LeClerc 03 - Wild Savage Heart Read online

  A VISION OF BEAUTY Molly wrung water out of her long hair as she walked, enjoying the feel of the grass beneath her bare feet. She smiled sweetly as she approached Hawk, then sat down on a quilt he had spread out for her.

  “I have never had anything feel so good!” Molly sighed as she pulled a brush through her hair.

  You have never felt me touching you, Hawk thought to himself, fighting the urge to speak out loud.

  “That water felt like satin.”

  My touch would be a feather stroking your skin. “If it hadn’t been a little chilly I’d still be in there.” There would be nothing but heat when I touched you.

  “And that water tasted nearly as good as it felt.” Nothing could compare with the taste of you, Hawk thought feverishly, his desire running rampant throughout his body. I would taste and touch and sample until neither of us knew where you began and I ended.

  Molly stopped brushing and stared at him. “You’re awfully quiet. Is something wrong?”

  “No, Molly. Come over here …

  WILD SAVAGE HEART

  PAMELA K FORREST

  For Helen J. Price

  I love you, Mom.

  Me II

  ZEBRA BOOKS KENSINGTON PUBUSHING CORP.

  ZEBRA BOOKS are published by Kensington Publishing Corp. 475 Park Avenue South New York, NY 10016

  Copyright (c) 1993 by Pamela K. Forrest

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  Zebra, the Z logo, Heartfire Romance, and the Heartfire Romance logo are trademarks of Kensington Publishing Corp.

  If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the Publisher and neither the Author nor the Publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  First Printing: January 1993

  Printed in the United States of America

  PROLOGUE

  Ohio River Valley

  Late Winter 1785

  The morning sun painted a radiance of golden light as it slowly rose over the eerily quiet Shawnee Indian village.

  Days earlier the voices of happy, excited children had rung through the clearing as they played games in the deep snow, cheered on by parents and grandparents. Sometimes, in the very excitement generated by the childish contests, those same spectators would forget that they were no longer children and would briefly join into the game in progress.

  White puffs of breath had risen past reddened, chubby cheeks and sparkling black eyes to be lost in the air somewhere above glistening blue-black heads. The children had no reason to fear the men who joined their games. A warrior, whose terrifying countenance struck fear in the hearts of the white people at the nearest settlement, could be an uncle; that one an older brother; another a cousin. The stern faces of the warriors would break into smiles as they were willingly brought to their knees by the combined forces of the children.

  Now the only sign of the deep snows that had fallen were pristine white patches hidden in the shadows beneath the trees. Even that final proof of winter would be melted by the end of the day. Only deep in the woods, well hidden from the sun and the warm spring breezes, would the snows last for another day or two.

  Garden plots, whose boundaries were carefully laid out and fenced, waited for spring thaw. Winter had been harsh but the people of the village had been prepared, sharing both the labor and the fruits of that labor from their gardens.

  In the fall, game had been plentiful and had been carefully dried and preserved for the days when winter winds made hunting impossible. The snug, warm lodges had been a gathering place of happy people as the snow flew and the winds howled.

  When the cold drove even the strongest inside, stories were begged for by the youngest and happily told by the oldest. Mothers hid their smiles as grandfathers told tales so tall that childish ebony eyes grew wide with wonder.

  It had been a peaceful time to sew the hides that had been carefully tanned earlier, to repair or replace weapons, to prepare for spring.

  But as the sun began to warm the new day no sound of laughter was heard; nor were childish screams of excitement or voices raised in greeting.

  There was no visiting from lodge to lodge, no measuring of the thawing earth to see if planting could be begun. In the village of several hundred people the silence was oppressive.

  Linsey McAdams walked outside of the lodge of Wolf and Morning Moon to allow them some privacy. With her arms wrapped around her waist in a disheartened manner, her troubled green eyes searched for sight of Luc LeClerc. She desperately needed his strong arms to hold her, to reassure her that this nightmare would end. He was somewhere in the village but she could not find the strength or willpower to go in search of him.

  Seeking solitude the evening before, Linsey had walked through the village. She knew that the sounds that had drifted from the lodges would forever haunt her dreams: agonized coughing as pain-racked bodies searched for one more breath — groans from the dying and from those still alive as loved ones left on their journey to Manitou — whimpering of the babies too sick to cry — the sounds of anguish as the people died from a disease that was a legacy of the white man.

  A few short weeks earlier, Linsey, too, had been terrified of the Indians. She firmly believed every horror story she had ever heard. But Luc, known to the Shawnee as Bear Who Walks Alone, had taken her hand in his and shown her the truth of the people so different from her own. With his patient understanding and the friendship of Wolf and his gentle wife, Morning Moon, Linsey had come to know and love the Indians.

  Now a different type of horror stalked Linsey.

  With every passing hour the death toll mounted. Young or old, infant or warrior, few of the people were surviving more than a few hours of the disease. Their fever-racked bodies could not fight an illness that had been unknown to them before the white man invaded their lands.

  Spring Flower, only daughter of Wolf and Morning Moon, had died quietly the evening before. Linsey had sent their son Chattering Squirrel away with the old trapper, Kaleb Smith, but she worried that it might be too late and the precious toddler would succumb to the disease.

  Inside the lodge, Morning Moon, heavily pregnant with another child, fought for her life — a fight that Linsey feared the gentle Indian woman would lose. The baby, as if knowing that time was an enemy, had chosen now to be born. Morning Moon’s labor had begun days too early and at a time when she was far too weak to survive the strain.

  Later, Linsey would remember this day as the longest of her life.

  Morning Moon moaned, the pain of labor or the disease viciously attacking her body, reaching through her delirium. Linsey continuously sponged her overheated flesh, hoping to bring her temperature down. Wolf and Bear had come and gone frequently during the day, giving Linsey news of any development in the village. When the death toll had climbed to over two hundred by midafternoon, she quit asking.

  The grandmother, a woman so old that even the oldest members of the tribe couldn’t remember her as a young woman, had also stopped in several times. Somehow the old woman had not caught the disease and she worked unceasingly to ease the suffering of the sick and dying.

  “Lin Zee?”

  “Morning Moon?” Linsey’s attention was quickly caught by the Indian woman.

  “Spring Flower?”

  “She’s resting.”The lie came easily to Linsey’s lips as she pushed damp hair off her friend’s fevered brow. There would be enough time later for Morning Moon to learn that her oldest child was dead.

  “S
quirrel?”

  Linsey smiled into the glazed eyes. “Kaleb took him to our cabin so that he wouldn’t get sick. They were going to see how much trouble they could get into.”

  “My baby?” Her hand tried to move to the mound of her child but fell short of its goal.

  “Your baby moves frequently.” Linsey placed her own hand lightly against the firm flesh. A smile crossed her lips, the first in days, when she felt the baby kick against her. “He is strong and wants to be born.”

  “Lin Zee,” Morning Moon stopped to cough, a sound that was far too feeble. “You will care for my children.”

  It was neither a question or request. It was a statement of fact and Linsey busied herself with wringing out a rag and placing it on Morning Moon’s brow. “Until you are better,” she replied firmly. Her troubled emerald eyes met a knowing ebony gaze.

  “Until I am better,” Morning Moon whispered raggedly. She closed her eyes as she drifted back into a delirium that offered protection from the debilitating truth.

  Sometime in the late afternoon, Morning Moon’s labor stopped. The old grandmother examined her patient and shook her head sadly. At Linsey’s insistence, and in spite of the old woman’s doubt of its success, she showed Linsey and Wolf how to massage Morning Moon’s extended belly in hopes that labor would once more begin.

  The afternoon turned slowly to evening. Linsey and Wolf worked well as a team, Linsey massaging while Wolf sponged his wife’s fevered body. When Linsey tired they traded places.

  When Linsey thought she’d drop from fatigue, Bear returned from an errand and understood the situation at a glance.

  “Show me what to do.”

  Bear was startled by the heat beneath his fingers when they first touched Morning Moon’s body. He almost withdrew his hands in shock as the baby kicked.

  “It moved!” he said in amazement.

  Tired beyond exhaustion, worried beyond hope, Linsey and Wolf looked at each other and suddenly grinned.

  “What did you expect?” Linsey asked. “That poor baby is all scrunched up in there and wants out.”

  The light moment was over as quickly as it had come. Linsey rested while the two men worked, returning shortly to relieve Wolf, who rested, then returned to relieve Bear. Through the darkness of the long night, they shared the loving chore of saving Morning Moon and her child.

  The inky darkness of the night slowly turned to shadows with the rising of the sun. The grandmother returned, her knowing eyes seeing the fatigue on the three faces as they stood back and watched her examine Morning Moon.

  The words were Shawnee, but the tone might as well have been English. All of their work, their nightlong labor of love had done nothing. The child would not be born.

  Lost in their dejection, they were not prepared for the sudden movement from the bed. Three pairs of eyes clouded with horror as Morning Moon suddenly stiffened then thrashed wildly; her eyes opened wide before rolling up into her head. The grandmother nodded grimly, her shoulders slumping with defeat. The convulsion lasted for a fraction of a minute but seemed to go on for hours as they stood back helplessly.

  It ceased as suddenly as it had begun. Morning Moon relaxed, her body going limp. She opened her eyes, her gaze locking with Wolfs. Only because of the total quiet in the lodge were they able to hear her whispered words. As her eyes closed, Morning Moon released a deep sigh and was still.

  “My husband,” Linsey whispered, repeating one of the few Shawnee words she recognized.

  Wolf moved to Morning Moon’s side and laid his hand on her chest. His eyes closed, devastation aging his face beyond his years.

  “She is dead.”

  “No,” Linsey cried as Bear wrapped his arms around her. “Please God, no …”

  Their gaze was drawn to the mound of her stomach. Three pairs of eyes gazed with horror and anguish as they watched it move and roll. The new life extinguished before it could begin as the infant fought its final battle.

  “The baby … dear God, the baby!”

  Horror never felt before gripped each of the observers as they watched the helpless child move. With no words to anyone, the grandmother moved to the side of the bed. Her knowing hands rested on the swollen abdomen, feeling the position of the baby. She snarled a command to Wolf, who responded in a daze by handing her the knife he carried strapped to his thigh.

  Once more confirming the location of the baby, the grandmother placed the knife at the top of Morning Moon’s abdomen. With a swift movement, she slit open the stretched skin.

  Linsey’s eyes widened in panic at the action, but the old woman ignored her startled scream; time was more important than a white woman’s squeamishness. She cut through the uterus, exposing the membrane containing the child. Piercing through the sack, the grandmother lifted the baby from Morning Moon’s body. Laying it on the edge of the sleeping-shelf, she quickly tied off the cord and cut it.

  The child was still, its dark, wet skin tinted blue. Supporting the baby’s head, the old woman cleared its mouth and firmly slapped its bottom.

  In a world filled with dying and dead, one little body filled new lungs with air. A voice, feeble at first, quickly gathered strength. Tiny eyes opened to squint in the light of a new day, small arms and legs waving as cool air rushed over damp skin.

  “You have a son.” The grandmother turned, handed the child to his father.

  Wolf gently held his son, rubbing his cheek against the soft, wet one. Taking the child outside, he held him up to the morning sun. Repeating words older than memory, he thanked Manitou for blessing him with a son, promising to teach him of life, helping him to grow into a brave warrior.

  Returning to the lodge, Wolf handed his new son to Linsey. “Many years ago Bear Who Walks Alone became my brother. Now I ask a difficult task of the woman of my brother. Name my son. Take him with you to your cabin and watch over him and his brother. When the time is right a name will come to you and you will know it is the right one.

  “Protect my sons for me, Summer Eyes, so that they may live to know tomorrow.”

  In less than three weeks, the death toll at the Shawnee village climbed to over six hundred men, women and children.

  And one birth — an event so miraculous that Linsey knew she’d never forget the moment. Much to her surprise, the baby’s name came easily.

  “My sister,” Hawk said quietly when he finally came to claim his sons, “you have given my son a name?”

  She nodded. “Morning Moon once told me that Shawnee names have meaning but I knew few Shawnee names. One of the English ones I did know was Nathan, which means gift of God. I also chose Morning so that he can remember the mother who died before his birth. For several days when I was trying to make my decision a hawk seemed to be everywhere I turned. He was so strong and free.” Wolf nodded quietly. “It is a good name, my sister, a name worthy of a warrior. Nathan Morning Hawk.”

  CHAPTER ONE

  North Carolina — Spring 1811

  “Mary Helen Gallagher Royse,” Molly whispered to herself as she twisted the shiny gold band on her left hand, watching it catch the sunlight. “Molly Royse … Adam and Molly Royse … “

  “Did you say something, sweetheart?”

  Molly felt heat warm her face as she turned to look at the man beside her on the wagon seat. Her husband of one day. Not quite a full day, she amended, since they had been married late yesterday afternoon and it was just past noon today.

  “I was just practicing my new name,” she admitted, with a shy smile. “I’d be terribly embarrassed if someone addressed me as Mrs. Royse and I didn’t answer.”

  Adam smiled at her and released one hand from the reins to give her a quick hug. “You’ve got the rest of your life, Molly Royse, to remember your name.”

  “Molly Royse,” she said. “I like the sound of it. Don’t you?”

  “Very much.” Adam felt his voice catch as love filled him. “More than I can ever say.”

  Molly leaned against him and briefly closed h
er eyes. This much happiness almost scared her. Until Adam had come into her life she had been destined to care for her aging father. As the youngest of four daughters, Molly had had her fate decided for her. Her older sisters had all made desirable marriages with men carefully chosen by Charles Gallagher, while she had been raised with the knowledge that she would always remain at home, unmarried, childless.

  Until Adam. Courageous, bold Adam, who dared to defy Charles Gallagher by sweeping her away from beneath his very nose. Clever, resourceful Adam, who further defied the influential banker by taking his daughter to the frontier of North Carolina and therefore out of his reach.

  Gentle, loving Adam who had already given her more happiness than she had ever expected, or hoped, would be hers.

  Sighing contentedly, Molly opened her eyes and they collided with the dark, intense gaze of their guide, and Adam’s friend, Nathan Hawk. Intimidated, Molly sat up abruptly and folded her hands in her lap, wishing once again that she had told Adam of her dislike of his friend before it had become too late.

  When Adam had first introduced her to him, Nathan had been dressed in a conventional dark suit and white shirt, his blue-black hair neatly curbed at his nape with a dark silk ribbon. His prominent cheekbones, sculptured nose and well-defined jaw hinted at his Indian heritage. He was coldly polite as he looked down at her from the advantage of several inches and she knew he had found her inadequate for the trip. Or perhaps he doubted her ability to be the kind of wife Adam needed.

  Whatever his reason, Nathan made no attempt to hide his contempt.

  If the civilized Nathan had alarmed her, this Nathan terrified her. He had traded his dark suit for fringed buckskins and knee-high moccasins. His hair was still bound at his nape, now with a rawhide thong, but she wouldn’t have been surprised if one morning she saw it hanging freely around his shoulders.