Ride The Wild Wind (Time Travel Historical Romance)

RIDE THE WILD WIND

Copyright
2009, Kimberly Ivey Wuttke

1
^st
Publication September 2009; 2
^nd
Publication March 2012

Publisher:
Endless Sky Productions  

Word
Count 108,000

Genre:
Time Travel Western Historical Romance

Cover
Design: Endless Sky Productions

Ride The
Wild Wind is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are
products of the author's imagination, or are used fictitiously and are not to
be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations,
or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.  All trademarks,
service marks, registered trademarks, and registered service marks are the
property of their respective owners and are used herein for identification
purposes only

The
following deceased historical figures mentioned in the manuscript, although not
depicted as actual characters within the story, were real:
 
Chief Manuelito of
the Navajos; Navajo Headmen Barboncito, Armijo, and Delgadito; General James
Carleton; and Colonel Christopher "Kit" Carson

No part
of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print, or by any
other means now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and
recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without written
permission of the author and Endless Sky Productions, except in the case of
brief quotations of less than 75 words embodied in reviews. Due to
copyright laws you cannot trade, sell or give ebooks away. Please do not
participate in the piracy of ebooks and purchase copies from reputable
publishers.

Reviews

“Ride the Wild Wind is one of the most
dramatic and emotionally charged novels I’ve ever read. The plot is long and
involved, jam-packed with action, suspense, twists and turns, sultry passion,
emotional angst and even humor, along with the historical fact encompassing Gen
James Carleton’s scorched earth policy against the Navajo Nation.”

--Merrylee, Two Lips Reviews  
2010     Voted a Recommended Read and Reader’s Choice Award
recipient, 2010  from Two Lips Reviews

“Kimberly Ivey’s Ride The Wild Wind is a
captivating story from beginning to end. As a reader, I was swept back in time,
and my heart ached for the Navajo people and the tragedies they endured.”

Chrissy, Reviewer for Love Western Romance
Book Reviews   2010

For my husband, Jeff, as always.

RIDE
THE WILD WIND

Award-Winning
Time Travel Historical Novel

by

Kimberly
Ivey

PROLOGUE

The Past

Antonio
Whitehorse
bolted upright at the sound of gun shots. Instinct propelled him
behind a hill of tumbled rocks and scrub brush. He drew his pistol, his
heartbeat hammering in his chest as he crouched low.

They’d found him.

It took a moment
to orient himself to his surroundings. Relief seeped into his fogged senses.
There’d been no gunshots. It had only been a dream, another one about the
red-haired woman. But this time, it had taken a bizarre twist.

Drawing in deep,
steady breaths, he willed his pounding heart to calm. Tension slowly uncoiled
within as he eased from behind the rocks.  He slid the gun back into the
holster and stood, rubbing grit from his eyes. When would it all end? Or was
victory even possible for The People in this war against the United States
government?

He glanced at the
dying fire beside him, its glowing orange coals barely visible. How long had he
slept. An hour, or two?  The ebony darkness of the vast canyon lands
threatened to swallow him. Soon the moon would rise above the rim, a golden orb
to illuminate the landscape with purple shadows and he would not be alone
anymore.

Blinking back the
sting of perspiration, he realized his shirt and breeches were drenched in
sweat despite the plunging nighttime temperatures. The dry aching in his throat
he recognized well.
Fear.

In tonight’s
dream, the mysterious woman had been swept from his arms and sucked into a
vortex of gray swirling storm clouds. Always before he’d searched for her in
the darkness, not knowing why, but only that he must find her.

Tonight he had.

He’d tasted her
lips and caressed the soft curves of her body—had threaded his fingers into her
vibrant red hair. But she had been whisked from his arms before he could ask
her name.

And at the sound
of what he’d thought was gunfire, he awakened.
 

Was this a
dream foretelling his future?

He touched his fingers
to his lips, a shudder of desire rippling through him. Still, the memory of
their carnal kiss lingered. His body trembled, aching with a yearning to touch
her again, to make love to her.

Trying to shake
the memory he moved about camp, gathering dry twigs and brush for the dying
fire. But the simple task failed to distract him or steady his nerves. It was a
matter of time before their paths crossed. He felt it in his gut.

Half an hour later
as he stared into the leaping flames of the fire, he recalled with clarity the
face of the beautiful woman who’d haunted his dreams these past months. Was she
real
,
or simply the conjuring of his imagination?

He’d told his
cousin, Son of the Old Ways
,
or
Sonny
as he called him
,
his
tribe’s
mesjaja hatali—
medicine man
—
of the plaguing dreams. Sonny
stated he had seen her, too, in a vision while in the sweat lodge and believed
she was coming to save the Navajo.

The howls of a
wolf pack drifted on the breeze, followed by the flicker of lightning in the
distance. Moments later, a long roll of thunder grumbled across the valley. A
gust of wild wind whipped his unbound hair about his face. The air about him
sizzled and sparked as a chill skittered up his spine.

A sign
.

He watched
intermittent flashes
   
of lightning in the western sky
grow more frequent, hoping the storm would blow around and miss him. Still, he
pondered hard at the realization there was something more significant to his
dreams of the woman, even more to the storm brewing in the west.

 He raked his
fingers through his unbound hair. No, he hadn’t imagined her. She was
coming—along with something greater than his cousin’s
vision foretold.

Releasing a pent
up breath, he redirected his thoughts. What had she said before he awakened? He
turned his face into the warm night wind and closed his eyes, trying to
remember.

Her face came into
view, a perfect oval-shape. Whiskey colored eyes and hair the color of a fiery
canyon sunset. He was certain he had never seen or spoken to her. Proper women
did not associate with half-breeds, not that his clandestine journeys as gun
runner between the territories of New Mexico and Arizona placed him in their
company. Even with
his gray eyes and golden-brown hair,
his skin color and features were dark and distinctly Indian,
enough that he
exercised caution in associations with whites.

He’d straddled two
worlds all his life—those of his Navajo mother and the one of his
light-featured
criollo
father—Mexican born, but of pure Spanish blood.
It mattered not that he had been educated by the finest tutors and English
governesses afforded by his wealthy grandfather. To The People—the Navajo—he
was
Navajo. To whites, he was an Indian
,
a menace to be dealt no mercy.

And he’d left the
white man’s world two years ago, never to look back.

His mount, hobbled
nearby, reared its dark head and snorted as the wolves’ howls edged closer to
camp. Antonio shook his head to loosen the lingering effects of sleep.

He tossed scraps
of cedar and sagebrush it into the dying flames again. The fire rose higher,
snapping and crackling as it consumed the dry twig in a cloud of thick
billowing smoke. Squatting down, he gazed into the leaping orange fire and
soothed his senses by fanning thick, purifying smoke over his body. One Navajo
tradition he had clung to since childhood.

Speaking in a
hushed tone, he reassured his horse they were safe from predators. Yet it
failed to ease the uneasiness thrumming through his veins, or the hot desire
for a mysterious woman he had never met.

He closed his eyes
again, tried to summon her back in his mind’s eye. He drew his hands to his
face, bringing cleansing smoke to his nostrils, inhaling deep. Instead of wood
smoke, the light floral scent of her hair lingered on his fingertips. Opening
his eyes, he stared at his hands.
But it had only been a dream!

He stood, the hair
rising on the back of his neck. Wind whipped his hair about his face as alarm
rippled up his spine. He spun around, his gaze darting into the shadows. She
was here—somewhere in the darkness.

The crash of
thunder jolted him back into the moment and an angry wind arose, whirling up
dust and pebbles. He had misjudged the direction of the fast moving storm.

He gathered his
blanket and bags, saddling Dinishwo in a near-blinding sand storm. He barely
finished when a driving rain pelted the ground in silver dollar sized drops.
Guiding his horse in the darkness, he directed his mount up the steep, mud
-slicked embankment in the direction of the main trail seeking higher ground.

A dazzling light
struck ahead. Dinishwo reared, almost bucking him off. He tried to calm his
horse with soothing words, yet the fierce howl of the wind drowned out his
voice. Cold rain stung his face. It became difficult to see. Thunder crashed
again and he reined in his spooked horse and took shelter beneath a massive
rock overhang, sliding from the nervous animal’s back.

Frustration clawed
at his insides as the hard rain continued to slash at the muddy ground. He had
to find her and soon. At first light, he would search the canyon again for
traces of the woman. If she wasn’t here, he would continue traveling eastward
on his reconnaissance mission, then track back to Albuquerque for a meeting
with his arms supplier. He prayed Diablo’s men had been able to intercept the
stolen shipment of new Joslyn carbines bound for Union troops. If not, he would
settle for Georgia-made Griswold revolvers to replace the older muzzle loaders.

Time was running
out and funds growing scarce.

He did not wish to
consider his last alternative—sell
Rancho de los
Santos.

A wave of dread
washed over him. He could not do it.

He would never
dishonor his grandfather’s legacy.

CHAPTER ONE

Santa
Fe,
New Mexico

The Present

“Okay, mister. Sit
tight while the blood on your neck stump dries.”

With a shove, Halle
Brooks wheeled her rolling chair away from the art table and stood, perusing
the grotesque, headless male torso.

Her latest
masterpiece.

Folding her arms
across her chest, she stared at “Tom,” as she’d dubbed him. The headless theatrical
prop needed something else. But what?  She turned to Max, her Chihuahua,
who was dressed in his Zorro hat and cape. “What do you think? A little more
green rot around Tom’s neck? A gory artery dangling out? I know! Jagged cuts
where the serial killer’s saw severed his head. Yeah, that’s it, don’t you
think?”

Max yawned
disinterestedly and Halle bent down to scratch the dog’s muzzle. “You’re no
help. And you have the nerve to call yourself my assistant? You are
so
fired,
mister. Clear out your doghouse. No severance bones either!”

Max gave a low
whine and put his muzzle to the floor. She gave his head a reassuring pat.
“Just kidding. What would I do without you, Max? You’re my inspiration. My best
buddy. My reason for living.”

Max lifted one bug
eye as if to say, “Knock off the crap.”

“Okay. I get the
message.”

Standing back,
Halle gave Torso Tom another once-over.
Yep.  Definitely something
missing.
“Maybe tomorrow I’ll be more inspired.”

After tossing her
gloves aside, she slipped from her paint-splattered smock and hung it on the
peg by the door. She cast a glance toward the front windows of Back Stage, the
costume and theatrical prop studio where she worked as a designer. Already the
sky had darkened.
Holy crap
.  How had she lost track of time?

She dashed about,
snatching her purse and keys from the art table, mentally taking notes. Car
keys? Check. Phone? Check. She placed her cell phone beside the tote bag. Pour
out the old coffee. Quickly, she dumped the contents of her hours old latte’
down the art room sink and washed it away with a flick of the faucet handle.

“We’d better get
on the road, boy. It’s a four hour drive to Las Cruces, and that’s if we
don’t
hit rush hour in Alburquerque. And there’ll be absolutely no stopping to water
the tires, so cross those bony little hind legs and hold it.”

Lifting her denim
tote bag, she paused to finger the clasp on the large manila envelope, and then
eased it back into the side pocket. There was no use looking at the photograph
again. The woman in the faded Polaroid picture wasn’t her mother.

Following her
eighteenth birthday Halle’d been allowed access to state adoption records, only
to discover her birth mother left no forwarding address or information on other
relatives. But a week ago
Grace Montez, long time director
of the children’s home where Halle’d spent fifteen years of her life
,
discovered a forgotten envelope in the bottom of an old file box destined for
the trash. Halle’s biological mother apparently left a photo and a few mementos
in the misplaced packet. But
this
woman—the woman in the photograph
Grace gave her—was not
her mother. She couldn’t be.

Although she’d
been almost four when she entered the foster care system, Halle remembered the
real
Naomi Brooks, a slender, African American woman with
exotic, cat-like eyes and straight jet hair.
Her mother had been beautiful
and tall and graceful like a supermodel. The woman’s picture in the envelope
Grace gave her was Caucasian and blonde.

For the past four
years, Halle’s internet searches and phone calls turned up dead leads. But
Grace, who’d sympathized with her plight to find her birth mother, eventually
located an
N. Brooks
in Las Cruces. The best Grace extracted from the
woman was an admission she once lived in Santa Fe and
was
related Naomi
Brooks, although she refused to elaborate, or even admit she was the woman in
the photograph.

Still, it was
their last hope. Grace phoned and set up a first meeting for Halle. The woman
appeared reluctant, but agreed. Still, it changed nothing. Everything in the
faded envelope was a lie. All she hoped and dreamed of finding all these years.
A connection to her family, her roots.
Gone.

So who was this
woman, and why was she impersonating Naomi Brooks? That’s what she intended to
find out tonight.

She fished the
keys to Back Stage’s front doors from her skirt pocket, and then placed Max
into the tote. The shop’s owner, Harvey Schroeder, didn’t mind her bringing Max
to work. He called the dog his lucky charm, claiming orders for pet costumes
increased when Max strutted around the store in full regalia. Though Harvey was
home recovering from back surgery and the shop short-handed, Halle couldn’t
miss an opportunity to close early and make the long drive to confront the
imposter woman. Besides, she was way ahead of the week’s schedule, having put
the finishing touches on two specialty latex monster masks that morning, dyeing
two zombie wigs, and Fed Ex-ing a crate of realistic-looking vampire bite
patches to a Hollywood studio.  

After flipping off
the lights, she punched in the store’s alarm code and stepped outside to lock
up. Dusk greeted her.
Crap.
She still couldn’t believe she’d lost so
much valuable time engrossed with Torso Tom this afternoon.

A quick glance at
her watch revealed it wasn’t late, only dark. Unease flitted over her skin as a
gust of hot wind whipped through the dimly lit street, sending a swirl of
gritty dust around her. Overhead, dark green-tinged storm clouds brewed against
a backdrop of silvery pink. She’d never seen the sky this color at five in the
afternoon. That meant one thing. One hell of a storm was brewing. Even Max
suddenly had turned squirmy in her tote bag.

Halle made her way
to her car, parked curbside. She’d just managed to get Max inside when a gust
of dry, hot wind buffeted her, scouring her with dirt and small debris from the
sidewalk. A jagged spear of lightning struck vertically in the distance and the
air sizzled with dry heat mixed with the scent of rain. Great. Being delayed by
a freak summer storm was the last thing she needed if she were to make it to
her meeting tonight and be back in time to open Back Stage in the morning.

Once inside the
car, a quick glance into the rear view mirror revealed a spectacular display of
lightning in the western sky. It also reminded her she hadn’t removed her faux
pierced lip ring or the black Goth lipstick. She also intended to rinse out the
stiff streaks of sparkling purple gel in her red hair.

Each week a
different theme reigned at Back Stage. Goth was currently in full swing. While
she enjoyed wearing brash, original fashions, and costumes to work, she didn’t
want to frighten the mystery woman before she had a chance to find the truth
about her real mother’s disappearance. She made a mental note to stop at a
roadside rest area and do a quick makeover, which included removing not only
the garish make up, but the temporary purple hair highlights and spider web
stockings.

A low rumble of
thunder and another flash of lightning prompted a growl from Max. He’d shed his
Zorro hat and had managed to wriggle beneath his well-nibbled blanket beside
her. After a quick zip through town she entered the on ramp of the interstate,
relieved to have beaten rush hour traffic.

Soft rain began to
mist the windshield. Within seconds raindrops grew to quarter-sized plops. The
inky ribbon of highway ahead became difficult to see. Halle switched the wipers
on berserk speed and rolled up the driver’s side window to avoid getting
soaked. Max whimpered as another long rolling growl of thunder rattled the windows
of her compact car. “You okay, buddy?”

The little dog
whined what sounded like a yes. Sometimes she swore he was actually trying to
talk.

“Don’t be scared.
It’s just a little storm. No big deal.”

At the top of the
hill, the highway curved wide and the blurry red taillights of the car ahead
disappeared. Vision hampered by the driving rain, Halle slowed her speed,
shoulders tense and aching.

Panic struck as
doubt crept in. What if this woman refused to see her? What if she drove nearly
two hundred miles for nothing? She drew a deep calming breath and held it a
moment before exhaling. No. It wouldn’t happen. She’d waited too long to find
the missing puzzle piece. This imposter wasn’t going to slip away. She’d get
her answer, one way or another.

A flash
illuminated the road ahead, followed by a crash that rattled the earth as if a
bomb had detonated. Halle sucked in a breath. Had lightning struck the highway?
Or was that...

Oh, shit!
A
man on a horse! What the hell was he doing in the middle of the interstate?

She hit the
brakes, too hard she realized when the car fishtailed slightly. Righting the
vehicle, she drove on, her eyes scanning the roadside for signs of the horse
and rider, but it was as if they’d disappeared.

Her gaze darted
along the sides of the darkened road. Where had they gone? More important,
where had they come from? A solid rock wall rose up on her right. A steep,
fifty foot drop into the canyon flanked her left. There was no way a horse
could simply vanish into thin air.

She blinked hard
as the hill loomed into view again and she heard the whine of her old car’s
transmission as it made its ascent once more. Wait. Hadn’t she already passed
this spot a few seconds ago? The road before her curved wide and the tail
lights of the car ahead disappeared as before.
Déjà vu?

“Max, something’s
wrong with me. I know we passed this exact spot a few seconds ago.”

Thinking she’d not
ventilated the art room well enough and paint and epoxy fumes were causing
hallucinations, she rolled down her driver’s side window and drew in deep
breaths of fresh air. Cold rain pelted her arm and face. When her gaze swung
back to the highway, from the out of the darkness the horse and rider cantered back
onto the road a few yards ahead. She let down on the horn. The man appeared
oblivious.

Halle yanked the
wheel left and braked hard. The car swung around on the slick, glassy pavement,
making a full rotation. Max yelped and dove to the floor. Unable to gain
control of the wheel, the front end impacted the silver guardrail. As the car
careened down the road’s shoulder, the deafening sound of scraping metal and
breaking glass drowned her screams. The driver’s side window fell away. The
front fender ripped apart and bounced off the hood. Halle stomped the brakes
but the soft, muddy shoulder gave way and the car lunged forward into the abyss
of the night.

The car stilled.

Steam hissed from
beneath the hood. Numb, she stared at the illuminated dashboard as the wipers
kept time to the erratic beat of her pounding heart.
Holy shit, that was
close. Why didn’t the airbags deploy?

“Max? Are you
okay, buddy?”

He yipped from
beneath the front seat. A good sign.

After unbuckling
her seat belt, she leaned forward, and rested her head against the steering
wheel for a moment.
Calm down. You didn’t hit the horse or the man.

 Drawing in a
steadying breath, she sat back slowly and assessed her surroundings. To her
surprise, the rain storm had ceased. Glancing to her right, she noted only
darkness with intermittent flickers of lightning in the distance. On the
driver’s side, enormous bare tree branches rose up to cradle the car. Leaning
forward, she peered through the windshield.
Nothing
. Absolutely nothing.
The sky above had cleared. A lone star winked at her. And a vast, black void
lay below.

“
No.
”
Realization of her precarious situation dawned on her. The car wasn’t at the
bottom of the ravine. It was perched in an ancient juniper growing out of the
side of the cliff!

She squeezed her
eyes shut.
Oh. My. God. Don’t move. Don’t panic. Someone must have witnessed
the accident. They’ll call for help.

She heard a
snap
,
followed by a metallic
clunk
. The car shifted and broke free before it
plummeted in a free fall. There was no time to scream, no time for a prayer.
The impact jarred every bone, joint and tendon in her body. Glass shattered.
Metal crunched and groaned. Choking dust swirled about her face.

And a deathly pall
settled over the car.

A pulse thumped
wildly in her ears.

A pulse?

I’m alive.

She reached across
the seat for her tote bag, rummaged through. Where was the cell phone? On the
table in the art room. She’d have to trek back to the highway and flag down
help.

Turning the latch
on the dented door, she gave it a hefty shove but it didn’t budge. Maneuvering
in the seat, she drew her knees to her chest, and then kicked hard with both
feet. A shower of tiny pieces of window glass pelted her legs, although she
barely felt it.
Oh, freaking great
.
I’m going into shock
. She
shook the debris from her stockings and stepped out into the chilly night air.
Her shoes sank deep into the mud.

Max.
“Come
out, buddy. We’re all right. Let’s go get help.” No sound came from beneath the
seat. “Max!” she screamed, then dove back into the car, searching frantically
front and back and beneath both seats. Where was he? Had he bolted when she
opened the door?

Climbing from the
car, she yelled again for Max, the thankless little shit.

She investigated
what appeared to be a foot trail, freezing in the eerie soundless blue
darkness. The landscape had changed. Wait. Where was the star she’d seen
earlier? She wheeled around.
My car! Oh my God. Where the hell is my car?
Cautiously, she retraced her steps in the direction she’d come, but the car was
gone.