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  Find the Lightning

  MADELINE BAKER

  Find the Lightning

  Copyright © 2019 Madeline Baker

  All rights reserved.

  This edition published 2019

  Cover by Cynthia Lucas

  ISBN: 978-1-68068-159-8

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  This book is published on behalf of the author by the Ethan Ellenberg Literary Agency.

  You can reach the author at:

  Email: [email protected]

  Website: www.madelinebaker.net

  Books by Madeline Baker

  Books in the Lightning series:

  Chase the Lightning

  Follow the Lightning

  Short Stories included in the anthology Tales of Western Romance:

  Catch the Lightning

  Capture the Lightning

  Seize the Lightning

  Other Time Travel Books:

  A Whisper in the Wind

  The Spirit Path

  The Angel and the Outlaw

  Feather in the Wind

  Under a Prairie Moon

  Unforgettable

  For a list of all her books, including covers and chapter previews, visit her website at www.madelinebaker.net

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  About the Publisher

  Prologue

  The white stallion stood atop a mesa, surveying the valley below. A herd of wild horses grazed along a narrow, winding river. Apache wickiups could be seen in the distance, spirals of gray smoke rose from a number of cook fires.

  For years, he had wandered from the Black Hills to the Llano Estacado to the Dragoon Mountains. He was known to all the People. Among the Apache, he was known as the ghost horse because of his pale color. The Cheyenne and the Lakota called him the Spirit Horse because he could traverse the shadowy road between the past and the present, but he preferred to make his home in the past, where the air was still clean and the rivers ran clear.

  He was Relámpago and he belonged to no one.

  A gentle breeze stirred the leaves of the cottonwood trees, carrying with it a voice from the future. A voice only the stallion could hear. That of a young woman who felt she had been born in the wrong century.

  With a toss of his head, the stallion began to run, mane and tail flying in the wind as he raced swiftly over the rolling hills. It was not an Apache warrior who needed saving this time. Or a young woman contemplating suicide. Or a woman looking for love in all the wrong places.

  No, the woman who called him now lived in the future but she daydreamed about a better life in the past.

  Be careful what you wish for, he thought, as he traveled along the shadow road to answer her call.

  Chapter 1

  Rusty Ryan was certain she had been born, not only in the wrong century, but to the wrong ethnic group. As far back as she could remember, she had wanted to belong to the Lakota tribe. A tomboy to her core, she had loved playing cowboys and Indians with her older brother and his friends when she was a little girl—as long as she could be one of the Indians.

  In high school, while her girlfriends watched chick flicks and drooled over Chris Pratt, she lost herself in old westerns starring John Wayne, Clint Eastwood, and sexy Sam Elliott.

  In college, while her best friend, Donna, dreamed of being a star on a reality show, Rusty dreamed of being married to a handsome Lakota warrior and living on a ranch in Montana, where they would raise the best horses in the country.

  All she really knew of the Old West was what she saw in the movies. She was woefully ignorant about cattle, although she thought their big brown eyes were pretty. She had no experience with horses, or branding, or cooking on a wood stove, or doing laundry in a wash tub and hanging her clothes on a line. Chores like that didn’t sound the least bit romantic and still she dreamed of a life in the Old West.

  Now, sprawled on the sofa watching John Wayne in Hondo she imagined living on a small homestead in the heart of Apache country, waiting for her worthless husband to come home while she fell in love with a tall, handsome man of the West.

  She switched off the TV. She couldn’t visit the Old West, she thought. But maybe next year she’d sign up for one of those vacations like the one in City Slickers.

  Tomorrow was Saturday, she thought, and she had nothing much to do. It was the perfect time to drive up to Fenton’s Stable and sign up for riding lessons.

  * * *

  Rusty stared at the horse that had been chosen for her. It was a nondescript brown with a scruffy mane and wispy tail. “Don’t you have something…prettier?”

  “He’s our best beginner horse,” Clint, her instructor, said. “Calm, reliable. Got a nice easy gait. And he’s pretty much bomb proof.”

  “Bomb proof?” Rusty exclaimed.

  “It means that not a whole lot bothers him. Not wind, not water, not unexpected objects on the trail. Come on, I’ll give you a leg up and we’ll see how you do.”

  Taking her lower lip between her teeth, Rusty put her foot in the stirrup and pulled herself into the saddle. The horse wasn’t very tall, but from where she was sitting, it suddenly looked like a long way down. Clint adjusted the stirrups, then led her into a large corral.

  For the next half hour, she learned how to handle the reins, how to make the horse stop, go, and back up. Clint taught her how to signal for a lead change, and how to unsaddle and saddle the horse. During the second half-hour, Rusty discovered how uncomfortable trotting was if you didn’t sit the right way.

  “Not bad,” Clint remarked as they walked back to the barn. “I think you’ve got a natural seat. A few more lessons and we’ll put you up on Sugar.”

  Driving home, Rusty felt pretty good about her first lesson. She had expected to have a sore bum after an hour in the saddle, but it was her thighs and shoulders that ached.

  * * *

  After half-a-dozen lessons, Clint put her up on Sugar, a pretty white mare with a little more get up and go than her last mount.

  “I think we’ll go trail riding today,” Clint announced.

  “Really?” Rusty could hardly contain her excitement. Clad in her crisp, new Western-style plaid shirt, jeans, boots, and a hat, she felt like a real cowgirl.

  Heart pounding, she followed Clint along a narrow, tree-lined path. The day was warm but not hot. Fluffy marshmallow clouds drifted across an azure sky. When a skunk darted across the trail, her bomb-proof mount darted sideways as the skunk raised its tail. Rusty grabbed the saddle horn, hanging on for dear life as the mare took the bit in her teeth and lined out in a dead run.

  Rusty sawed on the reins but to no avail. She heard Clint holler at her, but she couldn’t make out his words. Hadn’t he promised Sugar was bomb-proof?

  The mare ran as if she would never stop, leaving the trail and cutting through a stand of timber. A three-rail fence loomed ahead. Rusty felt Sugar bunch beneath her to make the jump. She let out a startled cry as she tumbled over the horse’s rump.

  Certain she was going to die, Rusty closed her eyes as the ground rushed up to meet her.

  * * *

  Rusty opened her eyes. Blinked. And blinked again, surprised that she was still alive. She ran her hands over her legs, her arms, ran her fingers through her hair. Nothing seemed to be broken or bleeding, praise the Lord.

  Pushing up into a sitting position, she looked around for her horse, felt her eyes grow wide when one trotted toward her. It was white, only it wasn’t Sugar. And definitely not a mare, but a magnificent stallion with a flowing mane and tail, and what looked like a black lightning bolt on its right flank.

  Hardly seeming to touch the ground, the stallion slowed to a stop beside her. Lowered its head. And went down on his knees.

  Rusty rose cautiously to her feet. There was no mistaking the horse’s invitation to climb aboard. But after being thrown, she was a little hesitant about trying again, especially bareback on a horse that looked twice the size of the mare.

  She glanced around for her hat, which had gone flying when she did, but it was nowhere to be seen. Muttering, “Oh, well,” she took a deep breath and climbed onto the stallion’s back.

  As soon as she was settled, the horse regained its feet, shook its head, and trotted off.

  Rusty clung to the stallion’s mane, which felt like silk in her hands. They’d only gone a short distance when the world around her was swallowed up in a swirling gray mist that gradually grew darker, thicker, until she couldn’t see anything. Fear spread its icy tentacles down her spine. Had she hit her head harder than she thought? Was she going blind? She shook the frightening thought away. Maybe she was unconscious and dreaming.

  Or dead.

  Time had no meaning as she traveled through the mist. She clutched the stallion’s mane in both hands for fear of falling off his back into nothingness
.

  Just when she thought the horse was going to go on forever, it slowed and came to a stop.

  The mist evaporated.

  Rusty sighed with relief as her vision cleared. Now, all she had to do was find her way back to Fenton’s.

  Chapter 2

  Jay Soaring Hawk cussed a blue streak as he raked his spurs along the bronc’s sides. He had been trying to break the damn mustang for almost two weeks to no avail. Standing an inch or so over sixteen hands, the buckskin was the biggest, most beautiful horse he had ever seen. And the most rank. The bronc had thrown him near a dozen times that day alone and Jay had the bumps and bruises to prove it. If the horse hadn’t had such great conformation, he would have gelded the stallion days ago.

  He bailed out of the saddle when the stud started to roll.

  “Damn outlaw!” Slapping his hat against his thigh, Jay stalked out of the corral, then ambled up to the house, grimacing as he opened the door and stepped inside. The place needed a coat of paint, he mused, but, more than that, it needed a woman’s touch, someone to spruce up the place, fix him a decent meal, do his laundry once in a while, maybe put up some curtains.

  Or maybe he should just forget about ranching and go back to the rez. Maybe he’d been a fool to try to live like a white man. The people in town didn’t want anything to do with Red Star’s half-breed son. At least the Lakota liked and respected him. He could raise horses on the rez and sell them to the Army… What the hell?

  He looked out the open door, frowned as the sound of hoof beats drew closer. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a visitor. Stepping out onto the front porch, he lifted one hand to shade his eyes, blinked, then blinked again as a rider mounted on a white horse appeared in the distance.

  “Relámpago.” The word whispered past Jay’s lips as the stallion drew closer. His grandfather had told him stories of the famous Spirit Horse of the Lakota. It was said the stallion traveled effortlessly between worlds. Jay squinted against the sun. Was that a woman on the stud’s back?

  Jay shook his head. What the hell was a woman—a white woman!—doing riding alone out here? And on Relámpago, no less! Hell, every warrior he had ever known dreamed of one day seeing the mythical stallion.

  Relámpago slowed to a walk, then came to a halt a few yards from the porch.

  Jay’s gaze ran over the woman. Her skin was smooth and unblemished. Gently arched brows rose above bright green eyes. Her plaid shirt and jeans covered a curvy figure. Long blonde hair fell over slim shoulders. Both hands were tightly wrapped in the stud’s mane. He couldn’t help staring at her. She looked exactly like the woman he had seen in his vision quest years ago.

  Find her, his spirit guide, the hawk, had whispered. And when you do, never let her go.

  Rusty flushed under the man’s probing gaze. Had someone asked her to describe her idea of male perfection, he would have fit the image to a tee. He was Indian, of that there could be no doubt. Long black hair, dark brown eyes, copper-hued skin, broad shoulders, long, long legs. His clothes—dark blue shirt, tan pants, scarred boots—were covered with dust.

  “Can I help you?” His deep voice sent a shiver of sensual awareness down her spine.

  “I’m afraid I’m hopelessly lost. Could you please tell me how to get back to Fenton’s?”

  “Fenton’s?” He frowned. “Nobody by that name in these parts.”

  “But…are you sure? I just came from there.”

  “Where’d you get that stud?”

  “I was out riding and my horse threw me. I guess I must have hit my head. When I came to, this horse was there.”

  Jay grunted softly. Was she from the past, he wondered, or the future? “What year were you born?”

  “What?” Was he checking to see if she had a concussion? “1995. In New York City.”

  Jay shook his head, then smiled. So, the stories about the stallion were true. “Hell’s fire,” he muttered, “you’re a long way from home.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I reckon this will come as quite a surprise, but it’s 1871.”

  The woman stared at him, her face going pale with shock and disbelief as she went limp and toppled from the back of the stallion.

  Sprinting forward, Jay caught her in his arms. Muttering, “Nineteen ninety-five,” he carried her into the house. After settling her on the couch, he went outside to get another look at Relámpago.

  * * *

  Rusty opened her eyes and stared at the ceiling. She’d had some weird dreams in her time, but nothing like the last one. She rarely remembered her dreams, but this one was an exception, mainly because of the beautiful white stallion and the hunky cowboy who had told her, in all seriousness, that she was in the late eighteen hundreds…

  She frowned at the unfamiliar beamed ceiling overhead. Closed her eyes and opened them again. Fighting a sudden wave of panic, she sat up, her gaze darting around the room. Whitewashed walls. A stone fireplace. Plank floors. A single, curtain-less window. There was no lock on the front door, just an old-fashioned cross-bar. She spied a rough-hewn table and two chairs through the open doorway to her right. The words eighteen seventy-one whispered through the back of her mind.

  Impossible! She was still dreaming, that was all.

  Scrambling to her feet, she stepped outside onto a narrow, wooden veranda. There were corrals and a barn in the distance. Brown-and-white cattle dotted the hillsides. Several chickens scratched in the dirt near the porch.

  But it was the white stallion who held her attention. It stood a few feet away, head lowered while the cowboy scratched its ears.

  “It’s just a dream!” she whispered, panic rising with every passing moment. “It has to be!”

  Lifting its head, the stallion looked at her and whinnied softly, then turned and trotted away.

  “Stop him!” Rusty hollered. “Don’t let him get away!”

  But it was too late. With a swish of its tail, the stallion broke into a run, heading for the timbered hills beyond.

  When the stallion disappeared from sight, the cowboy turned to face her. “Looks like you’re going to be here for a while.”

  Rusty sighed, thinking he didn’t look very happy about it. But then, neither was she.

  * * *

  Sitting on the sagging leather couch, Rusty glanced around the living room again. It looked pretty much like the houses seen in old Westerns. “So, where am I?” she muttered under her breath. “I don’t mean the year, I mean, where?”

  “Dakota Territory.”

  Rusty looked up to see the cowboy standing in the doorway. Dakota Territory, 1871. Too early for Custer to find gold in the Black Hills. Five years until the Battle at Little Big Horn. She shook her head. She had to be dreaming! “Why did that horse bring me here?”

  Jay shrugged. “How should I know?”

  “But…it’s impossible to travel through time! Stop laughing!”

  “Lady, I’d say your being here proves that it’s very possible.”

  Rusty glared at him. “But…I…” She shook her head. “You didn’t seem at all surprised to see that horse. Or to learn that I’m from—I can’t believe I’m saying this—from the future.”

  “I’m not shocked. Surprised, maybe. I grew up on stories of Relámpago but until today, I’ve never actually seen him. Or met anyone who traveled the Spirit Path.”

  “There are stories about him? That horse?”

  Jay nodded. “All the tribes know about him. The People call him a Ghost Horse, or a Spirit Horse, because he travels the Spirit Path between worlds.”

  “He goes to other planets?”

  “No. Just back and forth from the past to the future, or the future to the past.”

  “So, why did he bring me here?”

  “Like I said, I don’t know.” He cocked his head to the side. “Don’t you?”

  Rusty frowned. Could it be…? She had always dreamed of living on a ranch in the Old West. And now she was here. She shook her head in disbelief. How could some Indian horse know what she wanted? It was incredible. Impossible. And yet, here she was, on a ranch in Dakota Territory in eighteen seventy-one. Either that, or she’d died and gone to Heaven, she mused with a wry grin.

  “What do I do now?” Agitated, she jumped up and began to pace the floor. “Is the horse coming back? Where am I going to stay until he does? What if he never comes back?”