Magnificent Passage (38 page)

Mandy dwelled in an evil world where everything glowed blood red. The people were grotesque, their hands and faces were larger than in the other world, and they reached out after her, trying to drag her deeper into their world. Some of them she knew. She remembered the yellow teeth or the patched eye. Some were naked, their bodies glistening with
sweat or painted with gleaming red blood. These wore feathers and tried to strip her naked too.

“No! No! . . . fight . . . till I die!” Maybe she was already dead. Maybe she was in hell—payment for her wanton desires for Hawk, the nights she'd spent in his arms. When she thought of those times she saw them in red too—the red fires of passion, the heat of wanting and pleasure. But how could such loving be evil?

She heard vague words of comfort through her haze of pain. Sometimes the voice was deep, richly timbred. Other times she heard female voices, speaking in a language she did not understand. What? What were they saying? She heard it clearly this time.
Wishana.
It came from one of the Indian women.

She was beginning to remember.

She was in Hawk's village. He had brought her here after the fight with Swift Eagle. She heard it again,
Wishana,
more clearly this time. Oh God, Wishana must be here! That's why Hawk was here—to be with Wishana! The pain became unbearable. She sank deeper into the bloody red world.

F
our days passed before Samantha regained consciousness. Four of the worst days of Travis Langley's life. He'd left the teepee only briefly since Sam fell ill. He bathed her himself and talked to her constantly, fluctuating from whispered words of love to violent commands she get well. The villagers left him alone, buried in his grief. None held much hope for the tiny white woman's recovery.

Mandy smelled the smoky air before she could focus her eyes. As her vision cleared she saw a man bending over her, his eyes closed. At first she didn't recognize him, so gaunt was he. He was dressed as an Indian, but she sensed no fear of him. He felt her slight movement and opened his eyes. There were dark smudges beneath, but she recognized the soft brown velvet gaze. He saw that she knew him, and his face lit up, for a moment banishing the deep lines of fatigue.

“Sam,” he whispered, “thank God you're all right.”

“Hawk . . . I thought . . . I was . . . in hell. I . . . you saved me from the Indians, and the outlaws and the . . . ” It all came flooding back.

He held her close and rocked her, stroking her hair, then
pulled back to look at her as if to make certain she were real.

“How . . . long was I sick?” she stammered, trying to get her voice to work.

“Four days. For a while . . . I thought you might leave me again . . . ” His voice trailed off. He swallowed and glanced away.

She reached a shaky hand to his cheek, turning his face toward her. “I'll never leave you again,” she whispered. As she said the words another memory flashed through her mind and her stomach knotted.
Wishana!
He was here with Wishana! She wanted to cry in agony and despair, but the tears would not come. She dropped her hand and looked away.

He sensed her mood change. “Don't look away from me . . . please.” The words sounded strangled and she wondered why.

“Who cared for me?” she asked, refusing to meet his gaze. She felt her strength returning a little but knew she wasn't ready to hear the answers to the questions she must ask.

“I did,” he said, “and some of the women.”

“You!” She felt her face grow warm with embarrassment as she thought of all it entailed.
Why would he do that unless he cared for me?
But then it would be like him. It would be a matter of honor. She knew some of the Indian women had helped, she could remember hearing their voices. She wanted to ask which was Wishana, but felt her strength ebb and knew the answer would be more than she could handle now. She drank broth from the gourd Hawk held for her, then drifted back to sleep.

Morning found her feeling renewed. She heard Hawk rummaging around the teepee as she yawned and stretched and took comfort from his presence. She watched him from beneath her lashes. He seemed unaware of her scrutiny. He looked clean and fresh today, dressed in buckskin leggings and an open buckskin vest. Heavy bone beads rattled on his chest. His hair, longer now than in Sacramento City, curled against his neck. She longed to finger the soft strands.

She ran her hands through her own hair and noticed for the first time it was clean and shining. She could smell the fresh scent of pine soap and wondered if it was he who had bathed her. She propped herself up as he worked to repair and organize his hunting gear. He pulled a long arrow from its quiver and checked the straightness of the shaft.

Hawk felt Samantha watching him even before he turned to look at her. As she leaned against a lodge pole, he saw that her face looked healthier, glowing just a little even in the dim morning light inside the teepee. Full breasts lay barely concealed beneath the buffalo robe, and for the first time since the ordeal began he felt the familiar twinge of his desire. Her dark hair rested softly against her shoulders.

“I see you're feeling better today. Already the color returns to your cheeks.” He walked toward her.

She blushed, making them appear even rosier.

“And you, kind sir,” Mandy teased lightly. “I like you much better without your war paint.” As Hawk smiled down at her, the knot of despair returned to her stomach.
Where had he spent the night?
She glanced away.

Hawk read the look of pain in the beautiful green eyes.
Was she thinking of what Swift Eagle had done to her? Was she worried about how he would feel?

He sank down beside her, feeling the heat of her skin. He put his hands on her smooth shoulders and turned her toward him. “Whatever has passed before now is of no importance. Not Swift Eagle or Mark Denton . . . not anyone. Do you understand me, Sam?”

Mandy looked at Hawk in confusion.
What was he talking about? Did he think Swift Eagle had taken her? Hadn't he believed what she'd told him about Mark? Why should he be concerned, when he spent the night in another woman's arms?
She straightened her spine and lifted her chin defiantly.

“Is Wishana here?” she asked, her voice trembling slightly, her eyes meeting his only by force of will.

He stared at her, his expression confused. “Yes . . . Wishana is here.”

Mandy's heart ached.
It was true! It was all true.
For the first time in weeks she felt the sting of tears. Even through her ordeal she'd been able to control them. Now they gathered beneath her lashes and threatened to spill.

“Do you love her?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper.

“Yes. . . . ” Hawk's own voice sounded husky, yet resonant. “I love her very much.” His brown eyes tried to read the thoughts betrayed by her green ones. “I guess I've loved her all along.”

A sob escaped and Mandy pulled away. Tears trickled down her cheeks. She was a fool! And worst of all, now he knew what a fool she was.

“Sam, what is the matter with you?” He'd just told her he loved her, and now she was crying. Surely she didn't
think? . . . This time he would allow no misunderstandings. “Look at me!” he commanded, his tone gruff. He turned her chin with his hand and waited for her eyes to meet his. Her anguish twisted like a knife.

“Wishana is the name of a tiny flower that grows only in the high meadows. It is fragile, yet it can withstand the most bitter storm. The beauty of the Wishana is unsurpassed in the mountains.” She looked even more despondent. He paused and kissed her cheek. “You are Wishana,” he whispered softly. “It is your Indian name.”

She raised her lashes and blinked, trying to make some sense of what he was telling her. “I am Wishana?” Her heart pounded.

“You are Wishana.”

“I am Wishana,” she repeated, trying to convince herself.

“Yes.”

“Then you . . . must . . . love . . . me?”

“Yes . . . I love you.” He kissed her cheek again. “I think I have loved you almost from the first.” His powerful arms enveloped her, and a surge of joy filled her heart.

He loved her! He had called out to her in his pain at the cabin. He'd thought of her in Virginia City. It was she he had wanted, even from the start.

“Oh, Hawk.” The words were a half-choked sob. She threw her arms around his neck and hugged him hard against her. “I love you so much . . . so much.” She clutched him tighter, and swallowed the lump in her throat. “You were with me always. After the stage was attacked, you were my will to survive. I would ask myself, what would Hawk do? Or, what would Hawk think of me if I gave up?”

Hawk could scarcely believe the words he was hearing. She loved him! It was all he had hoped for, all he'd dreamed of. “I've been such a fool, Sam. Can you ever forgive me?”

“There is nothing to forgive, my love.”

He stroked her hair and held her close. Neither spoke for a time. Finally Hawk tilted her chin and kissed her gently, wanting to explain things he felt were important. He held her a little longer, then said, “We need to talk.”

She nodded. “Yes.”

He took a deep breath. “I'm here at the request of the president. When Grant sent word asking me to accept this mission, I declined. I refused to come here on false pretenses. But somehow I had to help my people. Eventually, I reconsidered. I came here on the pretense of seeing my family, just a simple family reunion. I hated to lie to them, but it had to be done. I was forced to be deceptive to help the people I love.”

He stroked her hair, twisted a finger in one of the soft brown curls. “I came to understand what you did. I should have admired your loyalty to your cousin, the courage it took for you to try and help her.”

“Hawk, I want nothing left unsaid between us. I want you to know that as much as I loved Julia, and believed she was doing the right thing, I didn't do it just for her. I did it for myself, too. I had to try and find my own way, try and discover what I really wanted out of life.”

Hawk remembered the story James had told him of Samantha's past, the death of her mother, her father's severe restrictions. “And have you?”

“I know my capabilities now—in many ways because of you. I don't have to prove anything to myself or anyone else. I can do or be anything I want.”

“And what
do
you want?” he asked, his voice a little raspy, a thread of worry wrapped around his heart.

“I want to be with you, wherever you are, whatever happens. The rest is unimportant—I know that now.”

“Sam.” He pulled her into his arms, kissing her fiercely, powerfully. He knew she sensed his desire for her, but he wanted to show her his love, make her certain of it, let her feel it with his every touch.

“How I love you, Sam.” He pulled the buffalo robe from between them. His eyes roamed over the curves of her body. Her cheeks flamed at the heat of his look, but she didn't glance away. He quickly discarded his buckskins. She watched him, and he enjoyed the look of desire in her eyes.

Mandy wanted him. Her body beckoned him to take her. This time she would enjoy his every caress. He loved her. There was no need to hold back. Her hands stroked the bunched muscles of his back, a firm buttock. She felt the muscles tighten beneath her fingertips. His mouth moved from her lips to her eyes to her cheeks, then down to her shoulders, leaving her burning wherever they touched.

He cupped one of her breasts and the heat of his touch spread through her, making her body ache. Her nipple turned hard and rose against his hand. She heard him groan with desire. Her body arched against his coiled, rippling muscles. He spread her legs with his knee and lowered himself. She felt his hardness and quivered.