Tales of Western Romance (35 page)

* * * * *

It was almost too much to take in, Lynnie
thought as Daniel gave her a tour of the house, the corrals, the
barns. She had never seen such a large house, never imagined things
like telephones and motor cars.

Daniel’s family welcomed her as if she was an
old friend, making her feel immediately at home as they regaled her
with tales of Daniel and the mischief he had gotten into when he
was growing up.

Sitting beside Daniel at the large table in
the dining room that night, Lynnie felt as if she had known his
family for years, though she was certain it would take quite some
time to learn the names of all his nieces and nephews. She took an
immediate liking to his sister, Mary, and to their mother.

Lynnie had thought to feel sad when she
realized she would never see her home again, regret for the loss of
the ranch. Instead, looking at the welcoming faces around her, she
felt a deep sense of belonging.

She smiled, her heart overflowing with love,
as Daniel took her hand in his and kissed her palm. This was home,
she thought, blinking back tears of joy. This was where she was
meant to be.

Chapter 15

And so, my baby came home with his
bride-to-be, and our family was complete at last. The next
afternoon, Shadow asked Blue Hawk what he had learned from living
with the Cheyenne.

Blue Hawk didn’t answer right away, and then,
hugging Lynnie close to his side, he said, “Turns out it wasn’t a
place I was looking for at all. It was home, and I found it here,
in Lynnie’s arms.”

I blinked back my tears as Blue Hawk and
Lynnie kissed.

Taking me by the hand, Shadow led me outside,
so the kids could be alone.

“
That was sweet, what he said,” I
remarked, hugging Shadow’s arms tight around me.

Shadow grunted softly. “He is a poet, that
one.”

I nodded. Blue Hawk had written his father’s
story, starting from the time that Shadow and I first met. So many
years ago, I mused. How quickly the years had gone by. I wondered
if Blue Hawk would one day write the story of his own life and of
his journey back in time, though I wondered who would believe
it.

* * * * *

Blue Hawk and Lynnie built a house a few
miles from ours and were married the day after it was finished.
Nine months later, a black-haired, blue-eyed, baby girl slept in
the nursery. They named her Audrey Adele – Audrey for her best
friend in the past, and Adele for her housekeeper.

I was smiling when we left our son’s home
shortly after the baby’s birth. Shadow and I paused in the shade of
an aged cottonwood, both of us smiling with the joy of having
another grandchild in the family as we gazed out over the
ranch.

I glanced up as a shadow passed over the
ground. “Look!” I pointed at the pair of red-tailed hawks drifting
overhead.

Shadow gazed upward, one hand shading his
eyes. The hawks had come to him during his first sun dance. He had
told me the story many times. Of how he had been writhing at the
end of his tether, lost in a world of blood and pain, when a pair
of red-tailed hawks had emerged from the bright blaze of the sun.
They had hovered side-by-side in the air above his head, mighty
wings touching.

“
Be brave
,” the male had
cried
. “Be brave, and you will be a mighty war leader among the
people.”

“
Be strong,”
the female had
admonished.
“Be strong and everything you desire shall be
yours.”

They had come to him often since that first
time.

“
A long life together and happiness for
our children, Hannah,” he murmured, kissing my cheek. “That is what
the hawks promised us.”

I smiled as the birds rose higher, higher,
until they disappeared from sight and then, hand in hand, Shadow
and I went home.

The End

About the Author:

Madeline Baker
enjoys writing,
particularly in the genre of Historical Romance. She is one of the
most popular authors of Native American romance and has written
numerous bestsellers. She resides in California, where she was born
and raised.

Also, writing under the name Amanda Ashley,
Ms. Baker delves into the world of the paranormal and fantasy.

For more information about all her wonderful
books,

please visit her website at

http://www.madelinebaker.net/

Special Bonus Section

Cristie Matthews is obsessed with The Phantom
of the Opera. On her once-in-a-lifetime trip to Paris, she visits
the
Palais Garnier
to see the play. Afterward, she hides,
remaining in the empty building to relive the haunting story once
again. Then she sees
HIM!

But how can that be? He is a myth, a legend.
Or is he?

The Music of the Night

by

Amanda Ashley

Chapter 1

Cristie Matthews couldn’t believe it, she was
actually inside the famed Paris Opera House. It was everything she
had ever imagined, and more. Try as she might, she couldn’t find
words to describe it. Beautiful seemed woefully inadequate. Totally
awesome came close, but still fell short.

She owed her fascination with the Paris Opera
House solely to the brilliance of Andrew Lloyd Webber, or, to be
more exact, to her fascination with his amazing production,
The
Phantom of the Opera
. She had seen the movie, of course, but it
didn’t hold a candle to the stage play. She had seen the play once,
and once had not been enough. The music had enthralled her; the
plight of the Phantom had plucked every emotion from joy to sorrow
to despair. She had eagerly joined the ranks of the thousands of
people who flocked to see the play again and again, never tiring of
it, always finding something new, always feeling emotionally
drained by the time the Phantom’s last anguished cry faded
away.

She quickly became obsessed with all things
Phantom. She collected everything she could find with that
world-famous logo: music boxes and posters, ads in the paper,
books, and magazine articles. If it related to the Phantom, she
simply had to have it. Dolls and figurines crowded her book
shelves, along with snow globes, collector plates, and picture
frames. She wore Phantom-related jewelry; decorated her Christmas
tree with Phantom ornaments. She bought every tape and CD of the
music she could find, including several in languages she didn’t
understand, but the language didn’t matter. The music was
everything.

Before coming to Paris, she researched the
Opera House online and found a wealth of information. The Opera
House had been built by Charles Garnier who, at that time, had been
a young, unknown architect. Completed in 1876, the
Palais
Garnier
was considered by many to be one of the most beautiful
buildings on earth. The theater boasted two thousand seats; the
building’s seventeen stories covered three acres of land. Seven
levels were located underground, among them chorus rooms and ball
rooms, cellars for old props, closets and dressing rooms, as well
as numerous gruesome objects from the various other operas that had
been produced there. It was rumored that these grisly effects had
sparked the idea behind Gaston Leroux’s
The Phantom of the
Opera
.

And now, after scrimping and saving for three
years, she was there, in the midst of the Phantom’s domain.

Alone
.

Shortly after the final curtain, she hid in
one of the bathrooms. Had she been caught wandering around, she
would simply have said she lost her way. Which would not be a lie,
because she really was lost. There were so many hallways, so many
doors; she no longer knew where to find the exit.

Her footsteps echoed eerily in the darkness
as she climbed a winding staircase and then, to her relief, she
found herself inside the theater.

She sank into a seat near the back of the
house and gazed around, wondering if this had been such a good
idea, after all. It was dark and quiet, and a little bit spooky
sitting there, all alone.

Resting her head on the back of the seat, she
closed her eyes, and music filled her mind…the haunting lyrics of
“The Music of the Night”, the Phantom’s tortured cry when he spied
Christine and Raoul pledging their love on the roof top. Even more
heartbreaking was the Phantom’s plea when he begged Christine to
let him go wherever she went, his anguished cry as he took her down
to his lair one last time. And who could forget his rage and
anger—and the faint glimmer of hope—when he demanded she make her
choice, or the last haunting notes that always moved Cristie to
tears when he declared it was over.

There was a never-ending discussion on any
number of websites about whether Christine should have stayed with
the Phantom, and polls asking whether the listers themselves would
have stayed with Erik or gone with Raoul. Poor Raoul, he seemed to
be disliked by one and all.

There had never been any doubt in Cristie’s
mind that she would have stayed with the Phantom. She knew what it
felt like to be left for another, knew the pain and the heartache
of unrequited love, knew there was more to life than sweet words
and a pretty face.

Sitting there, with her eyes closed, she
seemed to hear Christine’s voice. Of course, it was only the echo
of her imagination.

Still, it seemed so real. Opening her eyes,
Cristie stared at the stage, blinked, and looked again. Was there a
figure standing there? A slender figure wearing a hooded cloak, and
a bright red scarf?

Cristie rubbed her eyes. Not one figure, but
two. A dark shape wearing a black hat with a long curling black
feather stood beside the cross atop the cemetery wall. A long black
cloak covered him from neck to heels. Was that a staff in his hand?
Canting her head to one side, Cristie heard him sing ever so softly
and sweetly to his wandering child.

Cristie sat up straighter, leaning forward.
It wasn’t possible. She had to be dreaming. She rubbed her eyes
again. The figure of Christine seemed transparent, ghost-like, but
the Phantom… Cristie felt certain he was real.

Fear sat like a lump of ice in her belly, and
then she realized that what she was seeing was probably just some
star-struck member of the cleaning crew, or a night watchman
wearing one of the Phantom’s costumes. Or … of course, it was an
understudy who had stayed late to rehearse. It was the only logical
answer, except it didn’t explain the ghostly Christine.

And then, echoing through the empty building,
came the Phantom’s cry of rage as Christine turned her back on him
and left with Raoul. Fireballs spit from the Phantom’s staff to
light the stage and the image of Christine faded away like smoke.
But the figure of the Phantom remained standing near the cross, his
shoulders slumped in defeat, his head bowed.

It had always been one of her favorite
scenes, one that never failed to move her to tears. This
performance, by some unknown actor, was no different. With a sniff,
she wiped the dampness from her cheeks.

And found herself pinned by the gaze of the
man on stage. Even through the darkness, she could feel those black
eyes burning into her own.

Her mind screamed at her to leave, to run
from the theater as quickly as possible, but try as she might, she
couldn’t move, couldn’t tear her gaze from his.

It took her a moment to realize he had left
the stage and was walking rapidly toward her. He moved with
effortless grace, the long black cape billowing behind him. His
feet made no sound; indeed, he seemed to be floating over the
floor.

He covered the distance between them more
quickly than she would have thought possible. She cowered back in
her chair when he loomed over her. The half-mask gleamed a ghostly
white in the darkness.

“
Christine?”

His voice, filled with hope, tugged at her
heart.

She shook her head, her gaze fixed on the
mask covering the right side of his face. No, it couldn’t be. He
wasn’t real. He didn’t exist.

He took a step closer, then frowned. “Forgive
me, you are not she.”

Cristie tried to speak, but fear trapped the
words in her throat.

“
You are very like her,” he remarked, a
note of wonder in his voice.

His voice was mesmerizing, a deep, rich
baritone laced with pain and sorrow, and a soul-deep
loneliness.

Caught in the web of his gaze, she could only
stare up at him, her heart pounding a staccato beat as he reached
toward her, his knuckles sliding lightly over her cheek.

“
Who—?” Her voice emerged as no more
than a whisper. “Who are you?”