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  And she still didn’t want to tell anyone about Chief Thunder Horse. Not even her cousin, whom she should trust with anything.

  But . . . there was something about Reginald, a strange sort of demeanor, that made her hesitate to tell him much of anything. It was a cold aloofness, which was vastly different from the way he had treated the people of the congregation. He had welcomed them heartily as they walked past him and the preacher for handshakes and embraces.

  She wondered now if he truly wanted her there with him. Was she going to interfere in his life?

  She would soon find out, for he had walked her to a horse and buggy as fancy and fine as those owned by the wealthiest families in Kansas City.

  “Let me help you,” Reginald said, placing a hand at Jessie’s elbow and struggling as he tried to help her board the buggy, when she needed no help at all.

  She could tell that he was trying to make a good impression on her. She had always bested him in everything . . . until now.

  He was the rich one.

  She was as poor as a church mouse.

  As Reginald drove them back down the rutted street, Jessie found it hard to make conversation with him. He hadn’t even inquired about her trunk, which was obviously absent.

  He didn’t inquire about her journey either, didn’t ask whether it had been comfortable, or safe.

  They sat in a strained silence until they arrived at his ranch on the outskirts of town. It was then that Jessie truly understood the wealth of this man. He lived in a beautiful, sprawling ranch house. His spread reached out across a wide, beautiful valley. A flowing stream bisected it.

  Indeed, it was an impressive sight.

  She now also saw a corral full of beautiful horses. She could hardly wait to choose one for her personal use.

  Out there, in the great open spaces, she could ride and ride and ride.

  She might even happen upon Chief Thunder Horse’s village!

  That thought was wrenched from her mind when the buggy pulled up in front of the long, low, rambling ranch house of hewn logs. It had shaded galleries and a comfortable-looking veranda running across the front.

  The house was connected by an open walkway to a building that she assumed contained the kitchen and dining room, which was so often separated from the main house to minimize the danger of fire.

  A garden of flowers stretched out luxuriant in front of the house.

  “Jessie, welcome to my humble abode,” Reginald said as he stepped down and came to her side. He reached a hand toward her, helping her down from the buggy.

  Reginald gently held her by an elbow as they went up the front steps. Inside, his wealth was even more evident to Jessie.

  “My parlor,” Reginald said, leading her into a huge room dominated by a large stone fireplace.

  The place was lavishly decorated. Jessie saw carved furniture, red velvet drapes, fine paintings on the walls, and deep, soft rugs covering the floors.

  “May I introduce you to my maid, who is also my cook,” Reginald said as a short and plump yet lovely Chinese woman came into the room. She was dressed in clothes other than Chinese—a black dress with a white collar—and her black hair was coiled in a tight bun atop her head. But in her eyes Jessie thought she read some kind of warning.

  “Her name is Jade,” Reginald quickly said, without bothering to introduce Jessie to the woman.

  Jade bowed gracefully to Jessie.

  Jessie returned the bow. “It’s so nice to meet you. I’m Jessie,” she murmured as the woman straightened her back and looked uneasily at Reginald.

  “Go on with you now,” Reginald said to the servant, shooing her away with a flick of a hand.

  Jessie watched the woman walk away in short, quick steps; then she turned her eyes back to her cousin, even as her mind turned to someone else. Jade reminded Jessie of the beautiful Chinese girl in the crib. She could not forget the shame on her face as men watched her and said filthy things to her.

  She was uncomfortable with her thoughts, so she tried to center her attention on her cousin, who had been kind to invite her to live with him.

  “Jessie, you must be so tired,” Reginald said, turning and walking toward his liquor cabinet. He looked at her over his shoulder. “I would like a glass of port. Will you join me?”

  “Yes, that sounds nice,” Jessie said, truly liking the idea of having something to soothe her nerves.

  He brought a crystal glass of wine to Jessie and gave it to her, then nodded toward an antique sofa.

  “Let’s sit here,” he said, with his free hand taking Jessie’s elbow and guiding her down. “I had it shipped from New York. It’s comfortable, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, quite,” Jessie said, sitting down beside him.

  She laid her purse beside her, then took a sip of the wine.

  She looked around her again, and smiled at Reginald. “You have such a lovely home, Reginald,” she murmured. “I’m happy for you, Cousin.”

  “Nothing comes easy,” Reginald said, taking a sip of wine, then setting the glass on a table beside him. “As you know, all of this came as a result of my having discovered silver.”

  “Please tell me about it,” Jessie said. “It must have been so exciting.”

  “Well, yes, quite,” Reginald said, stopping to wheeze several times, then coughing into his hand. “I don’t confide in just anyone about my find. But you are my cousin. I know you won’t divulge any information that I tell you.”

  “No, I won’t,” Jessie said, her eyes wide. “Reggie, oh, Reggie, when we were small children, would you have ever thought you’d have such wealth?”

  “Reginald, Jessie,” he said tightly. “No one calls me Reggie. It seems so . . . so . . .”

  “I won’t call you Reggie again,” Jessie said, interrupting him.

  “To continue with my tale,” Reginald said, taking his glass and gazing into its depths. “I had discovered several pieces of horn silver in a creek, and then found an outcropping of high-grade silver ore. All along the wash I found scattered pieces of silver floating. Then the stream disappeared into a cave. I lit a torch and went inside. I found a red and black ledge of silver ore. I ran my hands over its rough surface, then sank my pick into it, prying out several pieces. They were dark and heavy with pure silver. It was a real strike. I’d found a bonanza!”

  “How exciting!” Jessie said, her eyes wide. “Tell me the rest.”

  “Only if you promise not to repeat my story to anyone,” Reginald said, leaning forward so that he could look directly into her eyes. “I haven’t told anyone else. You’re the only one.”

  “I promise not to tell,” Jessie said, glad that he trusted her enough to confide this secret.

  “After all those years of wandering through lonely, desolate mountains, starved and blistered and frozen, I finally had myself some silver,” he said. He chuckled. “Not only some silver. Tons! The vein I’d exposed was pure and soft. A coin pressed into it left a clear imprint. I had always heard that all I’d find out there would be my tombstone. But I showed them.”

  “You said no one knows about where your silver was found,” Jessie said guardedly. “How could you keep it a secret?”

  “There are ways,” Reginald said tightly. “No one knows but me . . . and a band of Sioux.”

  “Indians know?” Jessie said, her eyes widening. “And . . . they are Sioux?” Her mind went back to Thunder Horse. He had said that he was Sioux!

  “Yes, the Sioux,” Reginald said through clenched teeth.

  “Aren’t you tempted to go and get more silver?” Jessie asked.

  He grew pale at her question.

  “No, never!” he gulped out. “And I’m tired of talking about it.”

  “Come with me,” he said, rising quickly from the sofa. He set his glass aside, took hers, and placed it on the table as well.

  He nodded toward her. “I’ll show you to your room,” he said, his voice drawn.

  Then he stopped and stared at her. “Yo
ur luggage,” he gasped. “You have no luggage.”

  It was then that she knew she must tell him about the ambush, and that her trunk would soon be delivered by the sheriff. As quickly as possible, she told the tale, managing to leave out any mention of Chief Thunder Horse.

  “My word,” he gasped, paling at the thought of what she had gone through. “Are you alright? Truly alright?”

  “I’m fine, just tired,” Jessie murmured.

  “Then let’s get you to your room,” he said, walking down the long, narrow corridor, with her following him.

  Just as she started to enter the room he had assigned her, she stopped abruptly. She had caught a glimpse of something in the room at her left side that was so beautiful it took her breath away.

  “A grand piano,” she gasped, her eyes taking in its beauty. The piano sat at one end of what she knew had to be Reginald’s music room.

  She hadn’t had the opportunity to play a piano since her husband’s death. Even then, the only piano she had ever had access to was the one in her husband’s church.

  She hurried into the room and started to run her fingers over the keys. Playing the piano had been part of her life ever since she was a child, when her mother had paid for her lessons.

  Suddenly Reginald was there. He grabbed her wrist and led her away from the piano.

  “Never play this piano,” he said gruffly. “Never play it. Never!”

  Jessie was stunned by his behavior, and by the hard grip he had on her wrist.

  She wanted to ask him why he was treating her in such a strange way, but his coldness made her yank her wrist free and recoil from him, silent.

  She rubbed her raw wrist and stared at Reginald. As he closed the lid over the keys of the piano, she realized he was someone she no longer knew.

  And although the townsfolk seemed so admiring of him, she believed Reginald was cold and indifferent. He was like a stranger to her.

  His cold aloofness made her decide not to tell him about the child she was carrying just yet. Perhaps he wouldn’t want a child to bother him amid his expensive things!

  And if not, oh, where on earth could she go next as she tried to make sense of her life?

  Chapter Three

  Blue threads of smoke trailed off into the early evening above the shadowy river valley.

  Thunder Horse was sitting in his tepee on a pallet of blankets and plush furs before his lodge fire, watching the flames caressing the logs. His mind was deep in thought.

  Upon first arriving at his village, he had checked on his ailing ahte. His father was a man whose face revealed the many trails he had walked in his long life, and whose body was now frail and thin, instead of muscled and strong as it had once been. Still, Thunder Horse had been relieved to see that his father was no worse than when he had left to fast.

  After visiting his father, Thunder Horse had bathed in the nearby river, then pulled on a breechclout and returned to his lodge.

  His hair glistened in the fire’s glow, sleek and thick, as it flowed down his bare, muscled back.

  His sister, Sweet Willow, who supplied both Thunder Horse and his father with daily nourishment, had only moments ago brought him a meal before he retired for the evening. He would sleep well tonight, now that his fasting was behind him.

  He had quickly eaten the baked grouse and mushrooms his sister had gathered this morning. He had eagerly eaten the fried bread and stewed gooseberries that accompanied the meal. His belly was now comfortably full after these past days without food.

  Although his belly was full, and his eyelids lay heavy on his eyes with the need of sleep, Thunder Horse’s mind was not yet ready to rest.

  His father was lingering much longer than the white chief in Washington had expected him to. Thunder Horse was afraid that one day soon the great white chief might change his mind and force Thunder Horse’s Fox band on to the reservation, after all.

  If his father died on the reservation, he would have to be placed in the ground there. The reservation was far from the sacred burial cave.

  Thunder Horse thought of his widowed older sister, Sweet Willow, and her son, Lone Wing. Both were among those who remained at the village. Both were now Thunder Horse’s responsibility since Sweet Willow’s husband had died two moons ago at the hands of vicious renegades.

  Although they were his responsibility, they lived in a lodge separate from his, as did his father, White Horse, who still resided in the tepee that he had lived in when he was a powerful chief. White Horse lived alone, for his wife had died some time ago, and he had not taken another wife. His memory of his first wife was too strong inside his heart.

  But Thunder Horse’s family and his responsibility to them were not the only things on his mind this early evening.

  The flame-haired woman he had saved today often came into his mind’s eye.

  He had watched her until she had safely arrived in Tombstone. But instead of wheeling his horse around and riding away, he had waited and watched as the woman named Jessie walked to the worship house.

  He had wanted to see who she had came to Tombstone to meet. He had been mesmerized by not only her loveliness, but also her strength.

  When he had seen her leave the worship house in a buggy, his mouth had filled with bitterness. For the man driving the buggy was Thunder Horse’s most hated enemy, a man he loathed.

  This man had defiled . . . had desecrated . . . the sacred burial cave of his people’s departed chiefs.

  And the wakan, or evil man, had done this before Thunder Horse and his people were aware of it. He had gone inside and taken white gold—silver—enough to make him the wealthiest man in the area.

  No one but Thunder Horse and his people knew where he’d found the silver, and thus far no other white men had entered the cave. It was known far and wide that this was a sacred place, where the bodies of many chiefs were interred, and where drawings on the walls told of the history of the Fox band.

  Only one man had dared to desecrate this sacred place, and he had taken more than silver from the cave. He had taken some of its sacredness away. He had disturbed the remains of those interred there.

  After discovering who had gone into the sacred cave and disturbed the spirits, Thunder Horse had warned Reginald Vineyard that if he ever entered the cave again, he would die a slow, unmerciful death.

  He had also told Reginald that he would be haunted from then on by the spirits of those he had disturbed. The evil man would never know another night’s rest as long as he had breath in his lungs!

  Now that Thunder Horse knew who the woman had come to be with, he was full of questions.

  What was her connection to this terrible man?

  Had she come to Tombstone to marry him?

  Or was she his wife already?

  In another time, when vengeance had been keen on the mind of every Sioux warrior, Thunder Horse would have thought of a way to use this woman to right the wrongs this man had done his people.

  But today things were different. If Thunder Horse tried to avenge himself against Reginald Vineyard, the white government would step in. Thunder Horse’s people would be in danger, and what remained of his band in Arizona would immediately be ordered to the reservation in the Dakotas. If there was ever trouble between whites and red men, it was always the whites the soldiers protected, even if those whites were the ones who wronged the red man.

  No. He would not use this woman for vengeance. He would put her from his mind. He would do nothing now to cause his people to suffer any more than they already had at the hands of whites. The blood of his Sioux people had already turned too many rivers red.

  Suddenly he was brought from his deep thoughts by the sound of a voice outside his lodge. He turned his head to the closed entrance flap. It was his nephew Lone Wing.

  “Enter,” Thunder Horse said, smiling at the youth as he came inside the tepee. He looked questioningly at the boy when he saw that Lone Wing was nestling something in his hands.

  Lone Wing app
roached Thunder Horse and knelt beside him. He smiled as he held his hands out for his uncle to see.

  “A baby bird,” Thunder Horse said softly, then gave his nephew a questioning gaze.

  “I saved the bird after older boys killed its mother and several of her babies,” Lone Wing explained as he gazed down at the tiny thing, whose feathers had not yet thickened on its frail body. “The braves left this one baby to die in the hot sun outside its nest. After they left to practice shooting their arrows, I rescued the bird. I will feed and care for it, then watch it fly away.”

  “You are a kind young brave,” Thunder Horse said, reaching a hand to Lone Wing’s shoulders, which were beginning to show signs of muscles now that he had fifteen winters of age.

  Thunder Horse enjoyed seeing his nephew’s kind heart, but worried that his kindness might lead him into trusting too easily. Too often the red man had trusted in the promises of whites and had died because of it.

  But this was not the time to remind his nephew again of these things. There were right times for teaching the young, and wrong.

  This was a wrong time.

  “Let me help you make a nest for the bird,” Thunder Horse said. He rose and got a small piece of doeskin that he used to bathe himself in the river. He took this to Lone Wing and showed him how to make a nest from it, then watched as his nephew placed the tiny bird comfortably in it.

  “He will sleep now,” Lone Wing said, setting the nest aside. “His belly is full. Before I came to talk with you, I fed it tiny insects.”

  He laughed as he pointed to the bird’s bulging belly. “You can see his filled belly,” he said, then sat down beside Thunder Horse and gazed thoughtfully at him. “Tell me, my chieftain uncle, did you complete your fasting and praying?”

  “I did,” Thunder Horse said, sitting now with his knees drawn up to his chest, his arms wrapped around them.

  “Did you dream?” Lone Wing asked anxiously.

  “Ho, I dreamed often while I was alone beneath the stars,” Thunder Horse said thickly. “And in those dreams came answers.”

  “Would you tell me those answers, or are they only for you to know?” Lone Wing asked, searching Thunder Horse’s eyes as his uncle turned and gazed at him.