Forbidden Fires Read online

  Forbidden Fires

  Madeline Baker

  Dedication

  To my aunts, Stella Claire Leona, and Alice with love and hugs,

  And

  To Sharon Day and Donna Bartels.

  They know why!

  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

  Epilogue

  About Madeline Baker

  Chapter One

  He had not cried since he was a small child, and he did not weep now. Stone-faced, he stood before the council elders while they decided his fate. Stone-faced, he accepted their decision. Banishment.

  It had been inevitable and it was final.

  Wordlessly, he left the council lodge and returned to his father’s tipi. The eyes of the People followed him as he walked through the village. Their faces were sympathetic but they did not speak to him. Banishment was like death, and the dead were to be avoided.

  The words of the council elders echoed in his head as he made his way to his father’s lodge. “The warrior known as Stalking Wolf is no longer of the blood, no longer of the blood…”

  His little sister. Yellow Flower, wept softly as he told of the council’s decision. His stepmother, Tall Grass Woman, stood mute, the sorrow on her face more eloquent than words, more expressive than tears.

  Too soon, it was time to go. He would be allowed to take nothing with him save the clothes on his back. No horse to make his journey easier, no food to sustain him, no weapons for protection against enemies.

  He embraced his stepmother, hugged his little sister one last time, and stepped outside. Overhead, the sky was blue and breathtakingly clear. The vast Lakota horse herd grazed in the distance, a riot of grays, blacks, and browns against a sea of lush green buffalo grass.

  He stood beside his father’s lodge for a long moment, his dark eyes sweeping over the village. Each lodge stood in its appointed place in the camp circle, their doorways all facing east. Wooden drying racks stood in the sun, weighed down with long strips of buffalo and venison. The familiar smells of roasting meat, sage, and tobacco filled his nostrils; the shrieks and laughter of carefree children at play reached his ears.

  He waited a moment more, wondering at his father’s absence. Was Killian Gallegher so ashamed of his only son that he would not even come forward to say farewell?

  His face impassive, Stalking Wolf squared his shoulders and walked swiftly toward the forest that rose beyond the rear of the village. He could feel the eyes of the People on his back and he lengthened his stride, anxious to reach the cover of the woods.

  He had known, somehow, that Summer Wind would be there, though he wondered how she dared face him. She stood in the shadow of the giant pine tree where they had so often met in the past. She was a vision of loveliness in an ivory doeskin tunic and beaded moccasins. Her shiny black hair fell over her shoulders in two long braids. There were tears in her voice as she called his name.

  Stalking Wolf came to an abrupt halt, his placid expression masking his turbulent emotions.

  They faced each other, the events of the past two days rising like an invisible barrier between them.

  “Do you hate me now?” Summer Wind asked.

  “No.”

  “Where will you go?”

  Stalking Wolf shrugged. Where would he go?

  “I am sorry, Stalking Wolf,” she murmured contritely. “I did not think it would end this way.”

  “Didn’t you?” His anger shattered his cool facade, and Summer Wind took a step backward, frightened by the rage glittering in his deep-set black eyes.

  “I am sorry,” she repeated. “Please forgive me.”

  “Tell Hump Back Bear of your sorrow,” Stalking Wolf retorted coldly. “When he hears you, I will hear you.”

  Shame flooded Summer Wind’s cheeks with color. Bowing her head to hide her tears, she hurried back toward the village.

  Stalking Wolf stared after her for several minutes. He had loved her, he thought bitterly, and it had cost him dearly. Hump Back Bear was dead because Summer Wind had played them both false, and now his home and family were lost to him. Never, he vowed, never again would he trust a woman.

  Heavy-hearted, he followed the narrow deer trail that cut through the heart of the forest and emerged on the vast grassy plains that stretched westward as far as the eye could see.

  He had gone about two miles when a deep male voice called out to him.

  Stalking Wolf whirled around, his heart lifting as he saw Killian riding toward him. He felt a surge of pride as his father drew near, reining his big black mare to a rearing halt. Killian Gallegher was a handsome man, still strong and fit despite his fifty-odd years. Tall and broad, with wavy brown hair and dark brown eyes, his skin was a deep bronze, the result of spending the last six years living under the harsh Dakota sun.

  Killian smiled as he saw the relief in his son’s eyes. “You didna think I would let ye go without saying goodbye?” he chided gently.

  “I wouldn’t have blamed you,” Stalking Wolf replied. “I have shamed our family.”

  “Ye’ve not shamed me, nor Tall Grass Woman,” Killian protested as he slid from the back of his horse. “‘Tis proud of ye I’ve always been, and ye’ve done naught to change me mind.”

  Stalking Wolf nodded, touched by his father’s words.

  The two men stood quietly close for several moments, knowing these few minutes were the last they would share.

  “Where will ye go, laddie?” Killian asked after a while.

  “I don’t know. West, perhaps.”

  “Aye. Maybe ye’ll be the one who strikes it rich in the California gold fields.”

  Stalking Wolf shook his head. “It was the father who dreamed of riches, not the son.”

  “‘Tis true,” Killian admitted with a wry grin, “but a little hard cash is nothing to be turning your nose up at, and don’t you be forgetting it.”

  “I’ll remember, as I’ve remembered everything you ever taught me.”

  Killian smiled his winning grin. “I’m not so sure I ever taught ye anything an honest man should be knowin’.”

  “You mean cheating at cards, sleeping late, and a fondness for fine Kentucky bourbon are not the pursuits of a fine gentleman?”

  Killian punched his son on the arm affectionately. “‘Tis exactly what I mean, laddie, although the first may come in handy if ye have trouble finding a respectable job.” Killian’s expression grew serious and the merriment left his eyes. “I’ll miss ye, laddie.” He stared past his son, his dark eyes thoughtful. “I never gave much thought to what life would be like for ye when I married your ma. Perhaps I shouldna wed her and got her with child, but I loved her, laddie, more than ye can imagine. She was such a gentle thing, so bonny and soft spoken. And when she looked at me, I saw the whole world in her eyes.”

  Stalking Wolf said nothing. He had never known his mother. She had died of a fever a few months after his birth. Following her death, Killian had hired a woman to care for Stalking Wolf while Killian drank himself into oblivi
on each night, trying to forget the beautiful young Cherokee girl who had run away from her family to marry a poor Irishman, only to die before she had ever really lived.

  Stalking Wolf’s first memory of his father was of finding him lying dead drunk on the doorstep. He had been frightened of his father then, frightened and ashamed. He remembered how lonely he had been as a child. Other children weren’t allowed to play with him because he was a half-breed and his father was a drunkard. He had not learned what a half-breed was until later.

  It wasn’t until the housekeeper quit and Killian found himself in full charge of his son that the two got to know each other. Killian sobered up when he realized how much his son needed him. He sold their house in Georgia and moved to New Orleans where he returned to the trade he knew best, gambling.

  As Stalking Wolf grew older, Killian taught his son the things his own father had taught him, how to play poker and monte and faro—and how to cheat at poker and monte and faro. He also taught Stalking Wolf how to detect the signals that meant someone else was cheating at cards, and, most importantly, how to defend himself with his bare fists or a knife. Killian instilled in his son a love of fine whiskey, a taste for expensive, imported cigars, and an appreciation for beautiful women, be they ladies of unblemished virtue or back-street tarts.

  When Stalking Wolf was almost twenty, they had to leave New Orleans because Killian had killed a man over a card game. Fleeing with only the clothes on their backs, they headed for California where it was rumored that pure gold lined the streets and nuggets the size of a man’s fist waited in the rivers.

  Along the way, they had encountered a trader who sold Indian women to any man who could pay the price. Killian had taken one look at Tall Grass Woman and been smitten. Not having the money to buy her, he made off with her in the dead of night and then, to appease her tears, he had offered to return her to her people. Her father, overjoyed at the return of his only daughter, had given a feast in honor of the two white men who had rescued his daughter and, in the course of the evening, Killian and Stalking Wolf had been adopted into the tribe. They were given their own lodge and encouraged to spend the coming winter with the tribe.

  Killian and Stalking Wolf had been fascinated by the Indians and they had readily embraced the Lakota lifestyle. Before that first year was out, Killian married Tall Grass Woman. Yellow Flower had been born the following summer, and Stalking Wolf had become a Lakota warrior.

  It hadn’t been easy. Stalking Wolf had had to learn to hunt and fight, Sioux-style, to use a bow and arrow, and to throw a lance. He learned to read the signs of the seasons, to track a man, or a buffalo. He gave up trousers for fringed buckskin leggings, discarded his boots for moccasins, and let his hair grow long. He felt at home among the Lakota. The ancient warrior songs stirred his blood, whispering to him of old battles, old victories. He went to war against the Pawnee and the Crow, and hunted the deer and the elk. And in the autumn of his twenty-sixth year, he fell in love with a beautiful young maiden whose smile was as soft as dandelion down—Summer Wind…

  Killian chuckled softly, bringing Stalking Wolf back to the present. “I seem to have a weakness for Indian women,” he mused. “First your mother, and now Tall Grass Woman.” Killian sighed heavily. “It willna be easy for ye, out there among the whites.”

  Stalking Wolf laughed a soft, bitter laugh. It had never been easy.

  “Take care of yourself, laddie. There’s many a man, and many a woman, too, who’ll shun ye because of your mixed blood.” Killian laid a hand on his son’s arm and gave it a squeeze. “May all the gods, red and white, go with ye.”

  “And with you,” Stalking Wolf replied. “Take good care of my stepmother and my sister.”

  “Ye can count on it.”

  The two men stood together, reluctant to part, then Killian wrapped his arms around his son and hugged him, hard. “I love ye, laddie. Never forget that.”

  Stalking Wolf nodded, unable to speak past the lump in his throat.

  When they parted, there were tears glistening in the older man’s eyes. “Here,” he said, thrusting his horse’s reins into his son’s hands. “Take the mare. She’ll see ye safely on your journey.”

  “You shouldn’t help me,” Stalking Wolf said quietly.

  “Not help me own son! Are ye daft? Go on, take her.”

  The two men embraced one last time, and then Stalking Wolf vaulted onto the mare’s back. Black Wind was taller than any of the Lakota ponies. She had a long muscular neck, a deep chest, and wide-set intelligent eyes. And she was fast. Unbelievably fast. She was not a mustang, but a thoroughbred mare Killian had captured in a raid against a white settlement the year before.

  “My thanks, Father,” Stalking Wolf murmured.

  “My prayers go with ye, laddie.” Killian drew a long-bladed knife from his belt and pressed it into his son’s hand. “Good journey, my son.”

  “Long life to you, my father,” Stalking Wolf replied. He gazed down at Killian, for another moment, then touched his heels to the mare’s flanks. Head high, he rode west, award the land of the setting sun.

  He did not look back.

  Chapter Two

  Black Wind carried him effortlessly across the miles as he rode westward, always westward, looking for a place to call home. He had never really had a home of his own. As a child, he had lived with his father. As a young man in New Orleans, he had lived in hotels or rented rooms. During the last six years, he had shared a Lakota lodge with his father and Tall Grass Woman. He had never realized until now, when he was alone with nowhere to go, just how deeply he had yearned for a place to call his own.

  Day after day he rode toward the setting sun, the hours passing in serene sameness as he sought graze and water for his mount, and food and shelter for himself. He explored the country, lingering now and then in some verdant valley to rest himself and the mare, pausing to study the lay of the land, to contemplate the granite spires that rose in the distance.

  He passed sharp ridges and blood-red buttes that looked like mythical castles as he crossed a corner of the Mako Sica, the Badlands. The Indians called it the place of the crying wind. It was a vast stretch of ground made up of steep ridges and high-walled canyons, gullies and pyramids, colorful sandstone spires, pinnacles, and deep gorges. He heard the wind whining through the canyons, wailing like a bereaved child, and felt the short hair prickle along the back of his neck as the sound crept into his soul. High overhead, he saw a pair of turkey vultures riding the updrafts in a constant search for prey, and he urged Black Wind into a lope, eager to leave the Badlands behind. He breathed a sheepish sigh of relief when the prairie spread before him once again.

  He had been traveling for almost a month when he came to the huge upthrust rock the Kiowas called Mateo Tepee, Grizzly Bear Lodge. Though he had never seen it before, he recognized it instantly, for there could be no other rock so solitary or so large. He sat the mare a long time, studying the gigantic rock tower, remembering the Kiowa legend he had heard back in the Dakotas.

  According to Kiowa mythology, seven sisters had been playing a distance from their village when they were chased by bears. The girls ran toward home and when the bears were about to catch them, they jumped onto a low rock. One of the girls began to pray to the rock, “Rock, take pity on us. Rock, save us.” The rock heard them and began to rise upward, pushing the children higher and higher until they were out of the bears’ reach. The bears scratched the rock, breaking their claws, and fell to the ground, while the seven little girls were born into the sky and became the stars of the Big Dipper.

  Stalking Wolf pondered the legend as he rode onward, fascinated by the rich folklore of the Indians. Each tribe had its own mythical heroes, its own version of how the earth came into being, of the creation of man.

  His father had told him some of the Cherokee legends and history so that he would have a feel for his mother’s people, and an appreciation for his heritage.

  He recalled his pride when he’d heard the
story of Sequoya, who was the son of a Cherokee mother and an Englishman. Believing that literacy was the source of the white man’s power, and having no formal education, Sequoya had singlehandedly created a written language for his tribe.

  For days, Stalking Wolf continued to ride westward, looking for a home.

  Nights were the worst time. It was then he missed the companionship of his friends and family, the community dances, the tribal feasts, and celebrations. It was then that Summer Wind haunted his dreams. He could keep her memory at bay during the day, but he could not keep her image out of his dreams. Once again, he courted her, his arms around her shoulders as they stood close under a large red courting blanket, his heart hammering in his chest as she whispered secret words of love and fidelity.

  He lay on his back beneath a star-studded April night, his hands clasped behind his head, his eyes staring at a bright yellow moon. Sweet words, he mused bitterly. Sweet lying words…

  A muffled sound disturbed the quiet of the night, and he rolled nimbly to his feet, his hand reaching for the knife at his belt.

  Silent as the stalking wolf for which he had been named, he made his way toward the sound. He paused in mid-stride as he neared the shallow stream where he had hobbled his horse. Black Wind stood silhouetted against the darkness, her dainty ears pricked forward, her nostrils flared as a big blood bay stallion pranced toward her.

  Stalking Wolf let out a sigh of admiration as the bay paused to sniff the air. The stallion was a magnificent animal, big-boned, sleek, with a heavy black mane and a long flowing tail.

  The stud let out a trumpeting call as he closed in on Black Wind. Nose to nose, they sniffed each other, exchanging breath for breath, then the stallion sidled up to her, nuzzling her neck, nipping her shoulder, obviously excited by her musky scent and the inviting lift of her tail.

  Stalking Wolf watched as the stallion circled the black mare, snuffling softly. Then, rearing up on his hind legs, the huge bay mounted Black Wind, his powerful forelegs gripping her flanks.