Magnificent Passage (37 page)

The big Indian lifted her chin gently, his deep brown eyes trying to penetrate the curtain of pain veiling her vision.

“You have fought me, little one, but in the end I have always won.”

The softly spoken words, delivered in English confused her. “ . . . Hawk?”

It was an anguished whisper, and it tore at his heart.

Mandy closed her eyes. She must be delirious. She only
imagined she heard Hawk's voice. The strong hand still held her chin, gently but firmly.

“Sam, you must listen to me. You must do exactly as I say.”

Her eyes flew open. Her heart pounded.
It was Hawk! He was really here!
She felt a weak surge of strength and stood a little straighter.

“Do you understand me, Sam?” He shook her gently.

“Yes,” she whispered.

“Swift Eagle has claimed you as his prize. I have told him you are my woman, and he cannot claim something that already belongs to me. But he says you are his. By Cheyenne custom, the only fair way to settle the matter is to fight for you.” He gazed down at her, his eyes unwavering.

She knew he was trying to will her some of his strength. “You're going to fight him?” she questioned, her voice a little stronger now. “But he might kill you!”

“What's the matter, little one? Have you no faith in me?” He grinned, then gently lowered his mouth in a feather-soft touch to her bruised and bloodied lips.

“Don't go away,” he teased. “I'll be right back.” Turning away from her, he walked slowly toward his opponent.

Never in his life had he sustained a greater test of self-control. Beneath his surface calm, he seethed with anger. It took every ounce, every tiny particle of his willpower to keep from ripping apart the ropes that bound this small courageous woman. He wanted to destroy Swift Eagle with his bare hands—but to do so might mean the girl's death. If he wanted her to live, he must abide by the rules—the Cheyenne rules.

H
awk strengthened his resolve as he walked toward his opponent.

The story of the raid had traveled swiftly through the mountains. Linked with the victory was the tale of a beautiful woman with gleaming chestnut hair and the courage of a mountain lion—a woman Swift Eagle had claimed. Hawk had gone to the remote village in an attempt to do what he could for the woman. Maybe he could bargain for her release. He hadn't expected to see Samantha Ashton, the woman who haunted his dreams. He and Swift Eagle had argued bitterly, then agreed to settle the dispute as Cheyenne custom required.

Thinking about the events, he shuddered.
What if he hadn't come? What fate would have been hers?
With guilt, he thought of the way they'd parted. He would win this fight, then somehow, some way he'd make it up to her.

Mandy watched in horror as the two men bound their left wrists together with a length of rawhide, leaving a threefoot separation. Each of them clutched a knife in his right hand and began to circle the other warily. Both men were
painted and in minutes covered with sweat. Hawk was broader at the shoulder, his waist narrower than Swift Eagle, and there was an animal litheness in his moves as he circled his prey.

Their movements were deft and graceful. The blades swished through the air in deadly anticipation, each man skillful and cunning with a knife. Hawk crouched and sprang toward Swift Eagle, then danced away. Swift Eagle did the same. Mandy felt the prickle of new fear as the silver blade streaked lightly across Hawk's torso and a tiny line of red appeared, spreading in tentacles across the knotted muscles of his chest and stomach. Swift Eagle lunged forward just as Hawk parried and lunged in return. Swift Eagle caught the blade full on, but the knife glanced off a rib, deflecting the blow.

Swift Eagle sliced through the air. Hawk ducked. Only the edge of the blade slashed his cheek. Then he cut Swift Eagle deeply across the arm. Circling away, Hawk pivoted just as his opponent lunged. Swift Eagle missed his target, but gashed Hawk across the shoulder. Blood was everywhere. Both men wore macabre costumes of blood. Even their wrists where bound were ringed with blood.

Mandy's eyes were riveted to the grisly scene. She could barely watch, yet couldn't look away. Her own blood surged through her veins as the men continued their combat. Her fatigue became unimportant. She knew how close to death Hawk was.

Another slicing thrust sent Swift Eagle to his knees. Growling in agony, he rammed Hawk hard in the stomach with his shoulder. They rolled heavily in the dirt—two
gladiators, each proud and fearsome, locked in a death grip. The blades flashed again. Mandy's stomach lurched.
Please God, don't let him die.

Hawk's large frame rolled on top of the tall, fearsome warrior; the muscles in Hawk's neck and arms coiled into tight knots. He pressed his advantage. With a quick thrust of his knife, Hawk buried the blade between his opponent's ribs, lifting and turning it at the same time.

His expression grim, he raised himself off the dead warrior.

Hawk found no joy in his revenge. The once-proud warrior lay silent and bloodied. Swift Eagle had fought against the tide of whites in the only way he knew. Attacking the stage was a symbol of his denial of the death of a way of life. Hawk silently saluted the dead warrior's courage, then cut the thong that bound them together and headed toward the girl.

Mandy sagged against her bonds in relief. The big man's moccasins tramped softly against the damp earth of the mountains as he came toward her, yet there was a grim determination in his stride. Members of the band cleared a path, but the rumble of their discontent could be heard behind him.

“Thank God you're safe,” she whispered as he began to slice through her bonds.

“Sam, there is one more thing you must do.” He lifted her dirt-streaked face with his bloodied hand. “You must walk behind me of your own accord. You must demonstrate the truth of my words. Can you make it as far as my horse?” It tortured him to have to ask for more courage.

She smiled weakly. “Wanna race?” she croaked in her raspy voice.

He grinned back. His mind replayed the scene on the deck of the
Sacramento Queen,
and he loved her more than ever. He'd let her go before. He'd not let it happen again.

He cut the final rawhide strip and steadied her. “Let's go.” He squeezed her hand, then turned his back on her and began walking slowly, but proudly, toward his horse.

Mandy's legs felt like willow boughs—they trembled and swayed beneath her, but they held her up. She threw back her shoulders and held her head high. Clinging to the look of pride she'd seen in Hawk's eyes when he cut her free, she walked what seemed like miles toward where he waited with his horse. She fixed her gaze on him and witnessed his anguish at not being able to help. She took one slow, tortured step after another, placing each foot firmly on the ground in front of her, not wanting to risk the chance of falling. He unfurled a soft doeskin blanket as she drew near. When she reached him, he wrapped her in its enveloping warmth and lifted her gently into his arms. He swung her up on the roan and settled her protectively against his chest.

Her body seemed wracked with an agony of aches, yet even with the pain to remind her, none of this seemed real. Hawk guided his big roan through the hostile, milling tribesmen and headed into the hills. Mandy slumped against his broad chest. She wanted to sleep, but every few minutes she would rouse herself and grasp Hawk's arm or touch his chest to make sure she wasn't dreaming. Then she would smile up at him and drift back to sleep.

As they rode in silence toward his own village, Hawk cradled the girl gently. Even dirty, battered, and beaten she looked beautiful. His heart ached for her. He kept the roan at a brisk walk, trying to keep her suffering to a minimum.

He'd returned to his village over two months ago, as the warrior, Black Hawk. The tribe had accepted his presence without question. The Cheyenne were officially at peace with the whites, but Hawk was there at the direct request of President Grant. There were rumors of gold in the Black Hills, an area granted by treaty to the Cheyenne and Sioux nations. Whites had been trickling onto the Indian lands, breaking the provisions of the treaty. The tribes were becoming restless and several small bands had begun to raid and kill. Swift Eagle had been the leader of one such band. Hawk's heart felt heavy at having to kill the courageous warrior, but, looking down at the pale face of the woman sleeping in his arms, he knew he would do it again if he had to.

They rode through a granite pass and his village, a large encampment at the edge of a pine forest, came into view. Steep mountains, notched with craggy peaks, surrounded the camp and teepees dotted the grassy flat. Cooking fires burned brightly, filling the air with the smoky smell and crackle of hot pine logs, and Mandy awoke dreamily.

As they rode into camp, dogs barked and men, women, and children rushed to greet them. Holding Mandy within the circle of his arms, Hawk raised his leg above the horse's neck and slid easily to the ground. He spoke rapidly in Cheyenne and ducked inside a teepee, closing the flap behind them.

He carried her to a pallet of buffalo robes and laid her
down carefully. She wanted to thank him. Tell him all the things she hadn't before. She wanted to tell him she loved him. Instead she felt a wave of dizziness, then slowly swirled into blackness.

Hawk looked down at Samantha, unconscious on the robe, and felt tears sting his eyes. He barked orders like a madman. Indian women fetched water, wood for the fire, broth, clean rags. Anything he asked. He set about the task of healing her, knowing it could be a futile effort.

As the hours passed, he felt more and more despondent.
Had he found her again only to lose her?
Why hadn't he put his jealousy and distrust aside, asked her to be his as he'd wanted to do a thousand times? Why had he let his pride and his fear of rejection stand between them? Since his return to the village, he'd had time to think, to muddle through all the experiences of the past six months. The answer always came up the same. He loved her, but he let her go. What had happened with Mark Denton didn't matter. If she were with him, he might have a chance to win her love. Now it could be too late.

He looked down at the tiny pale figure on the mat and his heart turned. She looked so innocent, so small . . . so vulnerable. He would not let her die. He would will her to live. She must get well so he could tell her all the things he'd planned to say when he saw her again.

He had already decided he was going to find her as soon as his mission was finished. He wasn't sure she would still be in Sacramento City, but he was sure he could find her. He felt certain she'd ended her affair with Mark Denton. He'd rarely seen them together after her trip to San Francisco. At least that was one obstacle no longer between them. He
planned to offer her marriage, as he should have in the first place. Then if she denied him again, so be it. At least he would have told her how he felt, how empty his life had been without her. Told her how much he loved her.

As hard as it was to admit, he knew he loved her, had loved her almost from the start. He'd tried to fight it, but all he'd done was make himself miserable.

She stirred on the mat.

“Let me go!” she mumbled, tossing and turning. Beads of perspiration trickled down her brow.

He laid his hand on her forehead. It felt feverish, and she seemed delirious. It was not a good sign.

“My father . . . powerful . . . can't hurt . . . governor's daughter.”

Leaning closer, he could just make out her words and knew she was reliving the nightmare of her kidnapping. “It's all right, little one,” he soothed. “They can't hurt you anymore. Please, little one, you have to get well. Hush now. Hush.” A sob escaped him, and he bowed his head in prayer. He beseeched his god—the god of the forest and the mountains, the god of the trees and the rivers—the god of all things great and small. Please—just let this one small thing be saved.