Savage Hero Read online

  CASSIE EDWARDS

  THE SAVAGE SERIES

  Winner of the Romantic Times Lifetime Achievement Award for Best Indian Series!

  “Cassie Edwards writes action-packed, sexy reads! Romance fans will be more than satisfied!”

  —Romantic Times

  MIDNIGHT RENDEZVOUS

  He held her close. His lips lowered to hers.

  Mary Beth did not turn away from him this time. Their lips met in a sweet, tremulous kiss.

  Mary Beth regretted now having ever denied herself the pleasure that came with his kiss and the warm sweetness of his arms. In his kiss and embrace, everything else disappeared from her mind!

  There was only the two of them, their love breaking through all the barriers that had kept them apart.

  When they stepped away from each other, Brave Wolf gently touched her cheek. “My body aches for more than a kiss,” he said huskily.

  “Mine too,” Mary Beth said in a voice that did not sound like her own. “Tonight, Brave Wolf. After the celebration . . . tonight . . . ?”

  He swept her into his arms again and kissed her. Their bodies strained hungrily together.

  “Ah, yes, tonight . . .” he whispered against her parted lips.

  Other Dorchester books by Cassie Edwards:

  TOUCH THE WILD WIND

  ROSES AFTER RAIN

  WHEN PASSION CALLS

  EDEN’S PROMISE

  ISLAND RAPTURE

  SECRETS OF MY HEART

  The Savage Series:

  SAVAGE DESTINY

  SAVAGE LOVE

  SAVAGE MOON

  SAVAGE HONOR

  SAVAGE THUNDER

  SAVAGE DEVOTION

  SAVAGE GRACE

  SAVAGE FIRES

  SAVAGE JOY

  SAVAGE WONDER

  SAVAGE HEAT

  SAVAGE DANCE

  SAVAGE TEARS

  SAVAGE LONGINGS

  SAVAGE DREAM

  SAVAGE BLISS

  SAVAGE WHISPERS

  SAVAGE SHADOWS

  SAVAGE SPLENDOR

  SAVAGE EDEN

  SAVAGE SURRENDER

  SAVAGE PASSIONS

  SAVAGE SECRETS

  SAVAGE PRIDE

  SAVAGE SPIRIT

  SAVAGE EMBERS

  SAVAGE ILLUSION

  SAVAGE SUNRISE

  SAVAGE MISTS

  SAVAGE PROMISE

  SAVAGE PERSUASION

  CASSIE

  EDWARDS

  SAVAGE

  HERO

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  DORCHESTER PUBLISHING

  Published by

  Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.

  200 Madison Avenue

  New York, NY 10016

  Copyright © 2003 by Cassie Edwards

  Cover art by John Ennis.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Trade ISBN: 978-1-4285-1851-3

  E-book ISBN: 978-1-4285-1840-7

  First Dorchester Publishing, Co., Inc. edition: August 2003

  The “DP” logo is the property of Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.

  Printed in the United States of America.

  Visit us online at www.dorchesterpub.com.

  In appreciation and admiration, I dedicate Savage Hero to two special people at Dorchester Publishing:

  My editor, Alicia Condon, who has been there for me for so many years with her guidance and her support of my Savage series. It means so much to me.

  And also to George Sosson, the President and Publisher of Dorchester, whose heart is in all that he does for Dorchester and its authors.

  SAVAGE

  HERO

  The brave sits alert atop his spirited steed,

  Both being the very best of their breed.

  He sits perfectly silent, no sound at all,

  Fearless, prowess, sitting so flawless and tall.

  A slight breeze approaches, barely moving his braid.

  Cautiously alert, his hand moves to his blade.

  Instantly ready, an arrow awaits in his bow;

  If accurate, there’s little hope for a foe.

  His horse remains quiet, trained as a colt.

  No matter the danger, he will not bolt.

  Suddenly Brave Wolf hears a noise to his right,

  So thankful the day has turned into night.

  He was taught to use his senses,

  Taught many a skill, to use any defenses.

  Thanks to his teaching, he knows who is there.

  Why would she come, how could she dare?

  Out of the shadows, she steps into sight,

  Skin white as snow, hair just as bright.

  She had to come, to keep her word;

  She escaped her prison like a caged bird.

  She traveled all day, until night finally came.

  She would have searched forever, feeling no shame.

  God led her there, so she would know

  Brave Wolf was there, her full-blooded Crow.

  He smiles at her, calling out “My Sunshine.”

  She runs to him, her smile so sweet.

  He gently lifts her; she grabs without haste.

  He loves feeling her arms encircling his waist.

  So very thankful, for here come the rains,

  Erasing their tracks, from across the plains.

  Soon on the horizon, they’re only a dot,

  Heading for home at a very fast trot.

  Brave Wolf’s woman is going home at last,

  Dreaming of a future, and forgetting the past.

  Living as a Crow is all she’s desired,

  With Brave Wolf’s people, respected and admired.

  As they ride, the sun starts to awaken,

  Their lives entwined, their futures for the taking.

  A doe crosses her path with her fawn,

  Watching the lovers disappear along with the dawn.

  A song is on the breeze, whispering of their love.

  Hear it whispering, “Brave Wolf loves his Sunshine!”

&
nbsp; —Darcie L. Wright

  Cassie Edwards Fan Club member

  Chapter One

  She spoke and loosened from her

  bosom the embroidered girdle of

  many colors into which her

  allurement was fashioned.

  —Homer, The Iliad

  June 1876

  The Battle of the Little Big Horn was now over.

  The battlefield was eerily quiet. Bodies lay everywhere.

  General George Armstrong Custer lay amid those who had battled alongside him . . . red-skinned and white alike.

  Among them lay Night Horse, one of Custer’s head scouts. He was pretending to be dead as the victors moved through the bloody field, taking valuables from some whites, scalping others.

  Night Horse, who had chosen the road of the white man instead of traveling that of his Crow brothers, scarcely breathed as his people prepared many travois upon which to carry their fallen warriors back to their families for mourning and burial rites.

  Night Horse hoped no one would realize that he was still alive. His life would be gone in an instant if he was spotted, for he was hated now by both the red man and the white eyes. The Crow, who resented his companionship with the white pony soldiers, would relish the pleasure of seeing him dead.

  The white pony soldiers might also wish to see him dead. They might feel that Night Horse had betrayed the cavalry and was somehow responsible for the deadly attack.

  It would be especially bad for Night Horse now, for among the dead was the revered leader General George Armstrong Custer who was called Yellow Hair by some red men and Long Hair by others.

  To the white eyes, Yellow Hair was a hero. To the Indians, he was a cowardly murderer who killed not only warriors, but also their innocent women and children.

  With someone else’s blood spattered all over his buckskin clothes, yet no mortal wounds on himself, Night Horse breathlessly waited for that moment when he could leave this place of death.

  And then finally he heard the horses’ hoofbeats as they were guided from the battlefield, dragging behind them the travois piled with fallen warriors.

  Night Horse still lay quiet on his belly until the hoofbeats faded away and he knew that it was finally safe to rise. Slowly he crept up from the ground. He flinched with alarm and cowered as a brown and white spotted eagle descended from the sky, talons out, its hooked beak open, then swept as quickly away.

  Night Horse stood and stared at the death all around him. He had known to expect the worst, but nothing could have prepared him for what he was seeing, or just how horrifying it would be to see the outcome of the battle.

  Over and over again he vomited until nothing was left inside him.

  Wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his shirt, dashing away the tears spilling from his eyes, Night Horse at first stumbled along the bloody ground, wincing when he had to step over one body and then another.

  Then he broke into a mad run.

  Even when he reached the fresh green grass waving gently in the breeze, he ran. He continued until his legs would hardly carry him any farther, until he found himself safely hidden in a blue-black pine forest of spruce, where sunlight scarcely penetrated the dark tangle of interwoven branches and overgrown needles.

  Breathing harshly, his side aching, Night Horse fell to his knees.

  He held his face in his hands and cried again.

  He had cheated death today, but he now wondered if he was really so fortunate to still be breathing.

  He was now a man without a people. As such, was he not, in a sense, dead, himself?

  He had lost the right to live among people, either white or Crow. He would now live the life of a lost man who belonged nowhere, a man whose pride was gone.

  In his heart he had longed to gain celebrity as a Custer scout, yet that would never be. He was now alone—totally, totally alone.

  He could never return to his home, to his mother, or his brother, because when he left to ally himself with Custer, he was told by his Crow people never to return.

  Even then, he had been dead to them.

  Dispirited, filled with remorse and a deep, gnawing regret and shame, Night Horse rose to his feet and walked onward, his steps listless, his heart heavy.

  Feeling empty inside, plagued by recurring visions of the battlefield, he walked awhile, and then he made himself remember that he had been a proud warrior before he had become a scout for the white eyes. His ahte, his father, had instilled within him much courage.

  He reached deep inside himself now for what remained of that courage.

  He had been taught the art of survival, as well, by his ahte, and Night Horse vowed he would survive even this . . . the worst day of his life.

  He would make a new life for himself, even if he must live it alone.

  The first thing he must do was steal a horse, and then find a place where he could be hidden from any who might realize he had not died and come looking for him.

  He smiled as he thought of the perfect place where he could be safe, where he could make a world for himself as he learned to live alone.

  It was a place that he and his brother Brave Wolf had found when he was a young brave trying to pretend he was a great, valiant warrior.

  Yes, Night Horse would go there. He was a survivor, a man who had just cheated death.

  Now he must find a way to tolerate his empty life, and he would, for this place where he would make his new life was a place of beauty where he would live among animals, and where eagles made their nests and taught their children how to soar among the clouds.

  But even those things, which had always before filled his heart with joy, would not keep him from remembering, over and over again, what he had experienced today.

  It was sheetsha-sheetsha, bad, bad!

  Chapter Two

  The American Indian once

  grew as naturally as the wild

  sunflowers; he belongs just

  as the buffalo belonged.

  —Luther Standing Bear,

  Oglala Sioux Chief

  Three months later—Montana

  The fire burned soft and low in the tepee. Shadows thrown by the flames leapt on the inside buffalo-hide walls of the lodge, where there were no painted designs, for this was the home of an elderly widow.

  The tepee that she had shared with her chieftain husband had been taken down, hide by hide, pole by pole, and removed from the village, for it was not good to live in a tepee where someone had died . . . not even a powerful chief.

  Only the exploits and victories of a husband were painted on the inside walls of a lodge, a woman’s victories did not compare with a man’s since she mainly bore the children and cared for the family.

  Although women considered their accomplishments just as important, still it was only the man’s doings that were painted inside their lodges.

  Pure Heart, aging and ill, sat with her son of twenty-five winters, Chief Brave Wolf. They were of the Whistling Water Clan of the Crow tribe. Brave Wolf had been given the title of chief upon the death of his beloved chieftain father.

  Her moon-white hair was braided and coiled atop her head, her cheeks and eyes sunken by age, Pure Heart sat with a blanket wrapped warmly around her frail shoulders. It was the time of the Moon of the Falling Leaves, when the days became cool and the nights cold.

  “Micinksi, my son, you must do this one thing for me before I die,” Pure Heart said as she gazed over the low flames of the fire at Brave Wolf.

  In him she saw a replica of her late husband. His face was sculpted and handsome, and his bare, copper shoulders were as muscular as his father’s had once been. He wore only a breechcloth and moccasins.

  In his midnight-black eyes she saw wisdom, much of which he had learned from his father. There was also warmth and caring in his gaze as he looked back at her.