To Find You Again (6 page)

And Emma was certain it was a vision, sent to her by Owl, the messenger. For the past week, he'd been trying to tell her something. Now she understood. She had to find Chayton, the wolf pup in her vision, before he was killed by the lion.

Who was the mountain lion? Or had the large cat only been the symbol of approaching death? The unease she'd been experiencing throughout the past days bloomed to full-grown dread.

She'd been preparing to escape before she was forced to travel to St. Paul, but she'd wanted to find a guide. Her aborted attempt to hire Cullen had been a desperate measure.

Even now, in the security of her own room, Cullen's dirty words retained their power to humiliate her. Emma drew up her knees, laid a burning cheek on their coolness, and wrapped her arms around her legs.

She closed her eyes, remembering how grateful she'd been when Ridge Madoc had come to her assistance. But then she'd seen the look in his eyes. He thought little better of her for being alone with a man in the darkness. Maybe he figured she deserved what Cullen had done. But, no, if he thought that, he wouldn't have interfered. He'd heard her cry out and had acted like a gentleman to help her. But as much as she wanted to make Ridge the hero, he, too, couldn't look past her being a "squaw woman."

However, for a moment, when he'd so carefully fixed her dress over her shoulder, Emma couldn't deny the empty yearning in her chest. After Enapay had died, she'd buried her needs and found solace in caring for her child. But sometimes, in the middle of the night, she remembered how her husband had touched her and made her body writhe until he filled her and quenched the fire in her belly. When those memories became too powerful, Emma would touch herself under the curtain of darkness and find the release her body so desperately craved. But it was never enough. Ridge's touch reminded her of dark nights and shared pleasures.

A breeze jangled the shutters and Emma ached with fear for her son. How could she have left him behind? It didn't matter that a soldier's saber had wounded her or that terrible screams and horrific sights had paralyzed her. She should have searched until she found Chayton or died trying. But that choice had been taken from her when a soldier had recognized her white features and whisked her away from the decimated village.

Emma tried to quash the torment rising in her breast, but a tiny sob broke free. She had a choice now, and she chose to search for her son. Dear God, she prayed he was still alive.

She would leave tonight under the cover of darkness. There was no time left to secure a guide, but at least she knew where to begin her journey.

Dawn colored the sky coral, pink, and orange as Emma rode into the main encampment on the reservation. Exhausted, she kept her horse to a plodding walk as it wove in and out of the haphazard tipis. A skinny yellow dog yipped once, then slunk away. Emma's nose wrinkled under the barrage of rank sweat and both human and animal excrement. The smell was nothing like the village where she'd lived—the people there had kept themselves and their camp tidy and clean.

She recognized hopelessness as the culprit here, where the Indians had given up and surrendered in exchange for handouts from their captors. Some of the Lakota on the reservation no longer even tried to retain and practice the old ways, which were frowned upon by the Bureau of Indian Affairs agents.

Moisture filled Emma's eyes, and she blinked back the tears. She couldn't help them and to feel pity would only insult the proud people. Women and men wrapped in blankets crept out of their lodges and stared at her. Emma searched the impassive bronze faces, hoping to find someone she recognized, but nobody looked familiar.

By the time Emma reached the end of the village, she was trembling so much she could hardly draw her horse to a stop. She slid off her mount and her legs wobbled. Her feet were numb in the snug riding boots, which she hadn't worn since she was fifteen, and her thighs beneath the split riding skirt were irritated and chafed. She would've gladly exchanged her civilized garb for moccasins, a deerskin dress, and leggings.

An elderly Indian stepped forward, his shoulders hunched, but his eyes keen.

She faced the old man and bowed her head.
"Tunkasila."

Although she couldn't see him, she could feel his surprise at her use of the Sioux word for grandfather.

"Taku eniciyapi hwo?"
he asked.

"I am called Winona by the Lakota," she replied, continuing to speak in the language she'd learned. She risked lifting her head and when the old Indian didn't give her a disapproving look, she grew bolder. "I seek my son. Five moons ago my village was attacked by horse soldiers." Emma couldn't control the shudder of horror at the memory of that night.

The elderly man studied her for a long moment, then turned and motioned for her to follow. A young boy materialized beside her and took her horse's reins. Emma gave him a brief smile and allowed the boy to lead the animal away.

Keeping her gaze aimed downward, she followed the old man to his tipi.

"Tima hiyuwo,"
he said and disappeared inside.

Emma loosened her chinstrap and allowed her hat to slide down her back, to rest between her shoulder blades. Taking a deep breath, she accepted his invitation to enter and ducked under the deerskin flap, praying he could give her the information she sought.

Chapter 4

Ridge herded nine cattle into the canyon to join the other fourteen head he'd found that morning. He halted his horse under the miserly shade of a scrub oak growing next to a small stream. He dismounted and allowed Paint to drink.

Although it was early April, the midday sun was comfortably warm on his head and shoulders. Most of the snow had melted, but a few pockets remained, hidden in enclaves steeped in cool shadows.

He hunkered down beside a riffling brook and cupped his hands to drink the icy cold water. After wiping his mouth with his sleeve, he rose. His stomach growled, reminding him he hadn't eaten since dawn. As he unwrapped some dried venison from the cloth in his saddlebag, he caught a plume of dust to the east. As he chewed the jerky, he squinted at the dust cloud and the horse creating it. The rider rode unerringly toward him and Ridge tensed.

He narrowed his eyes until he could make out the nearing figure. John Hartwell. What the hell was he doing here?

Ridge kept his arms hanging loosely at his sides, but his muscles coiled. Did Emma tell her father about the fight between him and Cullen the night before last? And, if so, was Hartwell planning to thank him or shoot him?

Hartwell halted his horse on the other side of the four-foot wide stream. He didn't wear his usual suit, but typical range gear, although his wool trousers and waistcoat were newer and of better quality than a hired hand's. Hartwell's cheeks were flushed, and sweat mixed with dust streaked his face. He remained in the saddle. Ridge figured the man enjoyed looking down on folks.

Ridge nodded a mute greeting.

"Madoc." There was more hospitality in a rattlesnake's reception. "I've got a job for you."

Anger came directly on the heels of surprise, and Ridge laughed, a cold, harsh sound. "I wasn't good enough to work on your ranch, so what makes me good enough for this job?"

"You were a scout," Hartwell said tersely. "I need you to find my daughter. Emma ran away Saturday night."

The night Ridge had found her alone with Cullen. He ground his teeth and felt the tug of his jaw muscle. "Maybe she ran off with some fella."

Hartwell shook his head impatiently. "My other daughter said she had a nightmare. It upset her but she wouldn't tell Sarah about it." He looked away, embarrassment and a hint of humiliation in his expression. "Sarah thinks she went back to the savages that kidnapped her."

After Emma's confession about trying to hire Cullen to find her adopted tribe, Ridge wasn't surprised. But he wasn't about to confess that to Hartwell. He shrugged. "They're probably scattered seven ways to Sunday."

"I'll give you a hundred dollars to find her and bring her back home," Hartwell offered.

A hundred dollars.
That was more than he would make in three months working as a ranch hand, and the balance he needed to purchase the bull. But what about his land— the land Hartwell had practically stolen from Harry Piner.

"On one condition," Ridge said flatly. "You sell me my land back at the same price you paid for it—fifty cents an acre."

Hartwell's mouth gaped and his face reddened, but this time it was with antagonism instead of embarrassment. "That's extortion."

"That's business," Ridge shot back. He lowered his voice and smiled without an ounce of warmth. "You know all about business."

Hartwell's knuckles were white as he gripped his saddle horn and a vein in his forehead pulsed angrily as he glared at Ridge.

"Your daughter for my land. Your choice, Hartwell." An eagle's cry sliced through the tension and Ridge glanced up to spot the mighty bird soaring high above them—a favorable sign.

He looked back at Hartwell to find the man still mulling over his offer. Ridge's lips curled in disdain. A man who had to consider a choice between his daughter and some land was a miserable excuse for a human being.

The rancher's eyes blazed. "All right."

"I want it in writing." Men like Hartwell respected words on paper.

"Damn you, Madoc. My word's good."

Ridge merely stared at him.

Hartwell capitulated with a snarl. "Come to the house and I'll have a contract ready to sign."

Ridge relaxed. "Why didn't you get me yesterday? She's got a day and a half lead now."

Hartwell glanced away and rubbed at a patch of dust on his cheek. "I tried to find her myself, then I went to Colonel Nyes. The son of a bitch said they'd keep an eye out for her during their patrols, but didn't want to expend the manpower to find a—" He clamped his mouth shut, but Ridge knew what he was going to say.

It looked like he and Hartwell had something in common after all: a mutual dislike for Nyes.

"She's not in her right mind, Madoc," Hartwell confessed in a low voice. "But she's still my daughter."

In the few instances Ridge had talked to Emma Hartwell, she hadn't seemed crazy. He also had a feeling the woman had reasons no one but herself knew for wanting to find those she'd lived with. But a hundred dollars and the chance to recover his land at a dirt cheap price was more than reason enough to take the job. Bringing Emma Hartwell back to her own folks was the right thing to do, too, even if Ridge didn't care much for her father.

Ridge mounted his horse. "I have to tell the foreman I'm leaving; then I'll meet you at your house in an hour."

Hartwell nodded, relief in his haggard expression.

Emma patted her mare's neck soothingly as she tracked the progress of a black bear and her cub a hundred yards away. Although she knew a sow with her young could be dangerous, Emma also knew that as long as she didn't make any threatening moves or try to get close to them, the bear would ignore her.

The sow stopped and lifted her nose to scent the air. Fortunately, Emma was downwind. She watched the cub rollick in the clearing, oblivious to the dangers surrounding it. He had his mother—she would take care of him.

Unlike Chayton, whose mother had abandoned him.

No! She hadn't. Not voluntarily. When she'd finally recovered physically, her mind had remained sick from the horrible memories of that night. And even if she'd had the strength to look for Chayton, the winter weather would've denied her the opportunity.

But now, with the arrival of spring and the information she'd gained at the reservation, Emma knew the general location of her people. Or at least those who weren't killed the night of the attack, she thought with a bitter tang.

She'd asked about her son, but the old man hadn't known anything about him. If Chayton were still alive, he'd be with the group which was now headed northeast.

Sunlight sprinkled through the trees, dappling the meadow. A droplet on a spider's web captured the sun and wove it into a tiny colorful rainbow. A gift for those who truly saw. The tribe's shaman had taught her that, and

Emma had listened.

As she stared at the water drop, the colors swirled, then coalesced into the image of a brown eagle riding the wind high in the sky. The eagle soared closer and closer until Emma found its keen eyes staring directly into hers.

She gasped and blinked. The image disappeared and only the droplet remained. Someone was searching for her. It shouldn't have surprised her.

Five days had passed since she'd left the reservation. She knew her father would send somebody to find her and bring her back. Shivering despite the warm air, Emma hoped she wasn't leading the army straight to the reservation runaways, only to have the soldiers finish what they started.

The bear and its cub disappeared into the brush, and Emma urged Clementine, her horse, through the meadow. The mare danced nervously, tossing her head at the fresh bear scent, but Emma handled her with a firm hand.

Emma trusted the intuition she'd gained while living with the People. The shaman had said she possessed a second sight, a rarity among the
wasicu
who did not understand. But Emma embraced her fledgling gift. Now she prayed it would lead her safely to her son.

Ridge knew he was close. After four days of trailing the surprisingly trail-savvy woman, he had come to admire and respect her skills. Few white men, let alone a woman, could travel such distance in such a short amount of time and manage to cover their tracks so well. There'd been times when he'd followed a blind trail, only to have to backtrack and find the real one.

The sun had set two hours ago, but Ridge knew he was near his quarry and had chosen to continue on, hoping to find her that night. He was rewarded for his persistence when he smelled faint woodsmoke on the breeze. Following it led him directly to her.

Ridge surveyed the small camp and spotted her bedroll a few feet from the glowing embers. Her horse was fifteen feet away, hobbled and grazing contentedly. Ridge dismounted and ground-tied Paint. Moving on soundless moccasins, he entered her camp. Her horse raised its head and snorted, but was too accustomed to being around people to raise an alarm.