both sides of the front porch. The rope swing she had played on as a little girl still hung from the big old oak tree on the side of the house. Someday, the good Lord willing, her own children would play on it

"Well," she said, setting the brake. "We're home."

Rafael nodded. "Home," he repeated quietly, but it was the woman he was looking at when he said it, and not the house.

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Sneak Peek 2

Clint Gray Bull has a good life, including a fiancée and his own company, but he feels as if there should be something more. Recent dreams of a woman drive him to seek his grandfather's wisdom.

Ellie Hathaway works in a saloon, but she dreams of a decent life and a tall handsome man to love.

Will a sweat lodge and a legendary white stallion named Relámpago bring them together in a way neither could imagine? And what about the fiancée?

Prologue

Dakota Territory, 1877

The great white stallion, Relámpago, rested in the shade of a gnarled oak, his ears and tail twitching in hopes of discouraging the flies and insects that made their home on the Great Plains of South Dakota.

In the distance, a herd of Lakota ponies grazed on the lush spring grass. Relámpago was well-known among the tribes. Most had stories and legends of the mysterious white stallion who had long wandered the shadowy path between the past and the present. The Apache called him a spirit horse; the Cheyenne and the Lakota called him a ghost horse because of his pale color. But Relámpago was both, and neither.

The stallion lifted his head when he heard the whisper of distant voices rising on the wind.

It was time to go.

Chapter 1

Dakota Territory, 1878

Ellie Hathaway forced a smile as she made her way between tables. She hated working at the Bella Union Saloon, hated the cheap costume the owner, Tom Miller, insisted the girls had to wear. It was embarrassing, the way the men ogled her legs and made rude jokes. When she had first arrived in Deadwood, working in the Bella Union had been the only job she could get. Now, having been a saloon girl, no one else would hire her for a decent job – not that there were many decent places to work in Deadwood – nor did anyone in town believe that all she did was serve drinks.

Sometimes Ellie thought she should have opened a brothel. Dora DuFran and Mollie Johnson, two of Deadwood's most successful madams, seemed quite prosperous. But as tempting as it seemed, Ellie knew she would never be comfortable promoting such a life style, just as she knew she'd never be able to face the decent people in town if that was how she earned her living, though decent folk were few and far between.

Deadwood, so named for all the dead trees in the gulch, was a rough and ready town, filled with prostitutes and gamblers and thousands of miners who had been drawn there by the lure of gold and the promise of instant wealth.

Not that Ellie could blame them. It was the reason she, herself, had come here from Bismarck as a mail-order bride. Unfortunately, the man she was to have married was killed in a bar fight the day before she arrived. She'd had a lot of other offers, but none of them had included marriage.

Ellie blew out a sigh as the last of the customers headed for the swinging doors. She had hoped this job would be temporary, that she could save enough money to go back east to Miss Hudson's Academy for Young Women. She had hopes that, with an education and a bit of refinement, she might meet a tall, dark, handsome man who would forgive her for her past. But she had been here almost a year and she wasn't any closer to saving a stake, or getting out of this horrid town.

It didn't stop her from dreaming, though.

Chapter 2

South Dakota, Present Day

Clint Gray Bull pulled onto the rutted dirt road that led to his grandfather's rundown house. He hadn't seen the old man for a couple of years and if he hadn't received a letter from his mother the week before, he wouldn't be here now.

He's not getting any younger
, his mother had written.
I know you're on vacation for the next three weeks. It wouldn't hurt you to drive out and see him. I know he'd be happy to see you. For once, think of someone besides yourself
.

Clint shook his head as he pulled into the old man's yard and cut the engine. The grass was dry and brown, the house in desperate need of a coat of paint. The front window had been patched with a piece of plywood. Clint had offered to build his grandfather a new house, or at least make some desperately-needed renovations to this one, but the old man had refused, saying it was a waste of money.

The tipi that stood alongside the house looked about as old as his grandfather. A pretty bay mare dozed in a rickety peeled-pole corral. An old spotted hound dog lifted its head as Clint stepped out of the truck. The dog wagged its tail once and then went back to sleep.

Taking a deep breath, Clint crossed the hot, dusty ground, and rapped on the front door. He waited a minute, then knocked again. When there was still no answer, he pushed the door open and stepped inside.

The house was just as he remembered it, small and rundown. A Lakota drum stood in one corner. A dusty buffalo rug covered the floor in front of the fireplace. The mantel held the same things as always – a turtle rattle, the courting flute his grandfather had used to court his grandmother, a framed photograph of Clint's mother and father, an eagle feather fan, and a turquoise rock. An "Addams Family" rerun was showing on an old portable TV.

"
Tunkasila
? Are you home?"

A faint shuffling sound preceded the old man's entrance into the living room. For all his years, Samuel Gray Bull looked like he was in pretty good shape. He was a little bent over, his long black hair showed more iron than ebony, but his black eyes were as sharp as a skinning knife.

"Grandson," he murmured. "It is good to see you."

"It's good to see you, too."

"Why have you come? Are you in trouble?"

Clint shook his head ruefully. "No,
tunkasila
, I'm not in trouble. I'm on vacation and I thought I'd come by for a visit."

"Ah," the old man said with a knowing grin. "Your mother sent you."

There was no use denying it. "Is it all right if I stay for a few days?"

"My house is yours. Do you want to eat?"

"No, I grabbed a burger in town. I wouldn't say no to a cup of coffee, though."

With a nod, the old man shuffled into the kitchen.

After a moment, Clint followed him.

The kitchen, too, was the same. A gritty Formica counter top, an ancient Sears refrigerator and stove, a battered oak table ringed by five equally scarred chairs. An aluminum can filled with wilted wildflowers sat in the middle of the table. Curtains that had once been white fluttered at the open window.

With a sigh, Clint sat at the table while the old man made coffee. He hated coming home. It depressed the hell out of him. But this time, instead of thinking about where he had come from, Clint thought about how far he had gone in the last eight years. He had his own business now. Men – red and white – treated him with respect. He was engaged to a pretty woman who came from a high-class family. And yet…it wasn't enough. There was something missing in his life – something intangible, yet vital.

The old man placed a crockery mug filled with hot black coffee in front of him.

"I've got some cake," he said. "Old Lady Tashina made it. You want some?"

"Sure, why not." His grandfather and Tashina had been 'keeping company' for the last ten years.

With a smile, the old man pulled a cake keeper out of the cupboard. He cut two slices, placed them on cracked saucers, then sat down across from Clint.

They sat in silence for a time. If there was one thing the old man knew how to do, Clint thought, it was make a good cup of coffee.

The old man refilled their mugs before he spoke again. "Why have you come?"

"You said it yourself. My mother sent me."

Gray Bull shook his head. "No. That is the reason you gave me." Leaning across the table, he tapped a gnarled finger on Clint's chest. "I want to know what is in here."

A chill ran down Clint's spine. Gray Bull was not only his grandfather, he was a practicing medicine man, said to be the most powerful in over a hundred years. He had the gift of healing and the gift of sight. In his youth, Clint had seen the old man exercise both.

"I've been having some strange feelings the last month or so," Clint admitted. "And I've been having some weird dreams lately."

"What kinds of feelings?"

"It's hard to describe." Clint lifted his hand in a vague gesture. "I feel empty inside, like a part of me is missing."

The old man nodded. "And your dreams?"

"I'm in the past, and there's a girl…" A pretty young woman with long red hair and guileless blue eyes. "I can't get her out of my mind." Even when he was with Brenda, Clint found himself thinking of the red-haired woman. He had never met her, so who on earth was she, and why was he dreaming about her?

"I must think on this," Gray Bull said, rising. "Tomorrow we will have a sweat."

Clint was about to ask if that was necessary and then he shrugged. "Sure. Why the hell not?"

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