Tallchief for Keeps Read online

  Tallchief for Keeps

  Cait London

  “WHERE IS MY CHILD?”

  Alek’s question slammed into Elspeth. There was no way he could know….

  “Our child. Where is it? What is it, a boy or a girl? And again, where is our child?”

  Elspeth straightened her shoulders, fighting for a smooth, level tone of voice. “I’ve just put tea on to steep. If left too long it might—”

  “Dismissing me, Elspeth? Just tell me what I want to know, and then 111 leave. How old is it—he…she—now, four? I want to see my child. Now.”

  Elspeth slowly lifted her eyes to his, remembering that night five years ago, with the huge silver moon. She’d never spoken the secret buried in her heart. And now he left her no choice….

  To my Valentines at Silhouette—Melissa Senate, Isabel, Lucia and Tara

  You’re wonderful!

  Legend of Una’s Paisley Shawl

  When the Marrying Moon is high, a scarred warrior will rise from the mists to claim his lady huntress.

  He will wrap her in the shawl and carry her to the Bridal Tepee and his heart. Their song will last longer than the stars.

  Contents

  Prologue

  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

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  In the kitchen’s early-morning shadows, fourteen-year-old Elspeth Tallchief wrapped her mother’s hand-stitched quilt around her. Pieces of the five Tallchief children’s lives colored the quilt: outgrown clothing neatly arranged, each telling a vivid story. There was a square of her mother’s apron and her father’s lucky red shirt, woven by her mother and torn by a ram at shearing time.

  Elspeth gripped her mother’s favorite cookbook tightly against her. In the large, airy room beyond the kitchen, her mother’s giant loom stood waiting for her shuttle. Her quilt rack hung close to the ceiling, ready to be lowered. But Pauline Tallchief would be not weaving or stitching quilts again.

  Tears burned Elspeth’s lids and she fought the tightness in her chest, dabbing at the tears with the quilt of memories.

  Four days ago, the aroma of her mother’s famed apple pie had filled the farm kitchen; her jars of fruit and jam lined the pantry. In the silence of the house, Elspeth could almost hear the echo of her mother’s gentle laughter.

  Elspeth recognized the wild rage running through her, the high fury that was said to have come down from her great-great-grandmother, Una. Elspeth noted distantly that she’d never been so angry, so torn by emotions, not even when tormented by her brothers. Perhaps it was the pride of her Sioux great-great-grandfather that prevented her from throwing dishes or raging at her parents’ death.

  The old quilt and her mother’s cookbook were Elspeth’s armor, because her brothers and sister were depending on her. She glanced at the old loom, supposedly her great-great-grandmother’s. It would comfort her in the dark and frightening hours, because she was just as strong as her brothers and they were already preparing for the hardships ahead.

  Outside, the cold October winds stalked Tallchief Mountain, rustling the dried aspen leaves over two new graves in the family cemetery. In the fields sloping up the mountainside, Tallchief cattle and sheep huddled together against the wind.

  Down in the valley, the small town of Amen Flats, Wyoming, lay sleeping. All was the same and yet different, because in Amen Flats’s jail was a—life-taker. Elspeth supplied the bitter tag for a man who had changed the Tallchiefs’ lives.

  Elspeth turned to the sound of stocking feet padding across the old house’s floorboards. Her three brothers loomed in the shadows.

  Only hours before, the five orphaned Tallchiefs had gathered at Tallchief Lake. Amid the winds and under a round, silvery moon, Duncan—the eldest at eighteen—had vowed to keep them safe and together. They had all pledged to find their heritage, their great-great-grandmother’s lost dowry that was steeped in legends.

  Elspeth clasped the old cookbook closer, the one with her mother’s beautiful handwriting and favorite recipes of each Tallchief child.

  Her brothers moved closer to her, their gray eyes as light and fierce as Una Fearghus’s, their Scottish great-great-grandmother. Jutting cheekbones, slashing brows and gleaming black hair were gifts from Tallchief, their Sioux great-great-grandfather. Long-legged Westerners, they knew how to deal with cattle and killers, but a woman’s tears of mourning would send them fleeing for safety.

  “Fiona is sleeping upstairs with her cat.” Duncan’s soft voice curled around Elspeth.

  “Ten years old or not, she’ll have to be up in the morning and on the school bus.” At seventeen, Calum had always been practical, but now his voice had a new note of steel.

  “It’s three o’clock in the morning, but we’ll all go to school tomorrow.” Birk touched Elspeth’s hair to comfort her, but she shook him off.

  Wrapped in the old quilt, Elspeth stood in the center of the kitchen and faced them, her head high, her own gray eyes flashing like steel. Her strength was forged from the same fierce blood and pride. “I don’t know why that man had to kill Mom and Dad when they stopped for pizza at the convenience store. I don’t know why only my brothers had to be the ones to track their killer down…why all of you thought you were the only ones Dad taught how to track by moonlight. The sheriff knew you were the best trackers, let you go after him, and you brought him back—walking behind your horses and only a bit bruised after what he’d done. I should have been there. I should have gone. I can ride just as well as any of you…better.”

  “You had a job to do—”

  She dismissed Calum’s practical statement, noted Duncan’s helpless expression and glanced at Birk. His boyish grin was gone, his jaw set and grim—the picture of a boy who had become a man overnight. Her temper rose, consuming her fury and the helplessness at their parents’ murder days before. Her control shattered, cracked like ice. She shivered, shook free of what they knew her to be and stepped into the fire of her rage. “So you took off, hunting the killer. Elspeth the elegant was ordered to tend Fiona the fiery. She needed me, and so I did, though I wanted to throw a knife right through that murderer’s black heart—I can, you know—I can throw a knife or shoot a bow or a gun as well as any of you. It’s just that I prefer…never mind what I prefer.”

  She preferred her mother, alive and well, and dancing in her father’s arms, kissing him. Elspeth dashed a tear from the old cookbook, clutching it tighter. It was hers now, just as her brothers and Fiona were. She’d tend her family, but right now she would have her say.

  With the flat of her hand, she pushed the broad chest of each of her brothers, one by one, and stepped back to face them, her long nightgown swirling at her ankles. “Poor, dainty Elspeth. Elspeth the elegant…isn’t that what I’m called?” she asked, referring to names they called each other in play. “Isn’t that true, Duncan the defender…Calum the cool…and Birk the rogue?”

  “Aye.” The word rumbled slowly from her brothers’ throats, and Elspeth lifted her head, determined to hold on to her pride.

  She lifted the tiny scar on her thumb before their noses. “Aren’t I one of you, a nick in my thumb to prove it? Didn’t I raise my thumb to the storm just two hours ago and pledge with you to do my part?”

  “Aye!”

  Elspeth shed the quilt. She wouldn’t let her brothers see her weak. “You’ll pick up your shorts and socks, and I’ll set a schedule. Mother
would have no one visiting a dirty house, and neither will I.”

  “Aye.” The rumbling male voices came stronger, more fierce. It was said that Tallchiefs had backbones of steel, and now they would be tested, each ready to do his or her part. There would be no Tallchief Ranch on the county auction block or brothers and sisters torn apart. At eighteen, Duncan would try for legal guardianship, and Calum’s methodical business brain would plow away at the family and ranch accounts. With his brothers, Birk would take his new share of hard ranch work. Fiona also would try something new—minding her p’s and q’s at school, taming her wild side until she got home.

  Elspeth recalled the plan that Duncan had plucked from the fierce night wind and clouds; she held it before her brothers like a sword raised in a challenge. She paced before them, faced them like a general facing his troops. “Tonight, beside the lake, Duncan held Fiona close, promised to keep her safe and all of us together. As he says, we’re wrapping our heritage around us to keep us safe and together. I will continue as Mother and me were doing, reading Una’s journals. We’ll each search out and bring back to the Tallchiefs some beloved piece of her dowry that was sold to keep Tallchief Mountain.”

  She ran a fingertip over a place mat her mother had woven, and an icy sword cut through her. She’d learned to weave on her mother’s lap…. Elspeth’s bottom lip trembled before she firmed it and faced her brothers, hovering uncertainly around her, wanting to protect her. She wouldn’t let them. She wouldn’t crumble and show her fear because she had no less pride than they did.

  She gripped the place mat, crushing it to her with the cookbook. “Stand and fight, Tallchiefs. Isn’t that what we’ve always said in hard times? Tonight we tossed an ‘Aye’ into the storm to guarantee our safety. Duncan says we should have family meetings and report on progress of finding Una’s dowry. Each piece has a legend, though Mom and I couldn’t translate the shawl’s. I’ll find Una’s shawl, the one she brought from Scotland, and I pledge to bring it back to the Tallchiefs.”

  She searched her brothers’ taut faces, mourned for their boyhood that had been murdered days ago and flung herself into their arms.

  “Stand and fight….” She allowed the tears to flow, dampening the shoulders of her brothers, wrapping them in her arms and keeping their strength around her. “We’ll be safe. I promise you. I’ll keep us safe and so will you. There will be no one finding fault with how we’re dressed or what we eat or if we do our homework. We’re staying together.”

  “Aye!” The four Tallchiefs pledged at once, and for a moment, Elspeth thought she felt the caress of her mother’s hand upon her cheek.

  “Aye,” she whispered to her mother’s kitchen. “We’ll be safe. Sleep well.”

  One

  The month of March came to taunt Elspeth with a birthday that never came and yet would never go away. Elspeth came to Tallchief Mountain to mourn the loss of a baby that had never been born.

  Bound by blood and love, the Tallchiefs had left her alone on their mountain to face her demons—when winter protested its death and the scent of spring lurked nearby. As she listened to the wind outside the tepee her brothers had fashioned for her, Elspeth sat upon her pallet and loosened her single braid. She’d combed her sleek black hair around the beaded shift that once was her English great-grandmother’s and Elspeth touched the elegant beadwork, its points forming the Tallchief Mountain symbol.

  Every year at this time, she came to Tallchief Mountain to mourn, and her brothers had wanted to ensure her safety during her retreat. When she arrived today, she’d found the tepee ready for her, fresh wood cut and stacked nearby. Fish waited in the lake’s weir for her dinner. Inside the tepee she’d found a bag of Tallchief wool to hand card, the routine and rhythm giving her peace at the evening fire. There were bundles of her favorite herbs neatly hung from a cross pole, a blackened teakettle, a china pot with a matching cup and saucer—all the necessities Elspeth would need. Another cross pole held the branch waiting for her free-style weaving. She had in mind a wall hanging, the first of an exclusive contract with a Denver art dealer. She’d needed only a backpack filled with her clothing, her Navajo spindle and her Tallchief tartan shawl.

  She gathered the soft length of green-and-blue wool to her, holding it tightly. Elspeth closed her eyes; she needed this respite from her family, though she loved them more than herself.

  Duncan’s second marriage brought him joy, and Calum’s new wife would have his baby. Engaged twice before, Birk was circling Chelsey Lang, a gentle heart and a good friend. Always a rebel, Elspeth’s sister, Fiona, fought her current war against “predators of the environment” in Wisconsin.

  Una’s journals spoke of the loss of her dowry, sold to protect Tallchief Mountain. To each item was attached a legend, and two of the legends in Una’s dowry had come true—Duncan and Calum had claimed their true loves.

  As a girl, Elspeth had dreamed of Una’s paisley shawl and the legend attached to it. She’d pledged to find the shawl and bring it safely to the Tallchiefs, but the relevant journal entry had been smeared, perhaps by tears, and the legend had escaped Elspeth.

  As a woman, one night in Scotland had her wanting to forget the legend entirely.

  When she had returned home from Scotland, she’d ripped the page from Una’s journal and torn it in pieces. Regretting that her temper had ruled her and that she’d destroyed part of her inheritance, Elspeth had then placed the pieces in an envelope for safe-keeping. There would be no true love legend for Elspeth now; she no longer believed in a love for herself. She wanted the paisley shawl now for the beauty of the merino wool, the fiery golds and reds blending in a paisley design. More, the shawl was hers by right of an inheritance, and she wanted it wrapped around her like her family.

  Elspeth traced the bold vermilion streak she had added to the Fearghus tartan on her lap. The red stood for the Native American Tallchief blood, and its addition to the tartan indicated that the two fierce clans had been woven together. She was restless; perhaps it was the seer blood passed down to her through her Scottish great-great-grandmother, added to the shaman inheritance from Tallchief. A woman bred from warrior chieftains would be restless on a day like this, when the wind tossed the black waves of Tallchief Lake and the mountain jutted into the mist. The untamed tempest and the isolation of this special place quieted the stormy darkness within her.

  Una, a bondwoman captured by an arrogant Sioux chieftain, had reveled in the tempest. But Elspeth wanted no more storms in her life; she’d had enough pain to last her two lifetimes. She wanted the rest of her life to be as smooth as the doeskin shift she wore, or the silk thermal sweater and pants beneath it. She’d put order into her life, wrapped the safety around her like the blue-and-green tartan, and so it would stay.

  In the center of her tepee, smoke curled upward, soon caught by the fierce wind.

  Alek Petrovna had been her fierce wind, taking her innocence upon an ancient Scottish stone and giving her a child. Elspeth the elegant was taken by a laughing gypsy of a man after a few traditional dances around the bonfire.

  “As good as I’ve had,” he’d said as though comparing dinner fare, rather than making love. “Is this enough money?”

  Bit by bit, she’d pasted herself together, warmed herself with the joys of her family, and now, at thirty-three, she’d finally found a measure of peace. She wanted quiet now, and Calum’s marriage to Talia Petrovna, Alek’s sister, could destroy that.

  Elspeth held very still, drawing the sounds into her—winter wind whipping the snow-laden trees, branches snapping beneath the weight. Mist shrouded the mountain, and somehow that comforted her, a reminder of the fierce elements that had always been there since the beginning of time.

  She studied the tepee slowly, considering the neat contents and the branch-rack waiting for her new wall hanging. Her unique designs had drawn attention at the last weaver’s fair, and with pride Elspeth had signed a generous contract for her work. She had constructed her life as tightly as her w
eaving, carefully planning the threads of it. Only in March did the fabric of her life weaken, and she came to Tallchief Mountain to strengthen herself in an age-old tradition.

  Talia Petrovna’s marriage to Calum would draw

  Alek to the Tallchiefs. Elspeth wanted to be strong when next they met—and she knew that day would be soon.

  Alek Petrovna cursed as he ducked a pine branch laden with snow and ice, only to have another hit his scarred cheek.

  Alek impatiently snapped the branch and tossed it aside. He had scars earned from years of reporting on wars. Not one of them compared to the pain caused by the black-haired witch he sought, Elspeth Tallchief.

  As a journalist specializing in war zones, he’d seen too many orphaned children. He’d ached for years for a child of his own, only to discover that Elspeth Tallchief had hidden his…what? A boy…a girl?

  Alek’s research had been thorough. Not even her family knew of his child…and Elspeth’s. She’d hidden his child away so neatly that not even the Tallchiefs knew her secret. He’d get it out of her. One way or another, he would make Elspeth dance to his tune.

  So she would camp on a mountaintop by herself, would she, when March caught the Rocky Mountains in a wintry shroud? “Damn fool idea, setting up a tepee in zero-degree weather. Her brothers shouldn’t have—”

  Years of covering stories in frozen war zones had prepared him for the elusive, dangerous trail that wound upward to Tallchief Lake. The mountain soared, bleak and ominous, against the gray sky. Mist layered the top, obscuring it and a fierce wind threw the pine branches at Alek, like blows to a warrior running a gauntlet.

  Elspeth traced her bloodline to Sioux, but Alek’s tracking ability had come from his Apache ancestor…as perhaps had his need for revenge.

  He thrust aside another punishing branch. He’d find Elspeth Tallchief, dig her out of her safe hole and make her pay for what he’d missed, that precious time a father spends with his child.