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The Civil War had taken her family and her home. But no one could take her heart . . .
Major James Ryerson's brutal raids on the South had destroyed Elizabeth Wheaton's life . . . and nearly robber her of her spirit. His name was forever etched in her mind--even after she fled the South to seek peace from the war she despised. Out West, Elizabeth was taken captive by the Cheyenne, but the rugged tribe grew to respect the radiant beauty who became their healer and lived among them as a friend. They called her "Many Fires".
Elizabeth vowed to forget her painful past--until Major Ryerson arrived at her stark home on the prairie. Ryerson's troops faced an inevitable conflict with the Cheyenne, but his men desperately needed the medical attention only Elizabeth could provide. To safeguard Elizabeth's honor, the pair agreed to pose as husband and wife--and soon discovered a lasting bond in their hatred of war. Together, they fought to mend the heartache of their broken past--while surrendering to the many fires of longing that burned in their souls. . .Top of Page
"You're going to regret this," she murmured.
He smiled, then pulled her to his chest, against the bright row of buttons adorning his front. Holding her face, he drew a deep, shuddering breath, then lowered his lashes. "I certainly hope so."
He kissed her, his mouth burning on hers. He had a firm, masculine kiss--possessive, straightforward, confident, and demanding. He held her so tight; brass, braid and wool poked at her softness. In spite of the prickles, a hunger consumed her, voracious and swift. Not the tender longing she'd harbored for Philip, but passion, ardor, and another emotion--deeper and different. Spiritual in a way, bat far, far more instinctive. He mouth worked against hers, claiming, exploring, pressing against hers. She struggled to keep some sense of composure, her insides melting . . . Top of Page
Major James Ryerson scowled. He hated asking a woman for help, but his troopers were in desperate trouble, and Osage had told him about a fine female healer. So he swallowed his pride, touched his heels to his gelding, and signaled his scout, White Bird, to follow. Hand on his side arm, Ryerson guided his chestnut down the bank of the creek. As he did, he studied the nearly abandoned encampment. So far his Indian guide had been right.
The town of Vegetarian moldered before them. Six modest cabins circled an eight-sided building, the whole crazy layout surrounded by acres of gardens. The founders had gone, but the commune's remains proclaimed their ambition: to live at peace with God's creatures. Ryerson wanted to scoff at that absurd ideal, but wartime experiences made the dream seem less foolish. Suppressing a sigh, he scanned the larkspur leading up to the only occupied cabin.
"Hold it right there."
At the sharp command, Ryerson halted. The cabin's one window had spouted a gun. He stopped midstream, signaled his scout, then held his palm in a gesture of greeting. A herd of goats bleated in the corral, then charged a full circle. Ignoring them, Ryerson kept an eye on the musket, wondering if the gun's owner would use her weapon. A slight wave of the barrel acknowledged Ryerson's salutation.
"Get out of here, Yankee." The lady's message was delivered with feeling, in a voice laced with culture and a soft Southern drawl.
Raising his hands, Ryerson edged his mount closer, acutely aware of his clipped Connecticut accent. "I'm sorry, madam, but I cannot leave you. I need to take you back to my troop."
"You're years too late, Yankee. Now get out of here before I forget the last of my manners."
Arms stretched high, eyes on the window, Ryerson swung one leg over the chestnut's neck and dropped down from the saddle. "I'm sorry. We're in need of a nurse."
To the side, the goats had stopped circling. They milled in their corral, worried and nervous. In the window, the gun barrel lowered a fraction.
"A sick child?"
"No, madam."
A boot scraped inside. Though Ryerson couldn't be certain, he thought he heard the rustle of cloth. He lowered his hands just a notch.
Elizabeth Wheaton appeared in the doorway, hesitated a moment, then stepped into the sunlight. "Many Fires," the Osage called her. At first the name seemed odd, but now that Ryerson had seen her, he understood. She was one of those dark women lit from within. He loved her hair color, dark brown shot through with crimson. Not the wild reds of a fire on the prairie, but subtle and warm, like a regiment cooking at twilight. Her skin glowed, high colored and creamy, awash in the kind of gold tones peculiar to auburn-haired women.
Wary, she moved into the yard. He noticed the dots accenting her cheekbones, the tattoos that marked her stint as a captive. About the size of small beauty marks, they'd been burned into her face with bone needles; two permanent rows of coal-colored spots. From White Bird's rather lurid description, Ryerson expected to find the strange markings repulsive, but she had such serene and remarkable beauty that he found the dots surprisingly pleasing.
She lowered the musket slightly. "Why do you want me?"
"I have a troop down with the ague."
"I buy my peace by tending sick children, but I don't nurse soldiers. The Osage should have told you. And it doesn't matter which side." She fitted the butt to her shoulder. "Now go."
He would have liked to obey, but after six years of fighting, he had only one friend left in his life: the army--or at least the men he commanded. They needed his help. They needed her. He had no choice but to take her with him by force.
But first he'd have to disarm her. No simple task, considering their respective positions. She held her weapon, while his weighed down his hip. His hand inched for his pistol. He measured her more by instinct than reason. Five feet six and clearly not frightened. Still, not a killer, he felt. No, not a killer at all. He sensed that softness even seven feet away.
Ignoring the rising pace of his heartbeat, he crouched low and flung himself at her. His shoulder punched into her stomach. A cry of surprise escaped from her throat. He barely noted the sound. The next sensation he truly attended was the heat of supple and feminine curves as the woman fought to throw off his weight. He pinned her in the green grass, straddling her and wrenching the musket out of her grip.Top of Page
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