Raven and the Cowboy: A Loveswept Historical Romance (5 page)

This was not going to be easy. He had to find a way to think about something other than his body bouncing off the rocks below.

“
Onawa
. What does it mean?”

He delayed. She trusted him to get her out of this mess when his feet refused to move. How in hell was he going to force himself out onto that ledge?

“
Onawa
means wide-awake,” she said. “Don’t look down. Just stick close to the wall and I’ll be beside you.”

She gave him a nudge and tried to find something to take his mind off his fear. “Do you have a name?”

“Several.”

“Which of them shall I call you?”

He finally took a step, a deep breath, then another step.

“The name I was born with is Tucker, Tucker Farrell.”

For a long minute, he hugged the cliff, his arm still supporting her, his nose pressed against the hard rock wall. Then his foot hit a loose pebble, which rolled to the narrow edge and fell. There was no sound of it hitting bottom.

He froze again.

“Tucker Farrell,” the woman said softly. “I like that name. A proud defender.”

He would have argued that the only thing he defended was his own life, but he had a sudden flash of the miner back in the cantina. Coming to his aid had been a temporary aberration. He wondered if the old man had gotten away, how badly he’d been shot. For a moment, Tucker allowed himself to admit that he’d done a good deed. Then he remembered the necktie party and what had almost happened.

“Don’t count on me, ma’am. I’m just a drifter, a misfit. Nothing valiant about me.”

“Your animal power comes from the cougar, Mr. Farrell. You are, or you will become, that proud creature. I know. I have dreamed it.”

As Tucker stewed over that bizarre observation, he
forgot his fear and took a step, then another. “Where’d you get a name like Raven?” he asked.

“That was my mother’s name. It is tradition. I am considered a spirit woman.”

“Spirit woman. Of course. I should have known that.” As he considered that revelation, they reached the top of the trail.

“Onawa! My friend.” The Indian woman laid her head against the neck of the small black-and-white horse for a moment before climbing on. She rode without a saddle.

Yank looked from Tucker to the filly and back again, his great nostrils blowing air, his head held high as if to say,
I’m the protector here
. Tucker gave the horse a disgusted look and patted his saddlebags to make sure his supplies were still there. Satisfied that they’d weathered the storm, he climbed on the horse and prepared to bid his unusual companion farewell.

“Which way do we go?” Raven asked. “Do we continue along the trail, or do we make our way to the canyon floor below?”

“Now wait just a minute, ma’am. There is no ‘we.’ I’ve got a gang of Mexican bandits behind me who think I separated them from the location of a lost treasure. You’d better find yourself another traveling companion.”

“Lost treasure?”

Hell, he’d done it now. Not only was there a treasure-crazed band of outlaws behind him, the woman beside him had that same glaze of recognition in her eye. Had she followed him? Did she know about the treasure and expect him to lead her to it?

At that moment, Raven led the way, nudging Onawa into a trot.

Tucker swallowed his protest and followed. “Don’t expect me to take you to any treasure. I don’t know a thing
about it. I just helped an old prospector who bragged about finding it.”

“The treasure will wait. We must hurry,” Raven said. “Your pursuers ride hard. They mean you harm.”

Damn, he didn’t want to have to kill anybody. He’d done enough of that as a soldier, fighting first his own kind, then the Indians. For the last few years, he’d managed to avoid trouble. The only time he used his gun now was in self-defense or to kill for food. Yet he was beginning to feel a kind of tension settle over him. Even Yank didn’t have to be urged.

“All right. The horses need water. We’ll make our way to the river. We can find better hiding places there.”

Raven nodded.

Tucker peered over the edge of the trail and winced. “I don’t suppose you know the way down, do you?”

“No, but it doesn’t matter. We’ll find it.”
The spirits will guide you
, a voice said as clearly as if someone had spoken.

Raven glanced at Tucker, who was studying the trail behind them. She could feel the urgency building inside her, but she didn’t know if it came from their pursuers or the man beside her.

As the horses moved along, Raven emptied her thoughts. She could almost feel the earth tremble, as if she were riding across the plains, a herd of buffalo coming toward her, a herd of cattle behind, the cliff on one side and the mountain on the other. Sometimes, if she waited, she’d hear the sounds of drumbeats and chanting, signaling the coming of a vision.

She glanced up and caught sight of a single black bird over her, flying along as if it were some kind of totem, protecting her.

Nah’ni chita-ini
. Look, O maid, behold me.

And Raven understood she was to follow. There
would be no vision. Instead the spirits had sent a visible guide to lead them.

The trail came to the intersection. The bird overhead flew straight, following the trail that had begun to drop. It let out an urgent squawk and dipped over the edge of the canyon rim before disappearing from sight

The sun went behind a cloud, and the earth turned cool for a moment as the mountain cast its shadow across the trail.

Tucker swore.

Raven shivered and wondered what lay ahead.

The bird gave a final cry from somewhere in the canyon below.

More than an hour passed before Tucker reined Yank to a stop and measured their progress.

Between his headache, his sore ribs, and the woman riding in front of him, he was having difficulty focusing on the task at hand.

A fine pair they made. Both had been on the trail and both had fallen, yet she didn’t even seem alarmed. It was almost as if she’d expected him. If he were a superstitious man, he’d be looking over his shoulder. The one thing he did know was that being with him put her in danger. More than that, he was entirely too conscious of her as a woman. What in hell was she really doing here and where were they going?

The treasure had to be the answer. She must be looking for it too. If she didn’t know about it, he couldn’t for the life of himself figure out why she’d want to ride with him.

Tucker had no illusions about himself. He was a black sheep, a man who’d deserted his country’s army because he’d disagreed with the orders he’d been given. He had no future and a past that not even he liked to dwell on.
He’d done nothing to impress her with his kindness. He was hot, thirsty, and hungry, and his rib cage ached unmercifully. The crowning insult was the unmistakable smell of spilled whiskey.

She stopped.

“What’s wrong?” Tucker asked, expecting to hear her say that she was leaving him on his own. He was shocked to realize he’d be disappointed to see her go. That was the last thing he wanted to feel, but he liked riding with her. For the first time in a long time, he felt like sharing himself with another person—something he’d never thought he’d do again. He concentrated on the set of her shoulders.

Raven, feeling the intensity of his gaze, didn’t allow herself to look at him. Until she knew what to do, the less connection between them, the better. She understood he was part of her quest, but she wasn’t yet comfortable with him or the feelings he provoked in her.

He was such an imposing figure, strong and powerful. Though he was gruff and distant, and clearly had been on the trail for days, she couldn’t stop her uncomfortable awareness of him as a man.

Raven had aways been aware of the special feelings that existed between a man and a woman. First she’d seen her sisters fall in love. Then, in the Arapaho camp, she’d watched her Indian sisters and brothers express their interest in each other, openly and joyfully.

But Raven had never experienced such thoughts before. The sensation was not only disconcerting but unwanted. She was on a mission for the good of her people. Nothing, not even this man who was to show her the way, could be allowed to distract her.

“We go down here.”

Tucker looked at the space in the rocks to which she directed her horse and shook his head. “The hell you say.
I’ve been known to climb down a few ravines on foot, but to ride off the side of a cliff is something even Yank won’t do.”

But Yank, who always did what Yank wanted to do, followed Onawa, carefully planting his feet between the huge rocks as he stepped off the side of the mountain. If asked, Tucker would never have admitted that he closed his eyes, but he did. Then, realizing that Yank was moving steadily downward with little effort, Tucker chanced a look.

Miraculously, they were on a trail, narrow but open. It twisted back and forth so that at any given time the only view was of the boulders ahead or the rocks beside. Unless a person knew the trail was there, it would never be seen. With any luck the bandits, if they were behind him, would ride on by.

For the first time, Tucker began to breathe easier.

“How did you know about this trail?” he asked.

“I didn’t know. The spirits sent a guide. Onawa simply followed.”

Tucker didn’t argue, but he didn’t believe her either. She’d been here before. Why didn’t she admit it? Because she shared information only when she felt it necessary, otherwise Onawa’s knowledge was a convenient answer for anything she didn’t want to divulge. So? He’d go along. Believing that the horse was leading them made as much sense as spirit messages.

She was dressed like an Arapaho. He recognized the designs along the neckline of the garment. But now, in the sunlight, he could see that her background was as much white as Indian. The combination made her look exotic. Everything about her was different from any woman he’d ever known. Her dark hair was tied with a strip of soft leather that seemed to match the fringe on her dress. He could see the wound beginning to scab over.

She seemed at ease riding bareback, allowing herself to roll with the horse’s gait. He took an appreciative glance at her long, shapely legs that she made no attempt to hide—unlike the women he’d known in the more civilized societies in which he’d traveled long ago.

Tucker would like to have seen Lucinda, the woman he’d once thought to marry, in a buckskin dress with a fringe at the bottom.

That thought was too much and he let out a silent chuckle. Hell, Lucinda’s skin had never been exposed to the open air. He took another look at the woman who called herself Raven, and the thought of bare skin sent an arrow of need piercing through him. Even his rib hurt as he drew in a long, ragged breath.

Whoa, Tuck! This is not the time for fantasies, and a woman who calls herself a spirit woman sure as hell isn’t the one to fantasize about
. He had no explanation for the birds that had come to his rescue, but he wasn’t ready to believe in spirits. Still, his companion was giving him second thoughts.

“How much farther to the bottom?” he asked.

“From the sound of the water, I’d say we’re close.”

Tucker inclined his head and listened. The only sound he could hear was the pounding in his head. Whatever the sweet-tasting water had taken away, the sun and the uneven ground had started up again. A dull roar sounded, growing louder. He could even feel it shake the earth beneath them.

“Wait a minute. That’s not a river.”

“Shush! Don’t talk,” the woman whispered.

Both horses stilled, and Tucker waited. He wouldn’t have been surprised to see Geronimo lift his head from beyond the boulders. Then he realized what he heard. Horses. Many horses, passing along the trail overhead. The
riders stopped and began to argue. One group wanted to go back, the other forward.

“The old half-breed wouldn’t have disappeared without a trace.”

Tucker recognized that voice. It was the bandit leader from the cantina, the one with the crossed bandoliers full of shiny bullets.

“But Porfiro, what about his partner, the one with the gold hair who was rescued by the birds?”

Tucker cringed.
Partner
? If they truly believed the old miner was his partner, they’d be on his trail forever. The bandits saw him as some kind of supernatural being. He might have laughed had it not been for the woman with the dark eyes who came from nowhere to ride beside him. It was too strange. He was just a cowboy, trying to stay alive. He didn’t believe in any spirit world.

Yet the woman with him called him a cougar. She saw him as some kind of primitive creature. And she seemed to care. For too long there’d been nobody to care what he was. He’d become a faceless drifter who came and went with the seasons.

All his family were gone. All except Lucinda. The woman he’d been engaged to marry was now the wife of the mayor of Cinderville, South Carolina. The Yankee who’d come there after the war had claimed the spoils of victory: the Farrell farm, the future Mrs. Farrell, and—Tucker allowed himself a silent laugh—the pigs that were the one part of the farm Lucinda had despised. Tucker had gotten past losing his family. He’d even gotten over Lucinda. Knowing that her new husband had turned the horse farm into nothing but a pig farm made up for it somehow.