Heart of the Storm
Heart of the Storm
Lindsay McKenna
Dana Thunder Eagle is a beautiful woman with a fierce heart and powerful gift. But after the murder of her husband and mother, she ran away from the Rosebud reservation, hoping to leave the past behind her forever. Now, two years later, the killer is still on the loose. And only Dana has the mystical power to stop him.After six months of daily torture at the hands of South American rebels, Chase knows his latest mission may be his hardest: to whip Dana into fighting shape in just five weeks. Even more challenging will be to ignore his cinnamon-eyed student's graceful beauty.United in a life-or-death mission, Chase and Dana must learn to lean on each other if there is any chance of stopping a madman who seeks to destroy a people's history…and future.
Lindsay MCKenna
Heart of the Storm
To Mary Buckner, RN, and Linda Metzler,
Physician’s Assistant, friends. Thank you for your
help and support over the years; I couldn’t have
gotten this far without you. George Abbott, we
couldn’t ask for a better neighbor. In a day and
age where respect, honesty, integrity and courtesy
are dimming in our society, you shine with these
wonderful human qualities. We’re lucky we live in
the same canyon with you.
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
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER ONE
“THE VICE PRESIDENT of the United States needs to die. Now!”
Rogan Yalua Soquili, known as Fast Horse, was insistent as he stood triumphantly outside the circle of twelve Native American women. Their rapt attention fixed on the Cherokee métis medicine man, they sat in their ceremonial garb. Rogan placed his hands on the strong, capable shoulders of Blue Wolf, a Shoshone woman near his own age of forty-five.
“Make it happen,” he declared, his voice booming.
The Sierra Nevadas in early June took on a shadowy, menacing aura as midday thunderclouds grew above them. Rogan looked around gleefully. They were nestled within the Eagle’s Nest, his compound built high in the mountains, on a cliff. The wooden walls provided them sanctuary as they stood on the hard-packed earth. It was the perfect place to carry out their task. The air around them leaped and throbbed with living energy.
In the center of the women’s circle, a light feathery mist began to gather. It moved counterclockwise, never touching any of the participants. Rogan watched, mesmerized, as the wispy cloud became darker and began to resemble a doughnut whose hole was closing. Cauliflower-like towers grew upward from the sluggishly swirling clouds, and when flashes of lightning occurred, Rogan’s jaw dropped in awe. Surely, the ceremonial Storm Pipe and these women were connected to the most powerful magic he’d ever seen. Excitement coursed through him.
The women chanted as one, their voices rising and falling as the thundercloud built with the whipping wind. Rogan’s hair fell across his face, but he didn’t feel it. His eyes were on the cloud invoked by the sacred pipe Blue Wolf held in her hands. With each chant, the intensity increased and the thundercloud turned more malevolent, eventually shooting skyward to thirty thousand feet. It was coming from the pipe; Rogan could see the energy flowing out of its bowl.
As he stood behind her, he dug his fingers into Blue Wolf’s sturdy shoulders. The rhythmic chanting ebbed and flowed, ebbed and flowed. The very pulse of the building storm responded to the women’s voices, which rose in a powerful crescendo.
Rogan’s order echoed throughout the cedar structure on the side of the mountain. Standing in the west, the position of death, he kept his firm contact with Blue Wolf’s elk skin-covered shoulders. Like a bolt of lightning, heat and electricity coursed through his hands, leaped up his arms and shimmered throughout his tense body. Keeping his knees slightly bent, Rogan closed his eyes, took a deep breath into his abdomen and then slowly released it.
The thundercloud manifested by the pipe and the women was inspiring to Rogan. He’d never seen anything like this. Oh, he knew ceremonial pipes were powerful, but to create a mighty thunderhead in a matter of minutes…that was awesome. Lightning continued to radiate from the dark, churning mass far above them. Most of the electricity, millions of volts, was held within the cloud. Rogan knew that the powers involved with the pipe would not allow any of it to harm the circle of women. It would be contained within the building storm overhead.
Rogan gazed around at the seated figures. Their knees touched one another to maintain physical contact. In doing so, they became the container for the Storm Pipe’s power, and helped direct the energy and the building of the thunderhead.
Blue Wolf lifted a very old pipe made of catlinite, its red bowl glowing in her hands. The smooth, polished oak stem was decorated with small seed beads depicting a thunderstorm with a lightning bolt. She began to sing a ceremonial song to invite the lightning that flashed above them. Her hands grew hot and felt as if they were burning; they were merely responding to the power amassing through the powerful ceremonial pipe.
The women gripped one another’s hands at the right moment, as the electrical charge within the churning clouds swirled, growing in strength. The two sitting next to the pipe carrier each placed a hand on her waist, for Blue Wolf needed her hands free, to hold the pipe upward in supplication.
Her voice rose and fell, like a howling wind moving within the circle. She felt Rogan grip her shoulders more tightly with anticipation. He couldn’t hold the pipe himself, for the ceremonial object belonged only to women. If he touched it, he’d die instantly. He could focus the energy, however, and direct it to whomever he envisioned in his mind.
Today, the vice president would die. Blue Wolf smiled inwardly as she sang from her heart and soul.
Their song became more strident, in accord with the energy unveiling itself before them. The Storm Pipe felt almost too hot to hold any longer, but Blue Wolf focused, as she had been taught. All the women in the circle felt the same heat, she knew. They held the pipe’s energy, carrying the power, just as a womb cradled a growing baby.
Rogan smiled inwardly as he maintained his grip on Blue Wolf’s shoulders. She was trembling physically now. The building energy made her sweat freely, as it did him. Her singing changed in pitch, and at that moment, Rogan pictured the vice president’s face in his mind. Focus! He must focus one hundred percent.
Dizzy from the gathering, spinning energy, Rogan was trembling so badly he collapsed to his knees. As if he were a lightning rod, an electrical current leaped and flowed through his hands, up his arms and through his body. That was Rogan’s mission as he understood it: to ground the power of the Thunder Beings that trod restlessly across Father Sky. He began to slip into a deep, altered state as the chanting continued. It was all Rogan could do to stay mentally connected.
Stealing the Storm Pipe had been the key, he thought with satisfaction. His body was vibrating now, so fast he felt as if he were shredding apart, cell by cell. Too powerful an energy could make a person vanish into thin air. It wasn’t happening to him due to the great strength and long training of these twelve women, he knew.
Sweat poured down his tense, kneeling form. His deerskin shirt and breeches were soaked through. Then Blue Wolf moved her arms and pointed the pipe eastward, toward Washington.
Now! he screamed to her mentally. Visualizing the face of the vice president, Rogan issued his final order. Force the pipe to release its charge now, Blue Wolf! Now!
He was unprepared for that very thing happening. As the release was triggered, a flash of light occurred, and he was flung six feet backward. Scrambling to his hands and knees, he looked around, stunned. The sky remained turbulent. Angry purple-and-gray clouds still churned above them. But already the thunderstorm, created by the twelve women’s intent, with the help of the pipe, was beginning to dissipate. Had the ceremonial pipe done its deed?
FBI AGENT DAVID COLBY WAS standing next to Vice President Robert Hiram when an incredible wave of heat surged like a tsunami through the large office. His boss, Mort Jameson, was in the middle of his daily report when the bulletproof window began to glow like sun-scorched rocks in a desert, followed by an earsplitting boom. Thrown off his feet, Colby slammed into the wall and was knocked semiconscious. The agent heard the vice president scream. Momentarily blinded, Colby slowly crawled to his hands and knees, disoriented. Automatically, he pulled the revolver from his shoulder holster beneath his dark suit jacket.
As Colby staggered to his feet, sweat trickled off him. He felt as if he was in a steam room! Mort Jameson was groaning and trying to sit up. That’s when Colby noticed the vice president lying flat on the carpeted floor, mouth open, eyes staring sightlessly toward the ceiling.
Beyond the massive cherry desk, the window was still intact. There’d been no sound of a bullet being fired, only that deafening boom. What was going on? What the hell had just happened? The agent holstered the gun.
“Colby! Call for backup!” Mort yelled as he stumbled to his feet and ran over to the unmoving vice president. Dropping to his knees, he yanked the man’s tie loose, then pressed his fingers against his neck. “No pulse! Get help!”
Colby lurched. His ears were ringing, so much he could barely hear the shouted orders. Why wasn’t everyone piling into the room? The door was still shut.
Confused, he grabbed the doorknob. Surely someone had heard the awful booming sound? He swore he’d seen a bolt of lightning lance through the only window in the office.
Saliva dripped from the corners of Colby’s mouth as he yanked open the door. He had little control over his body. Unable to stand, the FBI agent called for help and medical personnel, then sagged against the jamb.
His eyes were blurred and unfocused now, his legs quivering uncontrollably. As his muscles gave way, he slowly sank to the floor.
“THE VICE PRESIDENT IS dead,” Dr. Scott Friedman announced to the small group of men in business suits. “From what I can tell, it was a heart attack. An autopsy will be performed shortly and we’ll know for sure.”
“My God,” Mort muttered, wiping his face with a linen handkerchief. The knot of men stood in a room adjoining the vice president’s hospital suite.
Mort’s frown deepened as he glanced at Agent Colby. Thirty-three years old and one of his best agents, the man was pale and shaken. In fact, after examining him, the doctors had told him to stay in the hospital because he was weak and disoriented, but Colby had steadfastly refused.
“This is…such a shock,” the President’s press secretary, Burt Daily, stammered. “What are we going to tell the media?” He kept his clipboard and pen poised as he scanned the group.
Mort Jameson glanced at the head of the CIA, Bucky Caldwell, and then at the Chief of Staff, Rodney Portman. The Joint Chiefs of Staff chairman, General Myron Klein, a marine, looked grim. “The doctor said it was a heart attack,” Mort repeated.
“But…” Daily looked around the group “…the vice president didn’t have a history of heart trouble. The man had low cholesterol, for chrissakes! He’d just had his annual physical two weeks ago. At fifty, he was healthy as a horse. Do you think the American public is going to believe this?”
“I don’t have the answer you’re looking for,” Friedman told them. “I’m just as puzzled over his death as you are. The autopsy will reveal more. I gave the vice president a clean bill of health.” Shrugging, he added, “His heart just gave out.”
“Agent Colby?” Mort zeroed in on the man. Colby had the face of a lean wolf on the prowl. His gray eyes were focused, the irises large and ringed in black.
Colby shifted his attention to him. “Yes, sir?”
“Escort Dr. Friedman from the room, please?”
“Yes, sir.” When he gestured toward the door, the doctor took the hint, said goodbye and left. Colby made sure the door was shut, then turned and walked back to the cloistered group.
“Something hit us in that room, sir,” Colby stated, giving each man present a serious look. “I felt heat, burning heat, building up seconds before that bolt of lightning, or whatever it was, struck the vice president. At first, I thought it was a summer storm. But we had blue skies and sunshine. From what I can tell, it wasn’t weather induced.”
Mort grimly nodded. “I need your help, gentlemen. I had the very same experience Agent Colby did. There was tremendous heat in the room. It hurt to breathe in that superheated air. And then—” Mort clapped his hands together “—there was a tremendous booming sound, something you might hear right after a lightning bolt struck close to you. The sound still has my ears ringing. Something came through that window, but the window’s still intact. Somehow this bolt killed the vice president, and it knocked the hell out of me and Agent Colby in the process.” He rubbed his jowls and studied the other men in the circle. “You got any ideas?”
“No,” the CIA director, Caldwell, said, “but I have my agents combing the room with the most sophisticated gear available. We’re trying to discover what the hell went down. Was it an act of terrorism or an act of God? I’ve got agents talking to the weather service gurus to find out if lightning can strike out of a blue sky and leave a window unbroken.”
General Klein, built like a short but powerful pit bull, lifted his green eyes to the group. “Gentlemen, I’d be looking for a more concrete explanation. It was an attack.”
“Jesus,” Daily whispered. “You’re standing here telling us this was a terrorist attack?”
“It’s possible,” Mort snapped, irritated by the press secretary’s whining demeanor. “You think we like what happened? Or the implications? If whatever it was can strike the vice president dead on the spot, whoever or whatever could do the same to the president. Which is why he and his staff have been put into hiding until we can figure this out. None of the ramifications are lost on us, believe me.”
Caldwell held up his hand. “Look, everyone stand down. We’re all shaken—badly shaken—but we’re working on this as fast as humanly possible.” He glanced at his Rolex. “I expect to have preliminary results in about thirty minutes. You’ll all be privy to whatever we find.”
Colby said, “I believe we’re dealing with something sophisticated.”
“Russian?” the press secretary asked, his face pained.
General Klein growled, “Either that or terrorists have suddenly gotten ahold of the most advanced laser equipment known. The Russians have developed them for defensive purposes. Star Wars technology scared the hell out of them, and they put their focus on weaponized development as a way to counter what we’re doing. Lasers are capable of this kind of destruction. We know that Russia was preparing to mount these on their satellites out in space.”
“Yes,” Caldwell said in a strangled tone, “and they’ve been testing their version of SDI in the Pacific against our military aircraft off and on the last two years. We have five blinded pilots in different military cargo aircraft who were targeted. We can’t prove it, of course, but the Russians are the only ones who have this kind of know-how and technology.”
“Laser technology is ready to be used,” General Klein agreed wearily. “And all fingers point to them.”
“Could it be other terrorists, though?” Daily insisted. “We know that the Russian labs in Moscow were looted six months ago. President Kasmarov never said what was stolen by the Chechens. Could it have been their laser equipment? Could they have gotten that stuff into our country unseen? Used it against the vice president?” He gave them all a desperate look. “My God, if that’s so…”
Holding up his hand, Mort said, “Don’t go there yet, Burt. We need time to do a thorough investigation. Right now, we’re all treating this as an attack from an unknown enemy.”
Shaking his head, Burt scribbled some notes on his clipboard. “The American public will panic if that’s what has really happened. Lasers loose in the country! My God…”
Chief of Staff Rodney Portman stirred and opened his hands, which had been clasped tightly in front of him. “Look, gentlemen, we all have our work cut out for us. I’m going to put in a call to the Russian ambassador about this, discreetly, of course. We have no proof they did anything.” He sighed and added, “I’ll make some preliminary forays with the ambassador and be back in touch.”
Klein snorted. “I’ll tell you what. You should, in the strongest terms possible, issue a communiqué to Kasmarov and let him know that he’s in our gun sights.”
Gray eyebrows raised, Portman gave the man a thin smile. “Diplomacy is a must here, General. You realize that. We’re not going in with guns blazing. We don’t have proof—yet.”
“I don’t need any,” Klein said. “No one in the world has advanced laser weaponry except those sons of bitches. This is them or the terrorists, and my hunch is it’s Kasmarov pushing his weight around. The president has put us at Defcon Three. And we’re staying there until this gets sorted out between all of you.”
“Dammit.” Daily groaned mournfully and shook his head.
“Go lie to the American public,” the CIA director ordered the press secretary. “Heart attack. Pure and simple. No big deal.”
“Got it,” Daily agreed, his voice grim as he scribbled more notes on his clipboard.
“Our job,” Mort told the group, “is to protect the president from any future attack. So, if you’ll excuse me, gentlemen? We will remain in touch with one another to unscramble this debacle.”
Colby followed his boss out of the room. He was still feeling out of sorts, the dizziness assailing him off and on. He made sure he was near a wall whenever possible so he could reach out and stabilize himself. Something was wrong, but what? Was it really the Russians? Why would they do this at a time when Kasmarov had his hands full with internal problems of his country?
“Director?” Colby called as they walked out the doors of the hospital into the dusk. “I’m going back to the vice president’s office. I want to see if our team has come up with any clues.”
“Good idea, Agent Colby. You sure you’re up to this? You look like hell warmed over.”
Grinning tiredly, Colby said, “I’m a lot better off than the vice president, sir. I’ll be fine.”
“Go for it.” Mort smiled and walked down the sidewalk to an awaiting black limo.
Colby avoided the flock of reporters still hovering around the E.R. doors on the other side of the hospital. He reached the parking lot, opened the door of his dark-blue Toyota hybrid Camry and climbed in. Sitting there, he took a couple of deep breaths. Whatever had happened in that office had made him feel spacey, dizzy and out of his body. It was hard to focus, to stay grounded.
Rubbing his eyes tiredly, Colby realized he was lucky to be alive.
CHAPTER TWO
DORIS RED TURTLE, a medicine woman of the Cheyenne nation, scanned the circle of elderly women. They all sat without expression, even though the eight-sided hogan, windows open, was stifling as the Arizona summer sun beat down upon it. They had gathered in the Navajo nation, at a special place among the red sandstone monoliths near Monument Valley.
The medicine woman’s brows, thick and white with age, drew downward. “Rogan Fast Horse murdered the vice president of the United States four days ago. That is why I issued a plea for all of you to come here. He’s sworn to kill others in the president’s cabinet, and then the president himself.”
“Why should we care if he kills them?” Sparrow Hawk, an Apache medicine woman, spoke up. Her hair hung in two thick, gunmetal-gray braids. She wore a knee-length, blue calico gown, and cradled a pipe bag made of elk skin in the crook of her left arm.
Doris held the flashing black eyes of the Apache. “This is no time to thrash over the history of what whites have done to our nations. Rogan is a threat to all people, no matter what their skin color or gender.” Her gravelly voice dropped lower in warning. “As you know, two years ago, Rogan stole the Storm Pipe from the Hokahto, Blue Heron Society, of which we are all members. He acquired this sacred ceremonial pipe by murdering our sister, Cora Thunder Eagle, who carried it.”
Doris grimaced and added, “Rogan killed her daughter’s husband, Hal, as well. This is not news, of course.
“We were all worried what he’d do with this pipe. Sell it to a collector? Try to use it himself? But why would a man want a woman’s sacred pipe, which can only be handled by one of the sisters? Men can never access that power, no matter how hard they try. We all wondered what would happen. Well, now we know what he was planning to do with it.”
The women, who ranged in age from sixty to almost a hundred, all nodded in agreement. There were twelve of them present, representing a dozen Native American nations. Each medicine woman had been chosen, trained and appointed ambassador to this supersecret and sacred pipe society.
Doris looked to her right, her gaze settling on a tall, thin Navajo. “Agnes Spider Woman, who is our oldest member, will speak now. Grandmother?”
Agnes gave a slight smile of acknowledgment, her light-brown eyes watering, the lids sagging heavily at the corners. Her gaze moved slowly in a clockwise direction around the assemblage. Each medicine woman sat cross-legged on Navajo rugs that Agnes had woven by hand during her long life. Beneath the colorful rugs, the red clay was hard-packed, a reminder that Mother Earth lived with them in harmony. The rocks represented her bones, and the soil, her flesh. The only door to the hogan was open and a slight breeze entered, easing the stifling conditions. There were two small windows, one in the west and one in the south, that were open to allow a breeze. “Thank you, my sister Doris Red Turtle.”
Like Sparrow Hawk, Agnes cradled a ceremonial pipe in her left arm, for the Navajo nation. Veins stood out dramatically beneath the coppery skin of her hands. She moved her arthritic fingers gently across the beaded deerskin pipe bag that carried it. “Greetings, my sisters. I had asked Red Turtle, who is a powerful voice among our nations, to bring you here.” Her voice was reedy but still strong for her age as she exclaimed, “May the Great Mystery bear witness to our plight and give us direction to change it.”
Slowly lowering her birdlike arm, she said, “Rogan Fast Horse, a Cherokee métis medicine man from Nevada, plotted to steal a pipe from our Blue Heron Society. He made his intentions clear many, many years ago, but we gave his threats little attention. Our mistake was in not taking him seriously. We know there are some arrogant, power-hungry medicine men among the nations. Few, but they are there. Usually, they are blowhards, with no action behind their threats or bragging.”
Looking down at the pipe bundle in her arm, the beading of which showed a great blue heron standing near water, Agnes shook her head. Then she gazed around the circle. “Our society was created so long ago that we have no way to know how old it really is. Doris and I figure it may have begun three thousand years ago. We are nations with oral history, not a written one. And from all I have been told, the Hokahto Society is very, very old.”
Lifting her hand, Agnes gestured around the room. “Each of you carries a sacred ceremonial pipe from a time long ago that has come to you in the present. Each of you was specially chosen to represent your nation here, because you have a good heart and a good way of walking. Each pipe carried in this room represents Mother Earth, Father Sky, our sun and moon, in some way. Each is different. But each functions in harmony with the others to create a connection for all our relations.”
Agnes paused to wipe the corner of her thin mouth with a white cotton handkerchief. She patted her lips with a trembling hand and tucked the handkerchief away once more. “According to tradition, only women can be members of the Blue Heron Society. Each pipe created was to be cared for and used by a woman. Only one of the sister-hood may open up the pipe bag, look upon the medicine object within, hold it and connect it to the stem for use. We are charged with working with the pipe to inspire life and harmony upon our planet for the good of all beings.”
The breeze strengthened and the slanting sun brightened the shadowy space where they sat. Agnes welcomed the cooling breeze and silently said thank-you to Father Sky and the wind spirits. “Each of the pipes has tremendous power that has been gathered over time. That is why a pipe carrier is always chosen with the greatest of care. Each pipe is capable of positive deeds, or can be ordered by the carrier to wreak death and destruction.”
Pulling out her handkerchief once again, Agnes dabbed at her watering eyes. “The Storm Pipe was given to the Lakota people. Not only has Rogan Fast Horse stolen it, we now know what he’s going to do with it—kill others. A month ago, I heard gossip from a young woman from the Crow nation. She said she’d heard that Rogan had vowed to use the pipe to destroy the white man and his government.” Shrugging her bony shoulders, Agnes SpiderWoman said, “It was gossip, and I don’t like tattling about others. The woman who told me was a good person with a good heart, but it was still gossip. Yet looking back, I know I should have listened and not dismissed her claims so lightly. It was the Great Mystery’s way of warning me.” Agnes’s mouth turned downward. “And I did not listen.”
Silence hung heavy in the heated hogan. Finally, Sheila One Feather, of the Crow nation, spoke up. Her square face was deeply lined from eighty years in the mountains of Montana. “Rogan is a two-heart, Grandmother Agnes. None of us here likes gossip. We all know the danger of it. You cannot blame yourself for not listening. We’d all have done the same.”
There was a faint murmur of agreement from the group.
Kate Little Bird of the Iroquois nation spoke up. Her eyes flashed with fire. “Let’s face it—Rogan has stalked power all his miserable life! He’s bent on vengeance against anyone—red or white. Is that not so, my sister?”
Sadly, Agnes agreed. “Rogan killed one of us to steal the Storm Pipe. We all felt that, since he was a man, he could not use it. But he has found a way to do so.”
Kate scowled. “How could he use the pipe? It will only awaken and respond in the hands of a woman. I do not understand this. Do you?”
“Yes,” Agnes said wearily. “This same young Crow woman told me that Rogan had gathered twelve women to aid him. He taught one of the twelve how to awaken the pipe and use it. With these women willingly cooperating, he was able to control the pipe for his own evil ends. I am ashamed of these women, for they are no better than Rogan. They seek power that is not theirs to use. They are all two-hearts.”
“Power,” Kate Little Bird said, “is an aphrodisiac to those who have none. We all know that.”
“Power is earned through walking in balance and harmony,” Doris Red Turtle stated. “It cannot be stolen, nor can shortcuts be taken to work with such power.”
“Yet,” Agnes said, “that is exactly what has happened here. Rogan knew he couldn’t touch the Storm Pipe himself, or force it to work for him. So he’s spent the last two years seeking and finding twelve women who thirst after power like he does. Rogan assembled a team of medicine women to support his goals and vision. We all thought that the Storm Pipe would eventually resurface and we’d get it back. I didn’t dream that Rogan would devise something like this. None of us did.”
“Do not blame yourself,” Doris advised the older woman gently. “When the pipe was stolen, we all felt it would return to us sooner or later. Ceremonial objects are taken all the time by those who seek power that is not rightfully earned, or theirs by heritage or training.”
“Humph,” Agnes muttered. “We all thought since it was a woman’s pipe, it would be rendered impotent in Fast Horse’s hands. We underestimated him.”
“No one has ever done this before,” Kate said. “How were we to know? Or guess?”
Again, there was a murmur of agreement from the group. All shared in the blame.
Blotting her eyes, Agnes murmured, “Sometimes it is beyond whoever walks the Red Road with a good heart to plumb the depths of a two-heart, to discover what evil they carry or the plans they create. This is one of those times. We do not think like them and are incapable of such diabolical misuse of power. But we are all paying for it, and so is Mother Earth and all our relations. That is why we must act.”
CHAPTER THREE
AGNES SPIDER WOMAN RAISED her thin hand and looked around the hogan at her sisters. “The daughter of Cora was to become the next woman to carry the Storm Pipe. This is as it should be. Since she was nine years old, Dana Thunder Eagle was being trained by her mother to step into her shoes as a ceremonial pipe carrier when the time was right. When Cora was murdered, and Dana’s husband, Hal, was as well, the young woman went wild with grief.”
“That is only natural,” Doris said, shaking her head over the violent deed.
“Of course,” Agnes agreed. “Dana is like a granddaughter to me, as you all know. She is Lakota and Navajo, a beautiful young woman filled with such love and care for others, a true pipe carrier in every sense of the word. When she was twelve years old, I gave Dana a personal pipe to train with—the Nighthawk Pipe, in preparation for carrying the ceremonial Storm Pipe. Dana accepted the honor and responsibility, as I knew she would.” Smiling fondly, Agnes wiped the corners of her mouth once more. False teeth and old age made her mouth water constantly. “We need to contact Dana and ask her to come home and fulfill her destiny.”
“How?” Doris demanded, scowling. “How old is she? In her twenties?”
“Yes, twenty-nine.” Wiping her lips, then clutching the damp handkerchief in her thin hand, the elder added, “Dana left the Rosebud Reservation after the murders because both sets of her grandparents were dead. She was crazed with grief. I tried to convince her to come and live with me, but she refused, and disappeared. But I sent out the spirit of the pipe I carry to keep in touch with her. She lives in Ohio right now and teaches first graders at a school near Dayton. It is her way of dealing with her loss of the two people she loved most in the world. Children are nothing but love, and that is where Dana has found refuge…until now.”
“Of course,” Sparrow Hawk muttered, “the murders were a terrible blow to all of us. At first we didn’t know who did it. Over time, we were able to track down the culprits—Rogan and his lead woman, Blue Wolf.” She tightened her right hand into a fist. “I wish I could pray for their deaths. I’d do it.”
Doris gave her Apache friend a gentle smile. “As a ceremonial pipe carrier, you are charged with walking the Red Road with a good heart. None of us can use the pipes we carry for anything but good for all our relations.”
“I know,” Sparrow Hawk growled, opening her pudgy, callused hand. “But I will tell you that, in my heart of hearts, I have dreamed of taking their lives for what they took from the Blue Heron Society and from Dana. It is not right.”
Nodding, Agnes said, “No, it’s not right, and now it is time to right wrongs. But to right them in a way that the Great Mystery would approve of. We cannot lower ourselves to lies, deceit, theft or murder, as others choose to do. As pipe carriers, we are the symbols of all things good about those who walk the sacred Red Road. We are role models.”
“I see a gleam in your eyes, Agnes,” Doris noted, grinning. “What plan have you hatched under that messy hen’s nest of white hair?”
Chuckles echoed throughout the hogan. Indeed, Agnes’s white hair did resemble a tangled nest. With arthritis in her joints, she could no longer braid it, much less comb out all the snarls.
Raising her white eyebrows, Agnes gave a toothy smile. “Hens lay eggs. A nest is rich with ideas.” She blinked her watery eyes. “Besides, the dozen hens in my coop think I am one of them now. They come up to me, clucking in their language, and I talk back to them.”
More chuckles sounded.
Agnes felt the tension in the hogan begin to melt. She didn’t mind making a joke about herself to ease it, and shift attention momentarily from the awful reason why they were gathered here. Humor was most needed in the direst of times.
“We must get Dana to come home,” she stated. “Then I will ask her to retrieve the Storm Pipe from Rogan and his women. This is something she must do. She was in line to receive it.”
Shifting restlessly, Sparrow Hawk said, “But does Dana have the heart to do this, Agnes? Rogan is savage in battle and gives no quarter. If this woman has not been fully trained in the ancient ways, how can she combat him? Instead of facing the deaths of her loved ones, she ran away, and has remained out of touch with you. I don’t find that very courageous.”
“I hear your words, sister.” Agnes looked down at the knotted handkerchief in her hand. “But I helped deliver Dana. She was born on November 17.”
Sparrow Hawk grimaced. “So?”
Doris reached over and patted Sparrow Hawk’s arm. “In case you did not realize it, Rogan was born the exact same day and month as Dana.”
“Oh.” Sparrow Hawk gulped. “I did not know. Well, this changes things.”
“Oh, yes,” Doris said in agreement, “it changes everything.” She directed her attention back to Agnes. “They are twin souls.”
“Indeed, they are. Mirrors of one another. One has a good heart, the other is a two-heart—a person of darkness who’s chosen an evil path to fulfill his needs.” Agnes lifted her head and said proudly, “You should have been at Dana’s birth. Her grandparents were there as well. Everyone was so excited. Because I was there to help with the birth and had been adopted into the family, I assisted in the delivery. When Cora went into the final stages of labor, a thunderstorm came rolling out of the west. I watched from the window as the sky grew black with approaching thunder beings, the spirits who create these powerful storms. Each time Cora cried out, lightning would flash across the sky, followed by a clap of thunder that shook the house like a dog shaking off fleas. And when Dana slid into my hands and took her first breath, a bolt of lightning was hurled by a thunder being. It split the huge cottonwood that grew fifty feet away from their door. I stood with my adopted granddaughter in my hands as the blinding light filled the house, bathing all of us with his radiant presence. Dana did not cry. She did not whimper. As I looked out the window, I saw the cottonwood tree cleave in two and fall over.”
Rubbing her chin, which was sprinkled with white hairs, Sheila One Feather groused, “Well, there you go, Agnes. Even then, the thunder beings were telling you that as Dana was born, another of equal power was being born. It doesn’t matter that the year of birth is different. When two people are born on the same day and month, there is a connection between them. A sacred cottonwood splitting in two means two of something.” Her thick, bushy brows fell. “Now we know who the other one is. Rogan Fast Horse.”
“Yes, yes,” Agnes said, nodding her head. “As I stood there drying Dana off, before handing her to her mother, I didn’t realize what the thunder beings were trying to tell me. It didn’t dawn on me until recently.” She touched her head. “A little slow, this one.”
Laughter again permeated the hogan.
“Rogan was born in Kentucky. Dana was born at the Rosebud Reservation in South Dakota,” Kate Little Bird mused. “Otherwise, they are twin souls bound together in a spiral death dance.” Her full lips puckered and she looked around the circle. “Only one will survive their confrontation with one another. We all know that. I have seen other twin souls born, and every time, one of them dies early. Usually in a violent or tragic event. And it may or may not be due to the twin causing the death but they will meet and the Great Spirit will decide who lives and dies after that.”
“It is a battle between the light and darkness,” Doris reminded them. “And no one can foretell the outcome. Dana’s heart must be pure and powerful in faith in order to overcome Rogan’s dark ambitions.”
“She is the daughter of the Blue Heron Society,” Agnes declared. “It is in her blood, in her heart, to help Mother Earth and all her relations.”
“Well,” Sparrow Hawk grumped, “Rogan has plenty of power now. What’s to stop him from using the Storm Pipe again? A ceremonial object used for centuries accrues tremendous power. In the wrong hands, such a pipe could be directed to send a lethal blow. But even a ceremonial pipe must have time to recharge after such a feat. Most take six weeks, at least, after unleashing all their power.”
“True,” Agnes agreed. “I know the Storm Pipe. It will be that long before she can be used again by Rogan.”
“I hate the fact that one of our precious pipes is being misused like this,” Doris muttered. “They are our most powerful ceremonial tools, which is why the choosing of a pipe carrier takes so long. Years of watching a person, gauging their heart and intent, to ensure the pipe is used only for good, never for evil. Once the connection between carrier and pipe is established, the spirit within must obey the new owner. In this case, Rogan must have had Blue Wolf connect with the pipe, for he cannot.”
“That’s right.” Agnes sighed and wiped her mouth once more. “It is up to us to stop him and retrieve that pipe for our society. Dana is charged with doing this, whether she knows it or not.”
“And is she trained in the art of war in the other dimensions? Is she physically fit for such a mission?” Kate Little Bird inquired.
“Let me sing you a song that has always been with the Storm Pipe. Perhaps it may answer some of our questions.” Agnes cleared her voice and began to sing in a wobbling soprano.
“Come to me, pipe who works with the storms
I am your friend, I am your friend
Come to me, pipe of the storms
I am your friend, I am your friend
Wind mixes with fire, and Mother Earth cries
I am your friend, I am your friend
Pipe of storms, fire of the sky
Come to me, come to me
Thunder walks, the wind screams and blood flows
Come to me, come to me
Blue heron lies dead, iron hand moves, and the nighthawk rises
Thunder and iron hand join battle, fire holds the key
Come to me, come to me….”
The energy in the hogan throbbed as Agnes finished the sacred ceremonial song linked to the Storm Pipe.
“Fire holds the outcome,” Sparrow Hawk said. “That could easily mean nuclear annihilation for all of us!”
Patting the pipe bag she carried, Agnes said, “That is one possible way to interpret this song. I prefer to think that Dana Thunder Eagle will have the ability to work with the thunder beings, who bring fire in the form of lightning, in order to destroy Rogan and bring the Storm Pipe back to us.”
Sheila One Feather groaned. “Agnes, you live in a world of dreams. Few who have aspired to work with thunder beings are alive! For their power is as great as a nuclear blast. No human can physically withstand the surge in order to harness it for use.”
Shaking her head, Sparrow Hawk insisted, “No, fire means a nuclear war, not lightning, in this song.”
“What choice do we have, my sisters? Do we sit here deciding that the sacred song of the Storm Pipe makes us paralyzed with fear?” Agnes voice lowered with scorn. “I say we contact Dana and get her to help. You forget that if the thunder beings choose to work with and through her, they will protect her from their power and fury. She would become an open conduit for them to send their energy to Rogan and his followers, but she herself would remain unharmed.”
“Wait, wait!” Sparrow Hawk held up her palm. “What do you make of this ‘iron hand’ in the song? What does this have to do with the outcome?” She looked around at the group.
Doris cleared her throat and gave Agnes a significant look. When the older woman nodded, Doris told them, “I have the answer, my sisters. Agnes is aware that one of my grandsons, a Cheyenne Lakota, carries the name Iron Hand.” She held Agnes’s gaze. “I believe that my grandson, Chase Iron Hand, will work with Dana to secure the Storm Pipe from Rogan and his women. And Chase has strong ties with you, Agnes. You, as our leader, are charged with getting him to help us in our dilemma.”
“You are right,” Agnes said. “Chase is a member of the Blue Turtle Medicine Society, a group of men and women who are powerful psychic warriors and healers. He is not only trained in the art of warfare and protection on the energy level, but he’s also just recently left Delta Force and the U.S. Army.” She gave them a narrowed look. “Chase is the ‘iron hand’ referred to in the song. As I speak, he is up on a bluff on my reservation crying for a vision.” She lifted her head, her voice becoming strong and clear. “He came, unannounced, to my hogan a week ago. He asked me to prepare him for a vision quest. His time in the army has left him wanting. He came home to hear what the Yei, our gods and goddesses, have decreed that he become from this time onward. Chase Iron Hand is a man of honor, with a military education and training. I can ask him for his help. Who better to pair with Dana in this effort?”
Sheila One Feather snorted. “Indeed? Does Chase know what he’d be getting into?”
“No,” Agnes said pertly, “but he will soon enough. And so will Dana.”
CHAPTER FOUR
DANA MOANED IN HER SLEEP and tossed the sheet aside. Brow wrinkling, she shifted to her stomach, stretching her arm toward Hal’s side of the bed. The dream that gripped her was the same one she’d had two nights in a row. In it, thunderclouds smudged out the dusky light, looming closer and closer, like angry brooding faces. A chill moved down Dana’s spine and she rolled onto her back, dragging her eyes open.
Vaguely aware of the sweat trickling between her breasts, she pressed her hand against her cotton gown.
“Hal?” Her voice was thick with sleep. Husky with hope.
No…he’s dead. Two years ago, her mind whispered back to her. Tears formed in Dana’s eyes and she shut them tightly. How long was this cycle of grief and nightmares going to last?
The bedroom was silent. It was June in Ohio, and she purposely had kept the window near her bed open. The air cooled her overheated skin, and Dana focused on the crickets chirping happily outside the window. Now and then, frogs croaked. The natural sounds soothed her fractured state of confusion, grief and loss.
It was more than missing Hal. She missed her mother, too. Groaning, Dana tried to escape the questions that often haunted her. Had Cora and Hal suffered terribly after being attacked? Had they died slowly? What were their last thoughts? Panicky ones, probably. Rubbing her moist eyes, Dana flopped onto her back and stared up at the darkened ceiling, those questions like knives assailing her heart and gut.
As she rested her arm across her closed eyes, loneliness snaked through her. The only thing that helped assuage this overwhelming pain was the personal pipe she carried. Reaching out, she found the deerskin bag that lay on the pillow next to hers. Hal’s pillow. He was gone, but the Nighthawk Pipe had given her solace on nights like this. Pulling the pipe bag to her breast as she rolled to her side, Dana closed her eyes, tears matting her lashes.
“Nighthawk, help me. I hurt so much,” she whispered, pain making her voice hoarse. “My heart feels as if it’s going to burst with loneliness.”
Dana felt a warmth begin to emanate from the long, rectangular bag. From the spirit that lived within the pipe, she knew—the one she had bonded with when she was young. The spirit answered her plea and sent waves of healing warmth into her heart. Holding the pipe bag securely against her, Dana mentally gave thanks for this unconditional love.
Like rivulets, the warmth spread from the center of her chest outward, flowing throughout her body. With the healing energy washing through her, Dana felt an incredible sense of peace and wellbeing. Nighthawk’s love was dissolving her fear and her anguish.
Dana released a tremulous sigh. Sleep would come now, and with it, escape from the awful feelings that had inhabited her since the loss of her mother and Hal.
Cetan, the Lakota word for Nighthawk, had been her friend, teacher and companion since she was twelve years old. Twenty-nine now, Dana never took for granted the energy the pipe had, the power from the Great Spirit that flowed through it to her. It was always a miracle, and she felt humble and grateful to have such a comfort in times of great suffering. Her mother had taught her that the ancient ways would always sustain those who walked the Red Road of the heart. Now, Dana’s faith in those beliefs was healing her bit by bit from the terrible trauma that had occurred two years ago.
Cetan was her best friend, a spirit companion on the unseen levels, and had supported her through this tumultuous time. Dana gently squeezed the pipe bag where the head of the pipe rested in a white rabbit-fur pouch to protect it from being broken. I love you so much, Cetan. Thank you and the Great Spirit for sending me this healing energy. I don’t know what I’d have done without your help and love.
No less than I love you, Cetan replied telepathically.
Dana smiled tenderly as she snuggled into her goose down pillow. When the pipe spoke to her, it brought feelings of love and nurturance, plus a rich texture of other emotions. Over the years, Dana had come to realize that mental telepathy was more than a concept. When a pipe was given to a human being, an energetic umbilical cord of trust and love was forged between that individual and the spirit within the red, carved stone.
Cetan possessed marvelous powers of healing. It was a pipe of purpose; anything Dana had requested of it over the years had been granted. Sometimes, Dana had allowed an ailing person to hold the pipe bag, and miraculously, Cetan would send the healing energy of the Great Spirit to the patient. Dana had witnessed many beautiful moments of healing and cure with Cetan’s help.
A pipe carrier was there to serve her village. Since the White Man had come to Turtle Island—North America—the bands had been disbursed. But those who knew Dana was a personal pipe carrier sought her out and asked for help.
Dana understood the privilege and responsibility of being a pipe carrier, and she always smoked the pipe for each person who requested that she do so. Connecting through ceremony and prayer to the other worlds, she could help direct special energy to that person, place, animal or thing. Her clients were always grateful and would contact her afterward to tell her of the wondrous changes in their condition. All Dana asked of them in return was to share food, blankets or clothes with those who had less than they, as payment for the pipe’s services. Pipe carriers never took money for what they did; they were emissaries of the Great Spirit, and all requests were met with compassion and love. Dana needed no personal reward, for just being a pipe carrier was a reward in itself. She took that responsibility seriously.
Another sigh slipped from her lips as she spiraled down into oblivion. The wings of Cetan beckoned her…. Dana knew what would happen as she nestled in the soft, warm, downy feathers: sleep, blessed sleep without dreams or nightmares, would come. Just to sleep deeply, undisturbed, was a great gift.
This time, though, was different. As Dana slept, she did dream. But this was no ordinary dream. In it, she watched the purple color of dawn approach. Soon, Father Sun would rise—a sacred moment she always absorbed with joy. Dawn was one of the most powerful times of the day.
Out of the red-violet dawn, a dark shape came, flying directly toward her. The wings of the bird were curved and long. Dana watched in fascination as the winged one drew closer. Her heart beat in anticipation, not fear.
As the great blue heron materialized from the shadows, a strange sense of elation soared through Dana. The red-and-gold colors of sunrise were filling the sky when the blue-gray water bird called to her.
Come, Daughter! Ride upon me! I will take you west. Come, mount me and we will fly together!
The heron cocked its head, its black eyes sparkling with life. In the dream, Dana moved forward to mount its broad back. Without fear, she settled astride the bird and gripped the soft feathers of its long, thin neck. The great wings flapped, and Dana felt the power of the heron thrumming through her as it turned and began its journey toward the southwest. Where were they going? A sense of adventure and happiness filled Dana.
The landscape changed remarkably beneath them. Dana gasped as she recognized the red desert of the Four Corners area. It was the Navajo Reservation, where her adopted grandmother lived! How many times had she come here to visit Agnes Spider Woman? So many, especially when she was a child growing up. Every year, her family had driven from South Dakota to Arizona to visit her Grandmother Agnes. How Dana had looked forward to those warm, happy visits.
As she saw the red desert dotted with juniper, cypress and piñon trees, an ache started in her heart. An ache of loneliness for her grandmother, who loved her fiercely. Since the murders of her mother and Hal, Dana had run away, and hadn’t once gone to visit Agnes. No, like a coward, she’d run east and immersed herself in teaching children, trying to forget her pain, to forget her past….
The heron flew over an eight-sided hogan, built of long timbers with mud in between. It was surrounded by tall, mighty cottonwoods to give it shade from the brutal summer heat. Dana instantly recognized the box canyon with its red-and-white sandstone and limestone walls. This hogan was where Grandma Agnes lived. And standing outside, in a long, dark-blue cotton skirt and long-sleeved red velvet blouse, and a heavy necklace of turquoise and silver, was her adopted grandmother. She was waiting for Dana.
The heron landed gently. Dana slid off the bird’s back and she thanked it. Turning, she saw her grandmother smiling warmly, her arms opening.
“Grandma!” Dana cried, and she ran up the red clay slope to where Agnes stood.
In the dream, Dana felt her grandmother’s thin, strong arms wrap around her. As soon as they embraced, Dana began to cry—deep, wrenching sobs welling up from within her. Agnes murmured her name and, with one trembling hand, gently caressed her hair. She understood Dana’s grief.
For the first time since Cora and Hal’s death, Dana felt totally loved and protected. She had had to be so strong after their deaths. All the paperwork to fill out, all the meetings with the county sheriff, the detectives…It had been an endless nightmare of ongoing pain for her. No one knew who had killed them. They still didn’t know. That bothered her all the time.
“Grandmother…” Dana pulled back from her embrace to gaze at her. “It’s so good to see you again. I’m so sorry I didn’t come home after…well, after.”
“Grandchild, do not worry,” Agnes whispered, smiling into Dana’s eyes. “I understand. What is important is that when I asked you to come, you did. That is all that matters.” She touched Dana’s wet cheeks, her fingers shaky. “Tears are good. They are cleansing and healing. You keep crying. Better out than in.” She gave Dana a luminous smile.
Stepping back, Dana held her grandmother’s thin, worn hand. “Are you all right?”
“Of course. I have come to you in your dream to ask you to visit me. When you awake, you must pack and drive out here immediately. I need your help, and will tell you why once you arrive.” Agnes held Dana’s startled look. “You will come, won’t you, Granddaughter?”
“Of course, Grandma. I promise.”
“Good. Come to my hogan. Be here by the full moon.”
“I’ll be here, Grandma. I will come home.”
As soon as Dana whispered those words, she felt herself spiraling downward. The scene with her grandmother dissolved. Accustomed to the sensation, Dana knew her astral body was coming home to her physical form….
Sunlight slanted through the open window, filling Dana’s bedroom with brilliance. She rolled onto her back, her arm still wrapped around the pipe bag. Gently, Dana placed it on the pillow again. The dream was alive and vibrant within her. Sitting up and sliding her feet from beneath the covers, she wriggled her toes on the thick, dark-green carpet.
Outside, a robin was singing melodiously. The sky was light-blue and cloudless, the breeze fragrant with the scent of flower blossoms. The world looked different to Dana as she stared wonderingly out the window. It was 8:00 a.m. on a Saturday morning…and the vivid dream became a wake-up call.
Running her palm across her purple duvet cover, Dana closed her eyes and allowed the full beauty of the dream and of her grandma’s love to shimmer through her. Her heart opened like a flower, and she drew in a tremulous breath. Home. She was going home. Agnes had asked her to come visit.
As she opened her eyes, Dana felt relief from the guilt she’d carried since the murders. Her grandmother had asked her to come and stay with her. Instead, Dana had run like a coward and hidden in the white man’s world.
The familiar odor of burning sage came to her. Oh! How she loved the smell of ceremonial smudge, being wafted to cleanse her of any negative thoughts and feelings. Dana could sense her adopted grandmother in astral form nearby. Even though she couldn’t see her with her eyes, Dana felt her loving and powerful presence. She had been taught astral travel at an early age. It was an easy way to visit a friend or loved one anywhere, in the blink of an eye. The sage was her grandmother’s calling card. A welcome one.
Lifting her head, Dana looked around her small bedroom. “I’m coming, Grandma. I’m coming home to you….” she said aloud.
Dana could swear she heard her grandmother’s cackling chuckle, felt her hand rest gently on her shoulder. The sensation was comforting. Strengthening. For too long, Dana had been off the reservation, disconnected from Mother Earth and all her relations. She’d run to the empty world of the white man instead.
Not happy about her choices, but knowing she couldn’t change the past, Dana slowly got to her feet. The warmth of the sun embraced her as she walked to the curtained window. Seeing the robin singing in the Jonathan apple tree made Dana smile.
Her grandmother was near. She could feel her standing at her side, her arm wrapped lovingly across her shoulders. A sharp longing to be back on Native American land plunged through Dana.
There was such a difference in energy, living on a reservation versus in the mechanized world of whites. Indians still had an invisible connection, like an umbilical cord, between themselves and the land. Mother Earth pumped energy and love into the “children” who were still attached to her. As a result, Native Americans cared for and honored the earth. They gave daily prayers of gratitude for being alive, for being nourished and fed. They were reverent toward their true mother, for without her, no one would be alive.
“Yes…” Dana whispered, her throat suddenly closing with tears. “I’ll leave today, Grandma. I’ll call the school and get someone to fulfill my contract.” As a teacher, she would miss her children. Dana felt badly about that. Right now, she needed healing and help. “I’m coming home, back to where I belong.” Even though she was born and raised in South Dakota, the southwest was her favorite place to live. Many times in the past, she’d spent wonderful moments with Agnes in Arizona and had come to call it her real home over time.
As she turned from the window, she noticed something on the carpet. Frowning, Dana padded to the end of the bed and picked it up. It was a blue-gray feather—a feather from a great blue heron.
How she had missed the daily magic and synchronicity in her life. Gazing at the feather as she straightened, Dana understood that the dream had been more than just a pleasant experience. The great blue heron was her grandmother’s spirit guide. And Agnes had sent her here to call Dana home.
Caressing the feather with her fingers, Dana understood the gravity of the invitation. Finally, after a two-year-long dark night of the soul, she was going home….
CHAPTER FIVE
“I’VE BEEN EXPECTING YOU, Chase Iron Hand. Enter.” Agnes waved into her hogan. Although not related to him, he had visited and lived with her as a young boy. Chase saw Agnes as his adopted grandmother and she loved being that for him. He had just come off the bluff after a four-day vision quest, and taken the sweat lodge that must precede his speaking about his vision with her. Sunlight lanced in the doorway where he stood, awaiting her invitation.
He was dressed now in a white cotton shirt, the long sleeves rolled up to just below his elbows. The jeans he wore hugged his strong, powerful body. Agnes was pleased to see that Chase wore the black buffalo horn choker around his thick neck, an abalone disk attached to it. She had given it to him as a departing gift when he was a young man about to go to West Point Military Academy.
Chase’s military short black hair, still damp from the sweat, gleamed with blue highlights. He had obvious Indian features, a square face and high cheekbones, and a restless gaze constantly moving around to check out his territory. Golden cougar eyes. Agnes was pleased with Chase’s alertness. It was what had kept him alive during his years in Delta Force.
Turning to prop the door open to welcome in the morning air, Chase smelled the wonderful fragrance of sage. He knew that each morning, as the sun rose, Grandmother lit the sage in a rainbow-colored abalone shell, stood in her doorway and sang the sun up. The white smoke was healing and uplifting in a spiritual sense. It got one clean and in harmony for the coming day.
“Come sit.” Agnes gestured for her tall, well-built young man to sit on a red-black-and-white wool rug she had woven fifty years earlier. She watched as Chase moved with the boneless grace of a cougar to settle opposite her, legs crossed. She accepted the dried, wrapped bundle of sage that he handed her. That was a sacred calling card, regardless of nation—a gift of sacred sage from one party to another. It was a sign of respect.
Searching Chase’s eyes, Agnes saw that the four days of the vision quest had exhausted him. But that was the point of a quest: to wear down the physical body and mind enough so that the Great Spirit could talk to the supplicant’s heart in dream language.
When Agnes handed him a cup of steaming sage tea in a chipped blue pottery mug, he took it with a slight nod of his head. Chase had not eaten nor drunk anything in four days. Agnes watched as pleasure wreathed his coppery face, his eyes closing slightly as he sipped the fragrant, life-infusing tea. Sage cleansed a person physically, mentally, emotionally and spiritually. It was one of the most powerful members of the plant kingdom.
“This hits the spot, Grandmother,” Chase growled. “Thank you.” He savored the medicinal taste as the tea trickled down his gullet into his shrunken stomach and brought him back to life.
Pleased, Agnes lifted a beat-up copper teakettle and placed it nearby so that Chase could drink all he wanted. A person coming off a vision quest was dehydrated, no question. And sage tea was the perfect way to replace lost fluids. “I’m glad.”
Without hesitation, Chase drank two more cups of the tepid tea. After pouring a fourth cup, he looked over at the aged woman, whose shoulders were drawn back with unconscious pride. “I’ve missed sage tea,” he admitted, his voice raspy. “I’ve missed a lot, I think.”
Even in her nineties, Agnes Spider Woman was beautiful. Elegant. Chase wondered if he’d ever find a woman who had these inner qualities that shone through like sunlight, as they did in Agnes. At thirty years of age, he had given up hope of finding such a woman, convinced he had only bad luck with the opposite sex.
“You needed to leave the reservation to find yourself, Chase. There is nothing wrong with that.” Agnes spoke gently, seeing pain cloud his golden eyes momentarily. “We each have a journey we must take. And there are many tributaries to the Red Road, paths that we are called to take from time to time. Joining the army to feel your way through the white man’s world was one you had to take. I understand this.” Agnes watched Chase nod, his mouth twisting in a grimace. His face was deeply weathered by time he’d spent in harsh outdoor elements. Agnes knew that Delta Force was a very specialized unit whose members trained hard physically. That showed in Chase’s forearms, where the muscles jumped each time he lifted the cup of sage tea in his large, callused hands.
“Tell me of your vision,” Agnes entreated, folding her hands on the dark-blue velvet skirt she wore, her legs crossed beneath the fabric.
Chase wrapped his hands around the warm mug as it sat on his left knee. Closing his eyes, he allowed the vision to congeal before him once more. “I saw a great blue heron come flying out of this thunderstorm that was stalking me, Grandmother. And at her side flew a nighthawk. Lightning danced around the three of us, and I was sure I was going to be struck by it. The heron landed in front of me, a lightning bolt in her beak. The nighthawk landed next to the heron. Before my eyes, the nighthawk turned into a beautiful young woman.” Chase opened his eyes and grinned boyishly at his composed teacher. “She was a looker, Grandmother. Black hair and the most startling cinnamon-colored eyes I’d ever seen. They were the color of fresh, reddish-brown earth plowed up after a hard winter.”
Agnes nodded. “And did this young woman speak to you?”
“Yes,” Chase murmured, sipping the tea. “She asked for my help. I said how can I help you? She told me to go to the red rock country where you live, and meet me here on the next full moon.” Chase frowned. “And then the woman turned into you, Grandmother.” Shrugging, he said, “That was the end of my vision.”
“A good vision,” Agnes said, pleased.
Chase waited. It would do him no good to press her for an explanation of his vision. Patience was one of his strengths, so he waited. Outside, he could hear the merry chirp of a robin, and farther away, the trilling of a cardinal. He had hearing like a cougar, which was his spirit guide.
“I must tell you a story.” Agnes filled Chase in on the Storm Pipe being stolen from the Blue Heron Society two years earlier. When she mentioned Rogan Fast Horse, she saw Chase’s eyes instantly narrow with rage. His mouth thinned, as if he were struggling to hold back a barrage of toxic comments. Oh, she could feel Chase’s reaction, and because she was clairvoyant, she saw the angry red colors swirling in his aura, confirming his reaction.
Flexing his scarred fist, Chase waited until Agnes finished telling him the full story. Then silence fell in the hogan.
Taking in a deep, ragged breath at last, Chase expelled it. Agnes tilted her head to one side, like a bird listening for a worm.
“Just before I went to West Point, I met Rogan at a powwow,” Chase told her. “He cheated in the bow and arrow competition to win. I saw him do it. And so did the elders who were the judges. When they announced him as winner and not me, I challenged Fast Horse, because I wasn’t going to let him get away with it. The elders were wary of his sorcerer’s powers. Afraid that he would harm them or their families if they didn’t let him win.”
“But you weren’t afraid.”
“I was, Grandmother, but I also knew what was right. In that instant, I felt as if the Great Spirit had chosen to work through me because the elders were too afraid to confront Rogan about his cheating.” Looking down at his hands, his blunt nails and the thick calluses that covered his palms, Chase said softly, “There was a knife fight.” He touched his brow with his index finger. “I cut Rogan across his forehead. He bears the scar to this day. I won the knife match and he swore to curse me, to be my mortal enemy until the day I died.”
“Powerful words to invoke.”
Shrugging, Chase looked around the shadowy confines of the hogan. The woodstove was in the center, the metal pipe leading up through the top of the mud-and-timber roof. “Rogan doesn’t know humility. I taught it to him that day. I won the match and the rewards. I knew he was a sorcerer, but I also had faith that the Great Spirit would protect me from Rogan’s rage.”
“Did he?”
“Yes,” Chase said, a note of sarcasm in his deep voice, “after four years at West Point, I volunteered and was allowed into Delta Force for eight years.” He looked at his right arm, which bore many small, puckered scars. “Other than getting caught down in South America by rebels, held prisoner and tortured for six months before I managed to escape, I don’t think Rogan got to me.”
“He did not,” Agnes confirmed with knowledge and conviction. “And I am sorry you had to suffer so much in the army, Chase.” She gestured to his arm.
“It wasn’t fun,” he agreed grimly. Meeting her watery eyes, he asked, “So Dana Thunder Eagle must go after Rogan herself? I’ve fought him, Grandmother, and there isn’t a woman alive who could do what you’re asking of her.”
“We of the society realize this. That is why the Great Spirit sent you that vision. You are the other key to us reclaiming the Storm Pipe.”
Chase allowed her words to filter through him. Closing his eyes, he replayed the vision again in his head. Yes, she was accurately interpreting the dream. Sighing, he looked at her once more. Agnes sat there resplendent in her agelessness, the sun touching the silver strands of her flyaway hair. The lines in her face were a road map of her life. Chase knew she was a tough old buzzard, and her lean, thin body proclaimed her power regardless of her age. Admiring Agnes for her strength and great, warm heart, he offered, “Grandmother, I’m tired. I just left the army. I’ve been fighting the bad guys for so many years. Well, I’m just…tired.” Chase didn’t like admitting it, but he was. Six months of daily torture had reduced him to a level he never wanted to admit to anyone. And he needed time to reclaim his tortured spirit, heal from the awful, daily beatings, and try to become whole again.
“I understand,” Agnes murmured. Reaching out, she placed her thin fingers on Chase’s arm and squeezed it. “That is why you came home. Home to find your true calling. Dana must be toughened up not only physically, but to tap into her warrior side emotionally, mentally and spiritually.” Agnes lifted her hand and poked her index finger in Chase’s direction. “I need you to turn her into a warrioress, capable of reclaiming the Storm Pipe.”
“You want me to teach her the art of war? That’s all? And I won’t have to do anything else other than be her teacher?” That appealed to Chase under the circumstances. Right now, he was at a low ebb. The fact he’d allowed himself to be captured by the rebels was humiliating enough. But to be tortured and finally break, giving away secrets he’d sworn never to divulge, was a blow that had broken his spirit.
When he’d finally made his escape and got home, he’d left the army, defeated and wounded on every level. He’d put good men’s lives on the line because he’d squealed like a pig going to slaughter. Chase wasn’t proud of himself. And right now, he felt mortally wounded spiritually, which was why he’d come back home to Agnes in the first place.
And now, both she and the vision he quested for were asking him to reconnect with violence and war. Feeling as if he could teach this woman was enough of a demand on him. Chase didn’t even want to attempt to take on Rogan right now. It just wasn’t in his spirit to do so. “I can train her,” he stated. “But I won’t go with her to retrieve the pipe.”
Nodding, Agnes said, “Then that is enough.”
“I’m not a soft man, Grandmother. I’m hard. The training I’ve had is brutal. I don’t know how to be gentle or cajoling. Dana sounds soft. Unprepared. If I become her teacher she may quit. Do you realize that she could walk away, because she doesn’t have the heart or passion for this mission you want her to undertake?”
“Choices are always before us.”
“The kind of training needed to ensure her survival against Rogan will be harsh,” Chase warned grimly. “I won’t coddle her, Grandmother. I can’t. You’re saying we have five weeks to prepare Dana for this mission before the Storm Pipe has recharged enough to kill again under Rogan’s direction. Five weeks. That’s just not enough time.”
“It has to be,” Agnes declared. “You saw Dana in your vision. I know she is a beautiful woman and I think you are swayed by that. Beauty can be strong. A pretty face is not always weak, as you assume.” Touching her blouse above her heart, Agnes added, “In here, I know she has the stamina and courage to answer the challenge you throw at her.”
“So, weaver of people’s lives, when do I meet my student?” Chase knew that Agnes had spider medicine. She had the power to combine people and situations together when she felt it best. Trusting her, he acknowledged that spider medicine was like any other kind: good or bad, depending upon how the energy expressed itself through the individual. And Agnes was one of the purest-hearted people Chase had ever known. He trusted her more than anyone else in his world. His father had been a reservation policeman until he was killed trying to stop a bank robbery. His mother had died six months later of a broken heart, leaving Chase to be passed around from one relative to another until he was old enough to go to West Point. His time with his adopted grandmother Agnes had left the deepest impression.
“Tomorrow, Dana arrives. She will come and you will introduce yourself to her.”
Though he had his doubts, Chase said nothing, just nodded.
“The two of you will work as a team here in the box canyon. There is a small hogan farther up where you’ll stay. The winter sheep hogan has everything you’ll require. Dana will need your brawn and your cleverness as a warrior, Chase. You will pass your experience on to her so that she can confront Rogan and take the pipe back.”
Even though Chase had never met Dana, his protective nature was already at work within him. Oh, he knew that women could be warriors; he’d seen his share on the res, growing up, as well as while he was serving in the U.S. Army. Still, that didn’t erase the age-old conviction that was alive and well within him: that women and children were to be cherished, loved, protected and defended. Chase knew he’d have to readjust this mindset to work Dana into a tough, well-trained warrior. In five weeks. That seemed an impossible time frame.
But when Chase saw the hope burning in Grandmother’s eyes, he kept his worries to himself.
He did not want to disappoint his extended family, especially this most sacred of women elders. He’d already disappointed the U.S. Army, and humiliation still ran hot through him. Clearly, the Great Spirit was setting him up for another test. Perhaps by training this unknown woman, he might salvage his pride, his manhood, and learn to live with what he’d done while imprisoned in South America.
When Agnes passed some homemade fry bread to Chase, and a bowl of fragrant lamb stew, he thanked her. Fasting for four days had left him feeling like a hungry cougar. Dipping the dark, whole-grain bread into the bowl filled with thick chunks of lamb, onions, brown gravy and potatoes, he said a prayer thanking all those who had given their lives so that he might eat.
The moment he took a bite, Chase savored the flavors. Yes, he was home. Finally. It had been a circuitous route, he thought, as he swiftly ate to stop the gnawing in his stomach. Restless, he’d left the res because he was curious about the white man’s world. And he’d tasted it—at West Point and for eight years after graduating. Now, because he’d failed as a warrior, because he’d broken under torture and interrogation, he’d crawled to Agnes, his pride stopping him from going back to Grandmother Doris on his home reservation. Instead, he’d come here to Agnes on the Navajo reservation to reclaim his shattered spirit. He hoped he would lead a productive, honorable life once more.
As he ate the succulent lamb stew, Chase savored the flavors of rosemary and marjoram. Each bite was more than just a physical gift to his body, it was nourishment for his wounded soul. Already, Chase could feel his battered spirits beginning to lift.
A ray of hope threaded through him. He stopped eating for a moment and felt the tenuous emotion touch his war-ravaged spirit. Healing was taking place. Humbled as never before, Chase finished his stew. Agnes was a powerful medicine woman, and he knew she’d said healing prayers over the food. And he was on the receiving end of her loving hands and heart.
“This meal is wonderful, Grandmother. Thank you….”
Smiling, Agnes murmured, “I’ll get you another bowl from the kettle. You’re hungry and too thin. You need to regain the weight you lost, Chase.”
Watching the elderly woman slowly rise, with the elegance of a great blue heron lifting her wings, Chase admired her lean, graceful form. Agnes Spider Woman was a bright beacon of hope in his life right now, and he was grateful to have such a positive role model. He didn’t know how he felt about Dana, and that would be a challenge to him. Women weren’t his strong suit and never had been. Tomorrow, he’d have to start dealing with one.
Ordinarily, Chase would have said he couldn’t do it, but with the support and help of a powerful elder who believed in him, he would try.
CHAPTER SIX
CHASE SQUATTED on the smooth red sandstone ledge above the winter hogan. A nearby juniper hid his presence. The sun was hot, beating down on his bare shoulders, and he soaked it in like a man starving for life. He’d been six months in a green hell where there was no direct sunlight. Only rain, cold, and high humidity, all conspiring to break his spirit.
His gaze swept down the escarpment toward the hogan near the wall of the canyon. Restlessly, he sifted the fine red sand through his scarred fingers. The grit felt good. He liked having physical contact with Mother Earth. It was comforting to him. A breeze stirred, moving along the thousand-foot-high rock wall behind him, rustling the cypress and piñon trees.
What was Dana Thunder Eagle like? He’d seen her face in the vision, but he knew dream and reality could be very different. He frowned pensively. He hadn’t told Agnes how powerfully drawn he’d been to the woman in his vision. Hadn’t been able to tell her. It would be his secret. He watched the red grains of sand catch the sunlight, sparkle and then drift to the smooth rock ledge he was sitting on. Of course, Agnes could read minds, so he figured the elder already knew. Maybe it wasn’t important. But it was to him. Women had been a thorn in his side, not a pleasure. Oh, he’d had plenty of one-night stands, had found sexual gratification with a number of partners. But he’d never met a woman who made his world stand still.
Snorting softly, Chase decided that his parents must have had something very special that he would never experience himself. They’d been so much in love. As a child, he’d thought all husbands and wives had devoted relationships like that.
He’d been wrong to think true love was the norm. Going to West Point at age eighteen, Chase very rapidly got ensnared in the dating scene. Everyone wanted to stake a claim on the handsome red man who had broken through the white-males-only barrier. Women danced around him like butterflies, there for the taking if he wanted them. He’d been like a beggar in a candy store, grabbing every beauty who wanted to bed him. And for a while, he’d thought he was in a sexual heaven of sorts. But by his sophomore year, the one-night stands were becoming the same; the faces were a blur and the act meaningless beyond selfish gratification and release. Chase broke off the relationships because they were emotionally empty meetings of body only. He wanted more. Much more and never had found it yet.
The wind gusted sharply, making Chase lift his head. The sky was a blue vault with white horse’s mane clouds stretching across it.
She was here. He sensed it. Dana Thunder Eagle had arrived.
Grandmother Agnes lived at the mouth of this deep, rectangular canyon. The winter hogan was invisible from her summer home. Chase knew that Dana would spend at least an hour talking with her adopted grandmother, to receive her marching orders on how to rescue the Storm Pipe. The elder would then send Dana up here, around the bend of the canyon, to stay for the next five weeks. With him.
The winter hogan was a lot smaller than the summer one, making it much easier to heat during the biting cold and heavy snows. The small potbellied stove was also used for cooking. Navajos were practical about the extreme change of seasons on their large reservation. Still, even though Chase and Dana would sleep on opposite sides of the eight-sided structure, it was a very scant space.
A red-tailed hawk shrieked as it circled the tabletop mesa above the canyon. Chase followed the bird’s lazy spiral and enjoyed seeing its rust-colored tail. Only an adult redtail, five years old or more, had that eye-catching hue on its tail feathers. Chase’s mind—and focus—went back to Dana. What was she like? Did she have the right stuff to undertake this deadly mission? Already, he was worried. Five weeks was an impossibly short time to get Dana ready for such a serious undertaking.
Immersed in his thoughts, Chase felt time disappear. He understood that the magic of focus created this out-of-time sense of being. It felt good to Chase, and familiar. And before he knew it, he saw a tall, lithe woman in blue jeans and a white blouse, her hair in long, thick braids, walking up the canyon toward the winter hogan. She carried a red canvas bag in each hand. On her back was a dark-green knapsack. Even burdened as she was, she walked with pride.
Instantly alert, Chase studied her minutely. Knowing he was hidden, he felt the euphoria of a stalker and hunter as he watched the woman draw closer. His heart began to beat more strongly in his chest. Reddish highlights danced in her hair as the sunlight caught and reflected it. There was a deerskin pouch tied on the left side of her black-and-silver concha belt. Chase knew it would contain a mixture of sacred herbs that she would gift to the spirits of this place. One always bade the neighbors hello, like a person inviting another over for a congenial cup of coffee.
As much as Chase wanted to stay distant from this woman who was supposed to save the Storm Pipe, he couldn’t. As she lifted her head to scan the area, behind the hogan and up on the sandstone skirt, where he hid in the shadows, Chase saw a fearless quality in her wide, cinnamon-colored eyes. There was a stubborn angle to her chin, even though her face was smooth and oval. Her Indian heritage showed in her high cheekbones. Her nose was straight, with fine, thin nostrils, reminding him of a well-bred horse.
The horse image suited her, Chase decided, watching her approach the hogan and set her luggage down. Dana was perhaps five foot nine or ten inches in height, with a slender figure. As she pushed open the wooden door, which faced east, Chase noted that every one of her movements was graceful, like those of a mustang.
Taking in a ragged breath, he remained still and watched Dana disappear with her luggage inside the hogan. When she returned minutes later, she stood outside the door and took some of the sacred herbs from the pouch she carried. Facing east, she raised her hand above her head and slowly turned, stopping at each of the major directions until she’d completed her clockwise circle. Chase saw her throw the herbs into the air, the breeze catching and scattering them.
Good. At least she knew protocol. But then, if she was a personal pipe carrier being trained to carry an old and powerful ceremonial pipe, Dana would automatically contact the local spirits of a place. One never came to a strange area without offering a gift and requesting permission to stay. Omitting this critical step was considered rude and wrong.
Chase knew Agnes had directed Dana to climb to meet him, her trainer and teacher. As his eyes narrowed upon her uplifted face, he felt her energy. Indeed, Dana was beautiful. Just as lovely as she’d been in his vision. A part of him groaned in protest, because he was drawn to beauty like a honeybee to a flower in full bloom.
He watched patiently as Dana made her way up onto a ledge of sandstone, and then to another. The walls of the box canyon rose upward like a multilayered cake. Squatting on the third level, Chase saw that Dana had rolled up her sleeves, and her well-worn jeans couldn’t hide her femininity. Her long legs seemed to go on forever. A slow grin tugged at the corners of his mouth. Any man would be proud to have her as his woman.
Just as quickly as the thought seeped into his mind, Chase brutally pushed it out. This was business. All business. Besides, Dana was a recent widow. There was no room in her life for an emotional relationship. Maybe he could remold her grief into a driving strength, and a motivation for success in this mission. Perhaps…but that would mean wounding her all over again, and Chase had no desire to do that.
The afternoon air was filled with the scents of the desert—the medicinal tang of the sagebrush, the sharp wine scent of juniper in bloom and the warm, woody fragrance of the nearby cedar. The blouse Dana wore stuck to her form, outlining her full breasts and long torso. Her braids swung rhythmically as she moved. Sweat made her skin glisten. Her full mouth was set with determination.
Chase watched her come ever closer. Calling on his cougar ally from the other dimension, he ordered him to guide her to within a few feet of the juniper he crouched behind.
Like a lamb being led to slaughter, Dana intuitively picked up on his spirit guardian’s cajoling request. Trained medicine people, via clairvoyance or clairsentience, could usually detect a spirit guide, their own or another’s. That was how they communicated with the invisible realms. And sure enough, Dana turned and headed straight toward Chase without knowing he was hiding there. She had a lot to learn, he realized.
Dana blew out a breath of air, realizing how quickly she was tiring from the climb up the rear wall of the box canyon. Clairvoyantly, she’d seen a yellow cougar come out and meet her. He’d greeted her warmly and asked her to follow him. Sensing no negativity around the guardian, Dana complied. It wasn’t an unusual request; all places had spirit guardians, so she thought little about its greeting or request.
Having lived not far above sea level for the last two years, she felt the six-thousand-foot elevation of the desert plateau taking a toll on her. Her breath rasped as she climbed ever closer to a stand of juniper on the next tier of the sandstone formation.
Somewhere in the back of her mind, Dana recalled dreaming of this place. As a child, she’d come often to visit Grandma Agnes, and had played hour after hour upon these smooth red rock skirts. She’d been like a wild mustang filly, and the elevation hadn’t bothered her at all. Now it did.
But the warmth of the sun, the fragrance of the trees and brush, all conspired to relax her after the three-day drive from Ohio. Oh! How Dana had missed all of this—the wildness, the freedom, the silence of Mother Earth surrounding her. What had made her think she could ever be happy in the Midwest? Dana frowned as she recalled again how she’d run away like a coward after the deaths of the two people she loved most in the world. Her adopted grandmother was right: she needed to come home. To be here. To live here once again.
This canyon had always been a place of joy and healing for Dana. She used to play hide-and-seek with her friends up here where the trees grew. Fond memories flowed back, sweet as honey. The wide blue sky, the thin wisps of cirrus that reminded her of threads on a weaving loom, and the faraway song of a cardinal all conspired to dazzle her with the intense beauty of the moment. She should never have left. It seemed like such a stupid, knee-jerk reaction now.
Dana halted near the first juniper and slowly turned east, toward the winter hogan. Gasping for breath, she pressed her hand against her pounding heart. Perspiration on her temples dampened strands of her hair. Home. She was finally home. Back where she belonged. As she stood there, embraced by a cooling breeze, and hearing the cry of a red-tailed hawk, Dana felt much old grief sinking out of her, flowing from her body and into Mother Earth.
Yes, the grief that had encased her was finally shedding, like an old, worn snake skin. Closing her eyes, she took a deep, cleansing breath into her lungs, and felt so much of what she’d carried since their deaths miraculously dissolve. Perhaps the biggest mistake she’d made was not staying with Agnes. Her grandmother had pleaded with her to come home, to live with her after the tragedy. Dana regretted not having listened to the wise elder who loved her so fiercely.
As she opened her eyes, Dana inhaled a new scent, one unfamiliar to her. What was it? She lifted her chin, her nostrils flaring as the wind brought a whiff to her once again. It wasn’t unpleasant, and something about it stirred Dana’s womanly senses, long dormant.
Chase rose in one smooth, unbroken motion. Like the cougar at his side, he took three steps toward the woman, who had her back to him. As he threw his arm around Dana’s shoulders, his other hand gripping her left arm, he laughed to himself. She was such easy prey!
The instant the steel arm clamped around Dana, she gave a cry of surprise. That same musky scent filled her nostrils. Her eyes bulged as she was jerked back against the hard, unyielding plane of a man’s body, his powerful fingers digging into her left arm.
Without thinking, Dana jabbed her right elbow into his midsection. It felt as if her elbow had smashed into an unforgiving metal wall.
Letting out a cry of surprise, Chase nearly lost his hold on the woman. He’d expected her to be a rabbit, to stand helplessly, squeal and surrender without a fight. Instead, she’d fought back! Anger flared in him. It wasn’t anger aimed at Dana, but rather himself. A grudging respect was born in Chase as he expertly kicked her legs out from under her. Not wanting to hurt Dana, he monitored the force with which she fell to the smooth sandstone ledge, landing on her belly.
Bringing her left arm up between her shoulder blades, Chase carefully pressed a knee into the small of her back while he held her head down with his other hand. He tempered the amount of pressure he brought to bear on her, and was surprised once more by her fighting spirit. Dana struggled to escape. She didn’t scream, but tried to twist free, lashing out with both her feet.
Sweat trickled down Chase’s temples as he leaned over, his breath coming in gasps. “You made three mistakes, woman.”
Dana froze. The man’s husky voice was so close to her left ear it shocked her. The rock bit into her right cheek as he held her head down on the sandstone. His voice was dark, deeply masculine, and sent new alarms racing through her. Dana was receiving mixed signals from her intuition now. Confused, she finally stilled and stopped fighting. Who was this man? Was he going to kill her? The thought momentarily paralyzed her.
Chase felt the tickle of her dark hair against his mouth as he whispered into her ear, “The first mistake was that you didn’t pay enough attention to your surroundings.” Hard, sharp gasps exploded from her lips. “Secondly, you allowed me to draw you to where I was hiding, by sending out my cougar spirit.” He saw her face drain of color, her eye narrowing with rage. Good, she wasn’t a rabbit, after all. “Lastly, a warrioress always has her ally guarding her, but you didn’t send your own guide out to look for danger.”
With a grunt, Chase released Dana. He stepped back, hands on his hips, and watched her with veiled interest.
Dana scrambled to her knees, breathing raggedly. Leaping upward, she whirled around, wildly aware that her captor stood only a few feet from her. When she met his narrowed golden eyes, she checked the urge to run. She saw hints of amusement in those large, intelligent eyes of his. He was laughing at her! Fear turned to fury.
“Who are you?” Dana demanded, her voice low and off-key.
Chase gestured for her to sit down.
Dana refused, glaring at him.
He forced himself to ignore her primal beauty, the way she was crouched and ready to fight him all over again, if necessary. “Sit. Your knees are shaking so bad you’re going to fall down if you don’t.”
Grudgingly, Dana glanced down. He was right. She was feeling terribly shaky from the adrenaline rush flaring through her bloodstream. “How do I know you won’t attack me again?” she retorted angrily.
She took a few steps away from this giant of a man. He wore a pair of faded blue jeans, but no shirt, and his chest was broad, massive and without hair. He was Native American, no doubt about it. And powerful. Again, she saw laughter in his eyes. He hadn’t made a move toward her. Yet. Nervously, she wiped her damp palms against the thighs of her jeans.
“I don’t make a habit of attacking or raping helpless women. Sit down.”
Dana felt that same confusion overwhelm her once more. This man had attacked her. Then he’d released her. Was he her enemy? If so, why had he let her go? Her knees buckled abruptly, and she threw out her hands, cushioning her fall. Landing with a thump on the red sandstone, she felt weak and vulnerable before this warrior.
Searching his tanned, square face, Dana felt a sizzling sensation build within her and momentarily wipe out her fear and uncertainty. Her first impression, of a cougar, had been right. He had topaz-colored eyes that lightened or darkened with his mood changes. His face was hard, weathered by the elements. She couldn’t tell if he was a full-blooded Indian; his nose was hawklike, his nostrils now flared to catch even the faintest of scents.
The only hint that perhaps he wasn’t a killer appeared in his mouth—the corners curved naturally upward. Her darting gaze took in the powerful breadth of his shoulders. His chest was massive, his arms tight and thick with muscles. But he was far from musclebound; no, this man’s body was taut, in shape and honed to perfection. The sunlight made his copper skin glow with an almost unearthly radiance.
Dana blinked, unable to assimilate all that she saw and felt around this man, who stood like a nearly naked god. The jeans he had on were thin and faded from use. And he was wearing leather Apache boots, with their distinctive curled tip—designed for picking up snakes and hurling them off to one side. That way, the wearer was not bitten, and the snake lived to go about its business.
This man was indeed a cougar, coiled and waiting to leap upon her at any moment.
A sour grin edged Chase’s mouth as he studied her.
“Who are you?” Dana said resentfully.
“Chase Iron Hand. Your teacher.”
Shock bolted through her. Grandma Agnes had said he would meet her at the winter hogan, but she hadn’t found him there. “You can’t be…” she choked out, all her bravado dissolving. This man was powerful, physically as well as energetically. There was nothing soft or vulnerable about Chase Iron Hand. Dana could understand why he’d been given such a name. Indeed, he was like a piece of forged metal, far stronger than she would ever be.
Chase watched the fleeting emotions cross her stunned face. Her skin had a golden sheen wherever the sunlight caressed it. She sat with hands flat on the sandstone, her legs crossed. “Grandmother told you to meet me,” Chase informed her.
“At the hogan,” Dana snarled, anger once again replacing her fear. She felt the terror begin to leak out of her and into Mother Earth. “I thought—” She gulped, her voice tightening. “When you attacked me, I thought you were the same man who murdered my husband and my mother.”
Pain slammed into Chase’s heart. Damn! He hadn’t meant to do that to her. He could see anguish in Dana’s wide cinnamon eyes, which were now filling with tears. He opened his mouth to apologize and then snapped it shut. Right now she didn’t need his pity. She needed to learn how to work through emotional pain and keep her focus on the job ahead. “And if I had been, you’d be dead, woman. You’re supposed to be trained to take back the Storm Pipe,” he sneered. “And what did you do when confronted? You didn’t think about how to escape.”
His words stung her. Gulping back her tears, Dana saw the lack of respect he had for her. Chase was right: she had failed to look for escape. Not exactly what a real warrior would do.
“But then,” Chase added, “you have a habit of running away when things get tough, don’t you?”
Pain over that truth gutted Dana. She hung her head and placed her hands over her face. It hurt too much to speak.
Chase watched how Dana took his powerful words. She could hide nothing from him. Part of him was delighted with the discovery, but another part disdainful. Warriors showed no feelings, no matter if they were in the worst pain or on a natural high. He didn’t look too closely at himself, however. After six months of daily torture, he’d finally surrendered to the pain and given his enemies the information they’d wanted. Was he any different from Dana? Unwilling to go there, Chase hardened his heart against her and his own hidden shame.
“So, you’re a coward and you ran,” he drawled.
Dana’s head snapped up. Rage tunneled through her as she held his merciless stare. “Don’t give me that male superiority garbage!”
“Call me Chase.” He held out his hand to her. “Come on, let’s go down to the hogan, Dana. You’ve had enough for one day.”
Staring at his outstretched hand, Dana saw so many little pink scars on it that she recoiled. There was nothing warm, comforting or nurturing about this man. Her teacher. Oh, Great Spirit, he was her teacher? Dana had felt a lack of confidence sitting before Grandma Agnes, as she’d asked her to bring back the Storm Pipe. Now, in the shadow of this mighty warrior, all the rest of her confidence fled.
Scrambling to her feet, Dana lashed out and knocked his hand away. He laughed. It was like listening to the far-off rumbling of her beloved thunder beings.
Chase Iron Hand was beautiful in a rugged way. But in that moment, Dana detested him, because she had none of his confidence or strength within herself. Without a word, she scrambled down the sandstone wall and headed toward the hogan. To hell with him! She wasn’t about to walk at his side and chitchat, pretending nothing had happened. He’d scared her to death! He’d made her think she was going to die, as Hal and her mother had. Hatred toward him rose within Dana as she hurried down the escarpment.
Chase grinned and watched Dana storm down the canyon. Her shoulders were now thrown back with pride, her chin jutting out at a very defiant angle. He eyed her appreciatively as he followed, noting her hips swaying like a willow tree in a summer breeze. Mesmerized by that liquid motion, Chase felt a new trap—longing for a woman. Again he squelched that need. It had no place here, for sure.
There was a barbed wire fence on the last tier of sandstone, a wooden corral nearby for sheep and goats brought up to forage. As Dana bent to slip between the strands, the barbed wire caught on the back of her blouse between her shoulders. She was trapped. She tried to free herself without tearing a hole in the material, and by the time Chase arrived, he saw frustration in her features.
“Go on,” she snapped at him.
“I can help.”
“That’s the last thing I want from you! Get out of here. I’ll see you at the hogan.”
Chase smiled briefly. Well, Dana was showing some pluck now. “Let me help.”
She jerked her head, and Chase saw loathing in her furious eyes. Good, he’d use that to train her with, too. He didn’t take her anger toward him personally. No, the Indian way of thinking was that the feelings a person had were his or her own—not someone else’s. Why should he take responsibility for how she felt?
Lifting her blouse, he delicately eased the barbed wire from the fabric. “A warrioress knows when to ask for help, too.”
What the hell was he talking about? This was the second time he’d made a reference to her being a warrioress. Chase was crazy!
The brush of his fingertips on her back sent a tingling feeling across Dana’s flesh. As soon as she was freed, she slipped through the wire fence and hurried away without even a thank-you. Gulping for air, feeling hurt winding through her, Dana walked with resolve toward the winter hogan. Right now, all she wanted to do was run—again. Away from this coldhearted bastard. Away from her mission.
CHAPTER SEVEN
AS DANA WALKEDTOWARD THE hogan, she asked herself, What did I get into? Grandma Agnes was so loving. So nourishing to her starved and aching soul. This dude, well, he was an irritating, stinging salt in her wounds! Maybe this was a mistake.
Dana plowed on through the rabbitbrush, the yellow flowers scenting the air. Mouth set, she felt fear. Only fear. Chase had scared her to death.
Dana had thought she was being attacked, yet when she stopped being such a drama queen long enough to look at the experience, she had to admit Chase hadn’t hurt her at all—at least not physically. Oh, he’d made damn sure she got the message: that she was blind, deaf and dumb out here in the wilderness.
Dana dodged several smooth, red boulders on the steep slope to the hogan below. The wind was warm. The sun felt wonderful on her body. Mulling about Chase Iron Hand, Dana recalled a story her mother had told her as a child. There had been a race of fierce male and female warriors from the stars who had come to Earth to intermarry with the red people. The race was very tall, muscular, powerful and confident. Just like Chase. The star warriors had lived with their people and shown them how to weave, make weapons and defend themselves against invaders. Was he one of them?
Chase was too rough and unpolished, more animal than man, she decided. More wild than civilized. That scared the hell out of Dana. No man had ever sharpened her awareness of herself as a woman like he had in just one, potent meeting.
Pushing open the wooden door to the hogan, Dana stepped inside. She’d placed her luggage on the south side of the structure. The smell of sacred sage and juniper encircled her, calming and grounding. Some had been burned earlier in an abalone shell sitting atop the woodstove. Chase must have smudged the place, Dana guessed.
Rubbing her perspiring brow, she felt her heart opening. And with it came so much hurt and grief that she was momentarily overwhelmed. Chase had been brutal. But Dana was sure he would disdain her feelings and the hot tears that swam in her eyes. Valiantly, she choked down all her boiling emotions.
Tea…she needed some sage tea. Yes, that would help soothe her raw, nervous state. She knew Chase would come down soon enough. Dana didn’t want to be standing here like an idiot when he arrived. Nervously, she went through the motions of taking the teakettle off the stove. There was kindling in a cardboard box, and she quickly rolled up some pieces of newspaper. After putting them into the stove, Dona located a box of matches. The fire lit quickly, the dry kindling snapping to life. Dana added several larger sticks and then shut the door.
As she looked around the quiet hogan, the peace of the place infiltrated her tense state. Everything was simple. The floor was hard-packed red dirt, swept clean and then covered by several colorful, handwoven rugs. On the southern walls were pine board shelves holding mason jars filled with various herbs. On another shelf were weaving items—a spindle, herbs for dying purposes and some gathered wool wrapped around spindles, waiting to be used this coming winter. On the western walls were several shelves containing what Dana recognized as medicine tools Agnes used in her healing ceremonies. There was a yellow gourd rattle with a redtail feather tied by a leather thong to the end of the highly polished wooden handle. A fan made of golden eagle tail feathers lay next to it. Dana didn’t go over to look at them. Medicine objects were never to be touched except by the owner.
Turning, she set the beat-up old copper kettle back on the stove, after making sure there was enough water in it. The fire spat and crackled. Dana found a mason jar filled with dried white sage leaves. She took a small handful and dropped it into the kettle before replacing the dented lid. It felt good to be doing something rather than waiting for Chase to enter that open door.
Dana could feel him approaching. It was like sensing the invisible pressure of a storm front moving through the area. Steeling herself, she listened carefully, but couldn’t hear him. The man was more cougar than human. No one ever heard the approach of a mountain lion, either. Until it was too late.
She took a deep, ragged breath and waited. When he finally entered, like a silent shadow, her heart twinged with fear. Chase was so tall that he had to duck his head at the doorway. Dana guessed the lintel was six feet high, and he was a good three or four inches taller. She tried to ignore the beautiful play of glistening muscles as he straightened and focused those golden eyes on her.
Though her pulse accelerated, Dana compressed her lips and glared at him. She wasn’t going to let him scare her again. Or catch her off guard. Yet, as Chase moved on into the hogan, Dana couldn’t help gazing at his male body, naked from the waist up. The scars on his chest told her he’d participated in several sun dances up on a Lakota reservation. For that ceremony, wooden pins were pushed through vertical slits in the skin of a man’s chest or shoulder. Leather thongs were attached to the pins, and the sun dancer dragged buffalo skulls behind him as he danced for days on end around the sacred cottonwood pole in the center. The sun dance wasn’t for sissies, and Dana’s admiration for Chase rose whether she wanted it to or not. Any man who had completed a sun dance bore deep scars on his chest or shoulder blades. They were a reminder that he had the strength of spirit and the physical endurance to show his faith to the Great Spirit.
Her own scars, Dana thought, might be invisible, but they were just as deep and as hard earned. All people were wounded, she knew. But some scars couldn’t be seen. Staring at Chase’s broad, scarred chest, she wondered what other wounds he had endured.
Chase sat down on a rug, legs crossed, his powerful hands resting on his knees. “Sage tea?” he asked.
“Of course.” Dana tried not to sound tense and threatened. She couldn’t read this man as she could others; it was as if he had a wall up between them. When her back was turned, she could feel his eyes like two hot poker points. Hands trembling, Dana took a wooden spoon, pulled off the lid of the kettle and stirred the bubbling tea. The pungent fragrance of sage drifted upward and she inhaled, absorbing its healing and calming nature.
Dana tried to ignore Chase, but that was impossible. She went to the small sink near the door and found two chipped white mugs. After setting them on the drain board, she retrieved the kettle and poured tea into them. There was sagebrush honey on a shelf above the sink and she reached for it. Desert honey was delicious, and her mouth watered in anticipation as she spooned a thick dollop into each cup. Once she finished stirring them, Dana picked up the mugs and turned around.
Chase took his steaming tea. The moment their hands met, he felt her pull away. If he hadn’t wrapped his fingers around the mug, she would have dropped it in his lap. He saw her nervously lick her full lower lip.
“Sit here,” he told her, pointing to a place opposite him on the earth-toned rug.
Stung by his curt voice and blunt order, Dana hesitated, staring at the spot. It was much too close to him. She chose another spot a good six feet away and slowly eased into a cross-legged position.
After a few sips, Chase asked, “Did you bring the Nighthawk Pipe?”
“Of course. As a pipe carrier, I go nowhere without it.”
“Did your mother leave behind any ceremonial tools for you?”
The mention of her mother sent a sharp ache through Dana. She gripped the warm mug more tightly and gazed at him.
Lowering his eyes, Chase stared down at the red earth floor between the rugs. Ceremonial objects were powerful instruments of their healing trade. He moved his gaze to Dana once more.
“She surely had certain feathers, rattles and sacred stones she worked with,” he pressed. Dana looked fetching in her simple clothes, her hair mussed from the breeze, the black braids eloquent testimony to the blood that ran richly through her veins.
Frustrated with his abrupt statements and questions, she snapped, “Of course she did.”
Meeting her blazing eyes, Chase stated, “For someone who has such old and powerful tools, you don’t use them very well or very often.” Pointing toward the canyon wall they’d just descended, he added, “You didn’t even have an ally protecting you from my attack. You’re giving away power, woman.”
Stung, Dana growled, “Just who in the hell do you think you are? First, you attack me up there.” She gestured toward her puffy cheek, which had been held against the sandstone. “You’re the one who should be apologizing for hurting me! For scaring me to death! And you can wipe that disgusted look off your face while you’re at it. I’m not into judgmental people, so back off.”
“A warrioress never complains. She does not show her pain, no matter how much she suffers. And she should know the value of silence, of listening. You know none of these things.”
“What are you talking about?” Dana began to hate the man. He sat there nearly naked, dangerous to her female senses, and yet supposedly her teacher. A terrible combination. “Who are you to question how I walk the Red Road or utilize the sacred objects passed on to me by my mother?” Hot indignation welled up in Dana, something she hadn’t felt in two years. She wanted to run from the hogan, down the canyon to Grandma Agnes and tell her that she refused to work with this Neanderthal who called her “woman” of all things. The stormy look in his eyes scared Dana and at the same time fascinated her. His mouth was a thin line and the hard planes of his copper face gave no inkling of what he was really feeling. Disgust at her, most likely.
Sipping his tea, Chase allowed her husky words to reverberate through the hogan. When Dana got her feathers ruffled, she struck back. There was backbone beneath that golden, dusky skin of hers. That pleased him.
The tea and honey were a good combination on his tongue. Lowering the mug, Chase noted how she glared at him. Her hands were wrapped around her own mug, tightly enough to crush it.
“You are the only hope for the Blue Heron Society. Your grandmother already told you that. You are young, strong and possess the genes of your mother, who carried the Storm Pipe.” Chase lowered his voice. “I will work with you to prepare you on all levels for the tasks set before you by Grandmother Agnes. That is, if you are brave enough to take on this mission.”
Shaken, Dana dragged in a deep breath. The silence between them became oppressive. She stared down at the mug she gripped, her tea barely touched. Her hands were soft and without calluses, unlike his.
“I’ll do my best,” she finally rasped. Looking up, she met his narrowed golden eyes. For a moment, Dana allowed herself to drown in their darkening depths. Mesmerized by Chase’s blunt, powerful energy, she felt an invisible shift within her.
Blinking, she disengaged from his stare.
“Rogan lives up in a fortress in the Sierras,” Chase began. “He has a compound near Carson City, Nevada. The twelve women who work with him are true warriors. They are fanatical about keeping that ceremonial pipe for themselves. These women have placed their lives on the line to protect it and Rogan.”
“I’m not a killer.”
“No, but Rogan is. And his women will kill you if you don’t know how to be stealthy and protect yourself. This is no game, woman.”
“Dammit, stop calling me ‘woman’! My name is Dana Thunder Eagle.”
She felt stung by Chase’s humorless smile. Now, he was laughing at her, as a coyote would a hapless rabbit.
“Better to be called ‘woman’ than ‘child.’”
Drawing herself erect, spine taut, shoulders back, she said, “My name is Dana.”
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Lindsay McKenna
Dana Thunder Eagle is a beautiful woman with a fierce heart and powerful gift. But after the murder of her husband and mother, she ran away from the Rosebud reservation, hoping to leave the past behind her forever. Now, two years later, the killer is still on the loose. And only Dana has the mystical power to stop him.After six months of daily torture at the hands of South American rebels, Chase knows his latest mission may be his hardest: to whip Dana into fighting shape in just five weeks. Even more challenging will be to ignore his cinnamon-eyed student's graceful beauty.United in a life-or-death mission, Chase and Dana must learn to lean on each other if there is any chance of stopping a madman who seeks to destroy a people's history…and future.
Lindsay MCKenna
Heart of the Storm
To Mary Buckner, RN, and Linda Metzler,
Physician’s Assistant, friends. Thank you for your
help and support over the years; I couldn’t have
gotten this far without you. George Abbott, we
couldn’t ask for a better neighbor. In a day and
age where respect, honesty, integrity and courtesy
are dimming in our society, you shine with these
wonderful human qualities. We’re lucky we live in
the same canyon with you.
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
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER ONE
“THE VICE PRESIDENT of the United States needs to die. Now!”
Rogan Yalua Soquili, known as Fast Horse, was insistent as he stood triumphantly outside the circle of twelve Native American women. Their rapt attention fixed on the Cherokee métis medicine man, they sat in their ceremonial garb. Rogan placed his hands on the strong, capable shoulders of Blue Wolf, a Shoshone woman near his own age of forty-five.
“Make it happen,” he declared, his voice booming.
The Sierra Nevadas in early June took on a shadowy, menacing aura as midday thunderclouds grew above them. Rogan looked around gleefully. They were nestled within the Eagle’s Nest, his compound built high in the mountains, on a cliff. The wooden walls provided them sanctuary as they stood on the hard-packed earth. It was the perfect place to carry out their task. The air around them leaped and throbbed with living energy.
In the center of the women’s circle, a light feathery mist began to gather. It moved counterclockwise, never touching any of the participants. Rogan watched, mesmerized, as the wispy cloud became darker and began to resemble a doughnut whose hole was closing. Cauliflower-like towers grew upward from the sluggishly swirling clouds, and when flashes of lightning occurred, Rogan’s jaw dropped in awe. Surely, the ceremonial Storm Pipe and these women were connected to the most powerful magic he’d ever seen. Excitement coursed through him.
The women chanted as one, their voices rising and falling as the thundercloud built with the whipping wind. Rogan’s hair fell across his face, but he didn’t feel it. His eyes were on the cloud invoked by the sacred pipe Blue Wolf held in her hands. With each chant, the intensity increased and the thundercloud turned more malevolent, eventually shooting skyward to thirty thousand feet. It was coming from the pipe; Rogan could see the energy flowing out of its bowl.
As he stood behind her, he dug his fingers into Blue Wolf’s sturdy shoulders. The rhythmic chanting ebbed and flowed, ebbed and flowed. The very pulse of the building storm responded to the women’s voices, which rose in a powerful crescendo.
Rogan’s order echoed throughout the cedar structure on the side of the mountain. Standing in the west, the position of death, he kept his firm contact with Blue Wolf’s elk skin-covered shoulders. Like a bolt of lightning, heat and electricity coursed through his hands, leaped up his arms and shimmered throughout his tense body. Keeping his knees slightly bent, Rogan closed his eyes, took a deep breath into his abdomen and then slowly released it.
The thundercloud manifested by the pipe and the women was inspiring to Rogan. He’d never seen anything like this. Oh, he knew ceremonial pipes were powerful, but to create a mighty thunderhead in a matter of minutes…that was awesome. Lightning continued to radiate from the dark, churning mass far above them. Most of the electricity, millions of volts, was held within the cloud. Rogan knew that the powers involved with the pipe would not allow any of it to harm the circle of women. It would be contained within the building storm overhead.
Rogan gazed around at the seated figures. Their knees touched one another to maintain physical contact. In doing so, they became the container for the Storm Pipe’s power, and helped direct the energy and the building of the thunderhead.
Blue Wolf lifted a very old pipe made of catlinite, its red bowl glowing in her hands. The smooth, polished oak stem was decorated with small seed beads depicting a thunderstorm with a lightning bolt. She began to sing a ceremonial song to invite the lightning that flashed above them. Her hands grew hot and felt as if they were burning; they were merely responding to the power amassing through the powerful ceremonial pipe.
The women gripped one another’s hands at the right moment, as the electrical charge within the churning clouds swirled, growing in strength. The two sitting next to the pipe carrier each placed a hand on her waist, for Blue Wolf needed her hands free, to hold the pipe upward in supplication.
Her voice rose and fell, like a howling wind moving within the circle. She felt Rogan grip her shoulders more tightly with anticipation. He couldn’t hold the pipe himself, for the ceremonial object belonged only to women. If he touched it, he’d die instantly. He could focus the energy, however, and direct it to whomever he envisioned in his mind.
Today, the vice president would die. Blue Wolf smiled inwardly as she sang from her heart and soul.
Their song became more strident, in accord with the energy unveiling itself before them. The Storm Pipe felt almost too hot to hold any longer, but Blue Wolf focused, as she had been taught. All the women in the circle felt the same heat, she knew. They held the pipe’s energy, carrying the power, just as a womb cradled a growing baby.
Rogan smiled inwardly as he maintained his grip on Blue Wolf’s shoulders. She was trembling physically now. The building energy made her sweat freely, as it did him. Her singing changed in pitch, and at that moment, Rogan pictured the vice president’s face in his mind. Focus! He must focus one hundred percent.
Dizzy from the gathering, spinning energy, Rogan was trembling so badly he collapsed to his knees. As if he were a lightning rod, an electrical current leaped and flowed through his hands, up his arms and through his body. That was Rogan’s mission as he understood it: to ground the power of the Thunder Beings that trod restlessly across Father Sky. He began to slip into a deep, altered state as the chanting continued. It was all Rogan could do to stay mentally connected.
Stealing the Storm Pipe had been the key, he thought with satisfaction. His body was vibrating now, so fast he felt as if he were shredding apart, cell by cell. Too powerful an energy could make a person vanish into thin air. It wasn’t happening to him due to the great strength and long training of these twelve women, he knew.
Sweat poured down his tense, kneeling form. His deerskin shirt and breeches were soaked through. Then Blue Wolf moved her arms and pointed the pipe eastward, toward Washington.
Now! he screamed to her mentally. Visualizing the face of the vice president, Rogan issued his final order. Force the pipe to release its charge now, Blue Wolf! Now!
He was unprepared for that very thing happening. As the release was triggered, a flash of light occurred, and he was flung six feet backward. Scrambling to his hands and knees, he looked around, stunned. The sky remained turbulent. Angry purple-and-gray clouds still churned above them. But already the thunderstorm, created by the twelve women’s intent, with the help of the pipe, was beginning to dissipate. Had the ceremonial pipe done its deed?
FBI AGENT DAVID COLBY WAS standing next to Vice President Robert Hiram when an incredible wave of heat surged like a tsunami through the large office. His boss, Mort Jameson, was in the middle of his daily report when the bulletproof window began to glow like sun-scorched rocks in a desert, followed by an earsplitting boom. Thrown off his feet, Colby slammed into the wall and was knocked semiconscious. The agent heard the vice president scream. Momentarily blinded, Colby slowly crawled to his hands and knees, disoriented. Automatically, he pulled the revolver from his shoulder holster beneath his dark suit jacket.
As Colby staggered to his feet, sweat trickled off him. He felt as if he was in a steam room! Mort Jameson was groaning and trying to sit up. That’s when Colby noticed the vice president lying flat on the carpeted floor, mouth open, eyes staring sightlessly toward the ceiling.
Beyond the massive cherry desk, the window was still intact. There’d been no sound of a bullet being fired, only that deafening boom. What was going on? What the hell had just happened? The agent holstered the gun.
“Colby! Call for backup!” Mort yelled as he stumbled to his feet and ran over to the unmoving vice president. Dropping to his knees, he yanked the man’s tie loose, then pressed his fingers against his neck. “No pulse! Get help!”
Colby lurched. His ears were ringing, so much he could barely hear the shouted orders. Why wasn’t everyone piling into the room? The door was still shut.
Confused, he grabbed the doorknob. Surely someone had heard the awful booming sound? He swore he’d seen a bolt of lightning lance through the only window in the office.
Saliva dripped from the corners of Colby’s mouth as he yanked open the door. He had little control over his body. Unable to stand, the FBI agent called for help and medical personnel, then sagged against the jamb.
His eyes were blurred and unfocused now, his legs quivering uncontrollably. As his muscles gave way, he slowly sank to the floor.
“THE VICE PRESIDENT IS dead,” Dr. Scott Friedman announced to the small group of men in business suits. “From what I can tell, it was a heart attack. An autopsy will be performed shortly and we’ll know for sure.”
“My God,” Mort muttered, wiping his face with a linen handkerchief. The knot of men stood in a room adjoining the vice president’s hospital suite.
Mort’s frown deepened as he glanced at Agent Colby. Thirty-three years old and one of his best agents, the man was pale and shaken. In fact, after examining him, the doctors had told him to stay in the hospital because he was weak and disoriented, but Colby had steadfastly refused.
“This is…such a shock,” the President’s press secretary, Burt Daily, stammered. “What are we going to tell the media?” He kept his clipboard and pen poised as he scanned the group.
Mort Jameson glanced at the head of the CIA, Bucky Caldwell, and then at the Chief of Staff, Rodney Portman. The Joint Chiefs of Staff chairman, General Myron Klein, a marine, looked grim. “The doctor said it was a heart attack,” Mort repeated.
“But…” Daily looked around the group “…the vice president didn’t have a history of heart trouble. The man had low cholesterol, for chrissakes! He’d just had his annual physical two weeks ago. At fifty, he was healthy as a horse. Do you think the American public is going to believe this?”
“I don’t have the answer you’re looking for,” Friedman told them. “I’m just as puzzled over his death as you are. The autopsy will reveal more. I gave the vice president a clean bill of health.” Shrugging, he added, “His heart just gave out.”
“Agent Colby?” Mort zeroed in on the man. Colby had the face of a lean wolf on the prowl. His gray eyes were focused, the irises large and ringed in black.
Colby shifted his attention to him. “Yes, sir?”
“Escort Dr. Friedman from the room, please?”
“Yes, sir.” When he gestured toward the door, the doctor took the hint, said goodbye and left. Colby made sure the door was shut, then turned and walked back to the cloistered group.
“Something hit us in that room, sir,” Colby stated, giving each man present a serious look. “I felt heat, burning heat, building up seconds before that bolt of lightning, or whatever it was, struck the vice president. At first, I thought it was a summer storm. But we had blue skies and sunshine. From what I can tell, it wasn’t weather induced.”
Mort grimly nodded. “I need your help, gentlemen. I had the very same experience Agent Colby did. There was tremendous heat in the room. It hurt to breathe in that superheated air. And then—” Mort clapped his hands together “—there was a tremendous booming sound, something you might hear right after a lightning bolt struck close to you. The sound still has my ears ringing. Something came through that window, but the window’s still intact. Somehow this bolt killed the vice president, and it knocked the hell out of me and Agent Colby in the process.” He rubbed his jowls and studied the other men in the circle. “You got any ideas?”
“No,” the CIA director, Caldwell, said, “but I have my agents combing the room with the most sophisticated gear available. We’re trying to discover what the hell went down. Was it an act of terrorism or an act of God? I’ve got agents talking to the weather service gurus to find out if lightning can strike out of a blue sky and leave a window unbroken.”
General Klein, built like a short but powerful pit bull, lifted his green eyes to the group. “Gentlemen, I’d be looking for a more concrete explanation. It was an attack.”
“Jesus,” Daily whispered. “You’re standing here telling us this was a terrorist attack?”
“It’s possible,” Mort snapped, irritated by the press secretary’s whining demeanor. “You think we like what happened? Or the implications? If whatever it was can strike the vice president dead on the spot, whoever or whatever could do the same to the president. Which is why he and his staff have been put into hiding until we can figure this out. None of the ramifications are lost on us, believe me.”
Caldwell held up his hand. “Look, everyone stand down. We’re all shaken—badly shaken—but we’re working on this as fast as humanly possible.” He glanced at his Rolex. “I expect to have preliminary results in about thirty minutes. You’ll all be privy to whatever we find.”
Colby said, “I believe we’re dealing with something sophisticated.”
“Russian?” the press secretary asked, his face pained.
General Klein growled, “Either that or terrorists have suddenly gotten ahold of the most advanced laser equipment known. The Russians have developed them for defensive purposes. Star Wars technology scared the hell out of them, and they put their focus on weaponized development as a way to counter what we’re doing. Lasers are capable of this kind of destruction. We know that Russia was preparing to mount these on their satellites out in space.”
“Yes,” Caldwell said in a strangled tone, “and they’ve been testing their version of SDI in the Pacific against our military aircraft off and on the last two years. We have five blinded pilots in different military cargo aircraft who were targeted. We can’t prove it, of course, but the Russians are the only ones who have this kind of know-how and technology.”
“Laser technology is ready to be used,” General Klein agreed wearily. “And all fingers point to them.”
“Could it be other terrorists, though?” Daily insisted. “We know that the Russian labs in Moscow were looted six months ago. President Kasmarov never said what was stolen by the Chechens. Could it have been their laser equipment? Could they have gotten that stuff into our country unseen? Used it against the vice president?” He gave them all a desperate look. “My God, if that’s so…”
Holding up his hand, Mort said, “Don’t go there yet, Burt. We need time to do a thorough investigation. Right now, we’re all treating this as an attack from an unknown enemy.”
Shaking his head, Burt scribbled some notes on his clipboard. “The American public will panic if that’s what has really happened. Lasers loose in the country! My God…”
Chief of Staff Rodney Portman stirred and opened his hands, which had been clasped tightly in front of him. “Look, gentlemen, we all have our work cut out for us. I’m going to put in a call to the Russian ambassador about this, discreetly, of course. We have no proof they did anything.” He sighed and added, “I’ll make some preliminary forays with the ambassador and be back in touch.”
Klein snorted. “I’ll tell you what. You should, in the strongest terms possible, issue a communiqué to Kasmarov and let him know that he’s in our gun sights.”
Gray eyebrows raised, Portman gave the man a thin smile. “Diplomacy is a must here, General. You realize that. We’re not going in with guns blazing. We don’t have proof—yet.”
“I don’t need any,” Klein said. “No one in the world has advanced laser weaponry except those sons of bitches. This is them or the terrorists, and my hunch is it’s Kasmarov pushing his weight around. The president has put us at Defcon Three. And we’re staying there until this gets sorted out between all of you.”
“Dammit.” Daily groaned mournfully and shook his head.
“Go lie to the American public,” the CIA director ordered the press secretary. “Heart attack. Pure and simple. No big deal.”
“Got it,” Daily agreed, his voice grim as he scribbled more notes on his clipboard.
“Our job,” Mort told the group, “is to protect the president from any future attack. So, if you’ll excuse me, gentlemen? We will remain in touch with one another to unscramble this debacle.”
Colby followed his boss out of the room. He was still feeling out of sorts, the dizziness assailing him off and on. He made sure he was near a wall whenever possible so he could reach out and stabilize himself. Something was wrong, but what? Was it really the Russians? Why would they do this at a time when Kasmarov had his hands full with internal problems of his country?
“Director?” Colby called as they walked out the doors of the hospital into the dusk. “I’m going back to the vice president’s office. I want to see if our team has come up with any clues.”
“Good idea, Agent Colby. You sure you’re up to this? You look like hell warmed over.”
Grinning tiredly, Colby said, “I’m a lot better off than the vice president, sir. I’ll be fine.”
“Go for it.” Mort smiled and walked down the sidewalk to an awaiting black limo.
Colby avoided the flock of reporters still hovering around the E.R. doors on the other side of the hospital. He reached the parking lot, opened the door of his dark-blue Toyota hybrid Camry and climbed in. Sitting there, he took a couple of deep breaths. Whatever had happened in that office had made him feel spacey, dizzy and out of his body. It was hard to focus, to stay grounded.
Rubbing his eyes tiredly, Colby realized he was lucky to be alive.
CHAPTER TWO
DORIS RED TURTLE, a medicine woman of the Cheyenne nation, scanned the circle of elderly women. They all sat without expression, even though the eight-sided hogan, windows open, was stifling as the Arizona summer sun beat down upon it. They had gathered in the Navajo nation, at a special place among the red sandstone monoliths near Monument Valley.
The medicine woman’s brows, thick and white with age, drew downward. “Rogan Fast Horse murdered the vice president of the United States four days ago. That is why I issued a plea for all of you to come here. He’s sworn to kill others in the president’s cabinet, and then the president himself.”
“Why should we care if he kills them?” Sparrow Hawk, an Apache medicine woman, spoke up. Her hair hung in two thick, gunmetal-gray braids. She wore a knee-length, blue calico gown, and cradled a pipe bag made of elk skin in the crook of her left arm.
Doris held the flashing black eyes of the Apache. “This is no time to thrash over the history of what whites have done to our nations. Rogan is a threat to all people, no matter what their skin color or gender.” Her gravelly voice dropped lower in warning. “As you know, two years ago, Rogan stole the Storm Pipe from the Hokahto, Blue Heron Society, of which we are all members. He acquired this sacred ceremonial pipe by murdering our sister, Cora Thunder Eagle, who carried it.”
Doris grimaced and added, “Rogan killed her daughter’s husband, Hal, as well. This is not news, of course.
“We were all worried what he’d do with this pipe. Sell it to a collector? Try to use it himself? But why would a man want a woman’s sacred pipe, which can only be handled by one of the sisters? Men can never access that power, no matter how hard they try. We all wondered what would happen. Well, now we know what he was planning to do with it.”
The women, who ranged in age from sixty to almost a hundred, all nodded in agreement. There were twelve of them present, representing a dozen Native American nations. Each medicine woman had been chosen, trained and appointed ambassador to this supersecret and sacred pipe society.
Doris looked to her right, her gaze settling on a tall, thin Navajo. “Agnes Spider Woman, who is our oldest member, will speak now. Grandmother?”
Agnes gave a slight smile of acknowledgment, her light-brown eyes watering, the lids sagging heavily at the corners. Her gaze moved slowly in a clockwise direction around the assemblage. Each medicine woman sat cross-legged on Navajo rugs that Agnes had woven by hand during her long life. Beneath the colorful rugs, the red clay was hard-packed, a reminder that Mother Earth lived with them in harmony. The rocks represented her bones, and the soil, her flesh. The only door to the hogan was open and a slight breeze entered, easing the stifling conditions. There were two small windows, one in the west and one in the south, that were open to allow a breeze. “Thank you, my sister Doris Red Turtle.”
Like Sparrow Hawk, Agnes cradled a ceremonial pipe in her left arm, for the Navajo nation. Veins stood out dramatically beneath the coppery skin of her hands. She moved her arthritic fingers gently across the beaded deerskin pipe bag that carried it. “Greetings, my sisters. I had asked Red Turtle, who is a powerful voice among our nations, to bring you here.” Her voice was reedy but still strong for her age as she exclaimed, “May the Great Mystery bear witness to our plight and give us direction to change it.”
Slowly lowering her birdlike arm, she said, “Rogan Fast Horse, a Cherokee métis medicine man from Nevada, plotted to steal a pipe from our Blue Heron Society. He made his intentions clear many, many years ago, but we gave his threats little attention. Our mistake was in not taking him seriously. We know there are some arrogant, power-hungry medicine men among the nations. Few, but they are there. Usually, they are blowhards, with no action behind their threats or bragging.”
Looking down at the pipe bundle in her arm, the beading of which showed a great blue heron standing near water, Agnes shook her head. Then she gazed around the circle. “Our society was created so long ago that we have no way to know how old it really is. Doris and I figure it may have begun three thousand years ago. We are nations with oral history, not a written one. And from all I have been told, the Hokahto Society is very, very old.”
Lifting her hand, Agnes gestured around the room. “Each of you carries a sacred ceremonial pipe from a time long ago that has come to you in the present. Each of you was specially chosen to represent your nation here, because you have a good heart and a good way of walking. Each pipe carried in this room represents Mother Earth, Father Sky, our sun and moon, in some way. Each is different. But each functions in harmony with the others to create a connection for all our relations.”
Agnes paused to wipe the corner of her thin mouth with a white cotton handkerchief. She patted her lips with a trembling hand and tucked the handkerchief away once more. “According to tradition, only women can be members of the Blue Heron Society. Each pipe created was to be cared for and used by a woman. Only one of the sister-hood may open up the pipe bag, look upon the medicine object within, hold it and connect it to the stem for use. We are charged with working with the pipe to inspire life and harmony upon our planet for the good of all beings.”
The breeze strengthened and the slanting sun brightened the shadowy space where they sat. Agnes welcomed the cooling breeze and silently said thank-you to Father Sky and the wind spirits. “Each of the pipes has tremendous power that has been gathered over time. That is why a pipe carrier is always chosen with the greatest of care. Each pipe is capable of positive deeds, or can be ordered by the carrier to wreak death and destruction.”
Pulling out her handkerchief once again, Agnes dabbed at her watering eyes. “The Storm Pipe was given to the Lakota people. Not only has Rogan Fast Horse stolen it, we now know what he’s going to do with it—kill others. A month ago, I heard gossip from a young woman from the Crow nation. She said she’d heard that Rogan had vowed to use the pipe to destroy the white man and his government.” Shrugging her bony shoulders, Agnes SpiderWoman said, “It was gossip, and I don’t like tattling about others. The woman who told me was a good person with a good heart, but it was still gossip. Yet looking back, I know I should have listened and not dismissed her claims so lightly. It was the Great Mystery’s way of warning me.” Agnes’s mouth turned downward. “And I did not listen.”
Silence hung heavy in the heated hogan. Finally, Sheila One Feather, of the Crow nation, spoke up. Her square face was deeply lined from eighty years in the mountains of Montana. “Rogan is a two-heart, Grandmother Agnes. None of us here likes gossip. We all know the danger of it. You cannot blame yourself for not listening. We’d all have done the same.”
There was a faint murmur of agreement from the group.
Kate Little Bird of the Iroquois nation spoke up. Her eyes flashed with fire. “Let’s face it—Rogan has stalked power all his miserable life! He’s bent on vengeance against anyone—red or white. Is that not so, my sister?”
Sadly, Agnes agreed. “Rogan killed one of us to steal the Storm Pipe. We all felt that, since he was a man, he could not use it. But he has found a way to do so.”
Kate scowled. “How could he use the pipe? It will only awaken and respond in the hands of a woman. I do not understand this. Do you?”
“Yes,” Agnes said wearily. “This same young Crow woman told me that Rogan had gathered twelve women to aid him. He taught one of the twelve how to awaken the pipe and use it. With these women willingly cooperating, he was able to control the pipe for his own evil ends. I am ashamed of these women, for they are no better than Rogan. They seek power that is not theirs to use. They are all two-hearts.”
“Power,” Kate Little Bird said, “is an aphrodisiac to those who have none. We all know that.”
“Power is earned through walking in balance and harmony,” Doris Red Turtle stated. “It cannot be stolen, nor can shortcuts be taken to work with such power.”
“Yet,” Agnes said, “that is exactly what has happened here. Rogan knew he couldn’t touch the Storm Pipe himself, or force it to work for him. So he’s spent the last two years seeking and finding twelve women who thirst after power like he does. Rogan assembled a team of medicine women to support his goals and vision. We all thought that the Storm Pipe would eventually resurface and we’d get it back. I didn’t dream that Rogan would devise something like this. None of us did.”
“Do not blame yourself,” Doris advised the older woman gently. “When the pipe was stolen, we all felt it would return to us sooner or later. Ceremonial objects are taken all the time by those who seek power that is not rightfully earned, or theirs by heritage or training.”
“Humph,” Agnes muttered. “We all thought since it was a woman’s pipe, it would be rendered impotent in Fast Horse’s hands. We underestimated him.”
“No one has ever done this before,” Kate said. “How were we to know? Or guess?”
Again, there was a murmur of agreement from the group. All shared in the blame.
Blotting her eyes, Agnes murmured, “Sometimes it is beyond whoever walks the Red Road with a good heart to plumb the depths of a two-heart, to discover what evil they carry or the plans they create. This is one of those times. We do not think like them and are incapable of such diabolical misuse of power. But we are all paying for it, and so is Mother Earth and all our relations. That is why we must act.”
CHAPTER THREE
AGNES SPIDER WOMAN RAISED her thin hand and looked around the hogan at her sisters. “The daughter of Cora was to become the next woman to carry the Storm Pipe. This is as it should be. Since she was nine years old, Dana Thunder Eagle was being trained by her mother to step into her shoes as a ceremonial pipe carrier when the time was right. When Cora was murdered, and Dana’s husband, Hal, was as well, the young woman went wild with grief.”
“That is only natural,” Doris said, shaking her head over the violent deed.
“Of course,” Agnes agreed. “Dana is like a granddaughter to me, as you all know. She is Lakota and Navajo, a beautiful young woman filled with such love and care for others, a true pipe carrier in every sense of the word. When she was twelve years old, I gave Dana a personal pipe to train with—the Nighthawk Pipe, in preparation for carrying the ceremonial Storm Pipe. Dana accepted the honor and responsibility, as I knew she would.” Smiling fondly, Agnes wiped the corners of her mouth once more. False teeth and old age made her mouth water constantly. “We need to contact Dana and ask her to come home and fulfill her destiny.”
“How?” Doris demanded, scowling. “How old is she? In her twenties?”
“Yes, twenty-nine.” Wiping her lips, then clutching the damp handkerchief in her thin hand, the elder added, “Dana left the Rosebud Reservation after the murders because both sets of her grandparents were dead. She was crazed with grief. I tried to convince her to come and live with me, but she refused, and disappeared. But I sent out the spirit of the pipe I carry to keep in touch with her. She lives in Ohio right now and teaches first graders at a school near Dayton. It is her way of dealing with her loss of the two people she loved most in the world. Children are nothing but love, and that is where Dana has found refuge…until now.”
“Of course,” Sparrow Hawk muttered, “the murders were a terrible blow to all of us. At first we didn’t know who did it. Over time, we were able to track down the culprits—Rogan and his lead woman, Blue Wolf.” She tightened her right hand into a fist. “I wish I could pray for their deaths. I’d do it.”
Doris gave her Apache friend a gentle smile. “As a ceremonial pipe carrier, you are charged with walking the Red Road with a good heart. None of us can use the pipes we carry for anything but good for all our relations.”
“I know,” Sparrow Hawk growled, opening her pudgy, callused hand. “But I will tell you that, in my heart of hearts, I have dreamed of taking their lives for what they took from the Blue Heron Society and from Dana. It is not right.”
Nodding, Agnes said, “No, it’s not right, and now it is time to right wrongs. But to right them in a way that the Great Mystery would approve of. We cannot lower ourselves to lies, deceit, theft or murder, as others choose to do. As pipe carriers, we are the symbols of all things good about those who walk the sacred Red Road. We are role models.”
“I see a gleam in your eyes, Agnes,” Doris noted, grinning. “What plan have you hatched under that messy hen’s nest of white hair?”
Chuckles echoed throughout the hogan. Indeed, Agnes’s white hair did resemble a tangled nest. With arthritis in her joints, she could no longer braid it, much less comb out all the snarls.
Raising her white eyebrows, Agnes gave a toothy smile. “Hens lay eggs. A nest is rich with ideas.” She blinked her watery eyes. “Besides, the dozen hens in my coop think I am one of them now. They come up to me, clucking in their language, and I talk back to them.”
More chuckles sounded.
Agnes felt the tension in the hogan begin to melt. She didn’t mind making a joke about herself to ease it, and shift attention momentarily from the awful reason why they were gathered here. Humor was most needed in the direst of times.
“We must get Dana to come home,” she stated. “Then I will ask her to retrieve the Storm Pipe from Rogan and his women. This is something she must do. She was in line to receive it.”
Shifting restlessly, Sparrow Hawk said, “But does Dana have the heart to do this, Agnes? Rogan is savage in battle and gives no quarter. If this woman has not been fully trained in the ancient ways, how can she combat him? Instead of facing the deaths of her loved ones, she ran away, and has remained out of touch with you. I don’t find that very courageous.”
“I hear your words, sister.” Agnes looked down at the knotted handkerchief in her hand. “But I helped deliver Dana. She was born on November 17.”
Sparrow Hawk grimaced. “So?”
Doris reached over and patted Sparrow Hawk’s arm. “In case you did not realize it, Rogan was born the exact same day and month as Dana.”
“Oh.” Sparrow Hawk gulped. “I did not know. Well, this changes things.”
“Oh, yes,” Doris said in agreement, “it changes everything.” She directed her attention back to Agnes. “They are twin souls.”
“Indeed, they are. Mirrors of one another. One has a good heart, the other is a two-heart—a person of darkness who’s chosen an evil path to fulfill his needs.” Agnes lifted her head and said proudly, “You should have been at Dana’s birth. Her grandparents were there as well. Everyone was so excited. Because I was there to help with the birth and had been adopted into the family, I assisted in the delivery. When Cora went into the final stages of labor, a thunderstorm came rolling out of the west. I watched from the window as the sky grew black with approaching thunder beings, the spirits who create these powerful storms. Each time Cora cried out, lightning would flash across the sky, followed by a clap of thunder that shook the house like a dog shaking off fleas. And when Dana slid into my hands and took her first breath, a bolt of lightning was hurled by a thunder being. It split the huge cottonwood that grew fifty feet away from their door. I stood with my adopted granddaughter in my hands as the blinding light filled the house, bathing all of us with his radiant presence. Dana did not cry. She did not whimper. As I looked out the window, I saw the cottonwood tree cleave in two and fall over.”
Rubbing her chin, which was sprinkled with white hairs, Sheila One Feather groused, “Well, there you go, Agnes. Even then, the thunder beings were telling you that as Dana was born, another of equal power was being born. It doesn’t matter that the year of birth is different. When two people are born on the same day and month, there is a connection between them. A sacred cottonwood splitting in two means two of something.” Her thick, bushy brows fell. “Now we know who the other one is. Rogan Fast Horse.”
“Yes, yes,” Agnes said, nodding her head. “As I stood there drying Dana off, before handing her to her mother, I didn’t realize what the thunder beings were trying to tell me. It didn’t dawn on me until recently.” She touched her head. “A little slow, this one.”
Laughter again permeated the hogan.
“Rogan was born in Kentucky. Dana was born at the Rosebud Reservation in South Dakota,” Kate Little Bird mused. “Otherwise, they are twin souls bound together in a spiral death dance.” Her full lips puckered and she looked around the circle. “Only one will survive their confrontation with one another. We all know that. I have seen other twin souls born, and every time, one of them dies early. Usually in a violent or tragic event. And it may or may not be due to the twin causing the death but they will meet and the Great Spirit will decide who lives and dies after that.”
“It is a battle between the light and darkness,” Doris reminded them. “And no one can foretell the outcome. Dana’s heart must be pure and powerful in faith in order to overcome Rogan’s dark ambitions.”
“She is the daughter of the Blue Heron Society,” Agnes declared. “It is in her blood, in her heart, to help Mother Earth and all her relations.”
“Well,” Sparrow Hawk grumped, “Rogan has plenty of power now. What’s to stop him from using the Storm Pipe again? A ceremonial object used for centuries accrues tremendous power. In the wrong hands, such a pipe could be directed to send a lethal blow. But even a ceremonial pipe must have time to recharge after such a feat. Most take six weeks, at least, after unleashing all their power.”
“True,” Agnes agreed. “I know the Storm Pipe. It will be that long before she can be used again by Rogan.”
“I hate the fact that one of our precious pipes is being misused like this,” Doris muttered. “They are our most powerful ceremonial tools, which is why the choosing of a pipe carrier takes so long. Years of watching a person, gauging their heart and intent, to ensure the pipe is used only for good, never for evil. Once the connection between carrier and pipe is established, the spirit within must obey the new owner. In this case, Rogan must have had Blue Wolf connect with the pipe, for he cannot.”
“That’s right.” Agnes sighed and wiped her mouth once more. “It is up to us to stop him and retrieve that pipe for our society. Dana is charged with doing this, whether she knows it or not.”
“And is she trained in the art of war in the other dimensions? Is she physically fit for such a mission?” Kate Little Bird inquired.
“Let me sing you a song that has always been with the Storm Pipe. Perhaps it may answer some of our questions.” Agnes cleared her voice and began to sing in a wobbling soprano.
“Come to me, pipe who works with the storms
I am your friend, I am your friend
Come to me, pipe of the storms
I am your friend, I am your friend
Wind mixes with fire, and Mother Earth cries
I am your friend, I am your friend
Pipe of storms, fire of the sky
Come to me, come to me
Thunder walks, the wind screams and blood flows
Come to me, come to me
Blue heron lies dead, iron hand moves, and the nighthawk rises
Thunder and iron hand join battle, fire holds the key
Come to me, come to me….”
The energy in the hogan throbbed as Agnes finished the sacred ceremonial song linked to the Storm Pipe.
“Fire holds the outcome,” Sparrow Hawk said. “That could easily mean nuclear annihilation for all of us!”
Patting the pipe bag she carried, Agnes said, “That is one possible way to interpret this song. I prefer to think that Dana Thunder Eagle will have the ability to work with the thunder beings, who bring fire in the form of lightning, in order to destroy Rogan and bring the Storm Pipe back to us.”
Sheila One Feather groaned. “Agnes, you live in a world of dreams. Few who have aspired to work with thunder beings are alive! For their power is as great as a nuclear blast. No human can physically withstand the surge in order to harness it for use.”
Shaking her head, Sparrow Hawk insisted, “No, fire means a nuclear war, not lightning, in this song.”
“What choice do we have, my sisters? Do we sit here deciding that the sacred song of the Storm Pipe makes us paralyzed with fear?” Agnes voice lowered with scorn. “I say we contact Dana and get her to help. You forget that if the thunder beings choose to work with and through her, they will protect her from their power and fury. She would become an open conduit for them to send their energy to Rogan and his followers, but she herself would remain unharmed.”
“Wait, wait!” Sparrow Hawk held up her palm. “What do you make of this ‘iron hand’ in the song? What does this have to do with the outcome?” She looked around at the group.
Doris cleared her throat and gave Agnes a significant look. When the older woman nodded, Doris told them, “I have the answer, my sisters. Agnes is aware that one of my grandsons, a Cheyenne Lakota, carries the name Iron Hand.” She held Agnes’s gaze. “I believe that my grandson, Chase Iron Hand, will work with Dana to secure the Storm Pipe from Rogan and his women. And Chase has strong ties with you, Agnes. You, as our leader, are charged with getting him to help us in our dilemma.”
“You are right,” Agnes said. “Chase is a member of the Blue Turtle Medicine Society, a group of men and women who are powerful psychic warriors and healers. He is not only trained in the art of warfare and protection on the energy level, but he’s also just recently left Delta Force and the U.S. Army.” She gave them a narrowed look. “Chase is the ‘iron hand’ referred to in the song. As I speak, he is up on a bluff on my reservation crying for a vision.” She lifted her head, her voice becoming strong and clear. “He came, unannounced, to my hogan a week ago. He asked me to prepare him for a vision quest. His time in the army has left him wanting. He came home to hear what the Yei, our gods and goddesses, have decreed that he become from this time onward. Chase Iron Hand is a man of honor, with a military education and training. I can ask him for his help. Who better to pair with Dana in this effort?”
Sheila One Feather snorted. “Indeed? Does Chase know what he’d be getting into?”
“No,” Agnes said pertly, “but he will soon enough. And so will Dana.”
CHAPTER FOUR
DANA MOANED IN HER SLEEP and tossed the sheet aside. Brow wrinkling, she shifted to her stomach, stretching her arm toward Hal’s side of the bed. The dream that gripped her was the same one she’d had two nights in a row. In it, thunderclouds smudged out the dusky light, looming closer and closer, like angry brooding faces. A chill moved down Dana’s spine and she rolled onto her back, dragging her eyes open.
Vaguely aware of the sweat trickling between her breasts, she pressed her hand against her cotton gown.
“Hal?” Her voice was thick with sleep. Husky with hope.
No…he’s dead. Two years ago, her mind whispered back to her. Tears formed in Dana’s eyes and she shut them tightly. How long was this cycle of grief and nightmares going to last?
The bedroom was silent. It was June in Ohio, and she purposely had kept the window near her bed open. The air cooled her overheated skin, and Dana focused on the crickets chirping happily outside the window. Now and then, frogs croaked. The natural sounds soothed her fractured state of confusion, grief and loss.
It was more than missing Hal. She missed her mother, too. Groaning, Dana tried to escape the questions that often haunted her. Had Cora and Hal suffered terribly after being attacked? Had they died slowly? What were their last thoughts? Panicky ones, probably. Rubbing her moist eyes, Dana flopped onto her back and stared up at the darkened ceiling, those questions like knives assailing her heart and gut.
As she rested her arm across her closed eyes, loneliness snaked through her. The only thing that helped assuage this overwhelming pain was the personal pipe she carried. Reaching out, she found the deerskin bag that lay on the pillow next to hers. Hal’s pillow. He was gone, but the Nighthawk Pipe had given her solace on nights like this. Pulling the pipe bag to her breast as she rolled to her side, Dana closed her eyes, tears matting her lashes.
“Nighthawk, help me. I hurt so much,” she whispered, pain making her voice hoarse. “My heart feels as if it’s going to burst with loneliness.”
Dana felt a warmth begin to emanate from the long, rectangular bag. From the spirit that lived within the pipe, she knew—the one she had bonded with when she was young. The spirit answered her plea and sent waves of healing warmth into her heart. Holding the pipe bag securely against her, Dana mentally gave thanks for this unconditional love.
Like rivulets, the warmth spread from the center of her chest outward, flowing throughout her body. With the healing energy washing through her, Dana felt an incredible sense of peace and wellbeing. Nighthawk’s love was dissolving her fear and her anguish.
Dana released a tremulous sigh. Sleep would come now, and with it, escape from the awful feelings that had inhabited her since the loss of her mother and Hal.
Cetan, the Lakota word for Nighthawk, had been her friend, teacher and companion since she was twelve years old. Twenty-nine now, Dana never took for granted the energy the pipe had, the power from the Great Spirit that flowed through it to her. It was always a miracle, and she felt humble and grateful to have such a comfort in times of great suffering. Her mother had taught her that the ancient ways would always sustain those who walked the Red Road of the heart. Now, Dana’s faith in those beliefs was healing her bit by bit from the terrible trauma that had occurred two years ago.
Cetan was her best friend, a spirit companion on the unseen levels, and had supported her through this tumultuous time. Dana gently squeezed the pipe bag where the head of the pipe rested in a white rabbit-fur pouch to protect it from being broken. I love you so much, Cetan. Thank you and the Great Spirit for sending me this healing energy. I don’t know what I’d have done without your help and love.
No less than I love you, Cetan replied telepathically.
Dana smiled tenderly as she snuggled into her goose down pillow. When the pipe spoke to her, it brought feelings of love and nurturance, plus a rich texture of other emotions. Over the years, Dana had come to realize that mental telepathy was more than a concept. When a pipe was given to a human being, an energetic umbilical cord of trust and love was forged between that individual and the spirit within the red, carved stone.
Cetan possessed marvelous powers of healing. It was a pipe of purpose; anything Dana had requested of it over the years had been granted. Sometimes, Dana had allowed an ailing person to hold the pipe bag, and miraculously, Cetan would send the healing energy of the Great Spirit to the patient. Dana had witnessed many beautiful moments of healing and cure with Cetan’s help.
A pipe carrier was there to serve her village. Since the White Man had come to Turtle Island—North America—the bands had been disbursed. But those who knew Dana was a personal pipe carrier sought her out and asked for help.
Dana understood the privilege and responsibility of being a pipe carrier, and she always smoked the pipe for each person who requested that she do so. Connecting through ceremony and prayer to the other worlds, she could help direct special energy to that person, place, animal or thing. Her clients were always grateful and would contact her afterward to tell her of the wondrous changes in their condition. All Dana asked of them in return was to share food, blankets or clothes with those who had less than they, as payment for the pipe’s services. Pipe carriers never took money for what they did; they were emissaries of the Great Spirit, and all requests were met with compassion and love. Dana needed no personal reward, for just being a pipe carrier was a reward in itself. She took that responsibility seriously.
Another sigh slipped from her lips as she spiraled down into oblivion. The wings of Cetan beckoned her…. Dana knew what would happen as she nestled in the soft, warm, downy feathers: sleep, blessed sleep without dreams or nightmares, would come. Just to sleep deeply, undisturbed, was a great gift.
This time, though, was different. As Dana slept, she did dream. But this was no ordinary dream. In it, she watched the purple color of dawn approach. Soon, Father Sun would rise—a sacred moment she always absorbed with joy. Dawn was one of the most powerful times of the day.
Out of the red-violet dawn, a dark shape came, flying directly toward her. The wings of the bird were curved and long. Dana watched in fascination as the winged one drew closer. Her heart beat in anticipation, not fear.
As the great blue heron materialized from the shadows, a strange sense of elation soared through Dana. The red-and-gold colors of sunrise were filling the sky when the blue-gray water bird called to her.
Come, Daughter! Ride upon me! I will take you west. Come, mount me and we will fly together!
The heron cocked its head, its black eyes sparkling with life. In the dream, Dana moved forward to mount its broad back. Without fear, she settled astride the bird and gripped the soft feathers of its long, thin neck. The great wings flapped, and Dana felt the power of the heron thrumming through her as it turned and began its journey toward the southwest. Where were they going? A sense of adventure and happiness filled Dana.
The landscape changed remarkably beneath them. Dana gasped as she recognized the red desert of the Four Corners area. It was the Navajo Reservation, where her adopted grandmother lived! How many times had she come here to visit Agnes Spider Woman? So many, especially when she was a child growing up. Every year, her family had driven from South Dakota to Arizona to visit her Grandmother Agnes. How Dana had looked forward to those warm, happy visits.
As she saw the red desert dotted with juniper, cypress and piñon trees, an ache started in her heart. An ache of loneliness for her grandmother, who loved her fiercely. Since the murders of her mother and Hal, Dana had run away, and hadn’t once gone to visit Agnes. No, like a coward, she’d run east and immersed herself in teaching children, trying to forget her pain, to forget her past….
The heron flew over an eight-sided hogan, built of long timbers with mud in between. It was surrounded by tall, mighty cottonwoods to give it shade from the brutal summer heat. Dana instantly recognized the box canyon with its red-and-white sandstone and limestone walls. This hogan was where Grandma Agnes lived. And standing outside, in a long, dark-blue cotton skirt and long-sleeved red velvet blouse, and a heavy necklace of turquoise and silver, was her adopted grandmother. She was waiting for Dana.
The heron landed gently. Dana slid off the bird’s back and she thanked it. Turning, she saw her grandmother smiling warmly, her arms opening.
“Grandma!” Dana cried, and she ran up the red clay slope to where Agnes stood.
In the dream, Dana felt her grandmother’s thin, strong arms wrap around her. As soon as they embraced, Dana began to cry—deep, wrenching sobs welling up from within her. Agnes murmured her name and, with one trembling hand, gently caressed her hair. She understood Dana’s grief.
For the first time since Cora and Hal’s death, Dana felt totally loved and protected. She had had to be so strong after their deaths. All the paperwork to fill out, all the meetings with the county sheriff, the detectives…It had been an endless nightmare of ongoing pain for her. No one knew who had killed them. They still didn’t know. That bothered her all the time.
“Grandmother…” Dana pulled back from her embrace to gaze at her. “It’s so good to see you again. I’m so sorry I didn’t come home after…well, after.”
“Grandchild, do not worry,” Agnes whispered, smiling into Dana’s eyes. “I understand. What is important is that when I asked you to come, you did. That is all that matters.” She touched Dana’s wet cheeks, her fingers shaky. “Tears are good. They are cleansing and healing. You keep crying. Better out than in.” She gave Dana a luminous smile.
Stepping back, Dana held her grandmother’s thin, worn hand. “Are you all right?”
“Of course. I have come to you in your dream to ask you to visit me. When you awake, you must pack and drive out here immediately. I need your help, and will tell you why once you arrive.” Agnes held Dana’s startled look. “You will come, won’t you, Granddaughter?”
“Of course, Grandma. I promise.”
“Good. Come to my hogan. Be here by the full moon.”
“I’ll be here, Grandma. I will come home.”
As soon as Dana whispered those words, she felt herself spiraling downward. The scene with her grandmother dissolved. Accustomed to the sensation, Dana knew her astral body was coming home to her physical form….
Sunlight slanted through the open window, filling Dana’s bedroom with brilliance. She rolled onto her back, her arm still wrapped around the pipe bag. Gently, Dana placed it on the pillow again. The dream was alive and vibrant within her. Sitting up and sliding her feet from beneath the covers, she wriggled her toes on the thick, dark-green carpet.
Outside, a robin was singing melodiously. The sky was light-blue and cloudless, the breeze fragrant with the scent of flower blossoms. The world looked different to Dana as she stared wonderingly out the window. It was 8:00 a.m. on a Saturday morning…and the vivid dream became a wake-up call.
Running her palm across her purple duvet cover, Dana closed her eyes and allowed the full beauty of the dream and of her grandma’s love to shimmer through her. Her heart opened like a flower, and she drew in a tremulous breath. Home. She was going home. Agnes had asked her to come visit.
As she opened her eyes, Dana felt relief from the guilt she’d carried since the murders. Her grandmother had asked her to come and stay with her. Instead, Dana had run like a coward and hidden in the white man’s world.
The familiar odor of burning sage came to her. Oh! How she loved the smell of ceremonial smudge, being wafted to cleanse her of any negative thoughts and feelings. Dana could sense her adopted grandmother in astral form nearby. Even though she couldn’t see her with her eyes, Dana felt her loving and powerful presence. She had been taught astral travel at an early age. It was an easy way to visit a friend or loved one anywhere, in the blink of an eye. The sage was her grandmother’s calling card. A welcome one.
Lifting her head, Dana looked around her small bedroom. “I’m coming, Grandma. I’m coming home to you….” she said aloud.
Dana could swear she heard her grandmother’s cackling chuckle, felt her hand rest gently on her shoulder. The sensation was comforting. Strengthening. For too long, Dana had been off the reservation, disconnected from Mother Earth and all her relations. She’d run to the empty world of the white man instead.
Not happy about her choices, but knowing she couldn’t change the past, Dana slowly got to her feet. The warmth of the sun embraced her as she walked to the curtained window. Seeing the robin singing in the Jonathan apple tree made Dana smile.
Her grandmother was near. She could feel her standing at her side, her arm wrapped lovingly across her shoulders. A sharp longing to be back on Native American land plunged through Dana.
There was such a difference in energy, living on a reservation versus in the mechanized world of whites. Indians still had an invisible connection, like an umbilical cord, between themselves and the land. Mother Earth pumped energy and love into the “children” who were still attached to her. As a result, Native Americans cared for and honored the earth. They gave daily prayers of gratitude for being alive, for being nourished and fed. They were reverent toward their true mother, for without her, no one would be alive.
“Yes…” Dana whispered, her throat suddenly closing with tears. “I’ll leave today, Grandma. I’ll call the school and get someone to fulfill my contract.” As a teacher, she would miss her children. Dana felt badly about that. Right now, she needed healing and help. “I’m coming home, back to where I belong.” Even though she was born and raised in South Dakota, the southwest was her favorite place to live. Many times in the past, she’d spent wonderful moments with Agnes in Arizona and had come to call it her real home over time.
As she turned from the window, she noticed something on the carpet. Frowning, Dana padded to the end of the bed and picked it up. It was a blue-gray feather—a feather from a great blue heron.
How she had missed the daily magic and synchronicity in her life. Gazing at the feather as she straightened, Dana understood that the dream had been more than just a pleasant experience. The great blue heron was her grandmother’s spirit guide. And Agnes had sent her here to call Dana home.
Caressing the feather with her fingers, Dana understood the gravity of the invitation. Finally, after a two-year-long dark night of the soul, she was going home….
CHAPTER FIVE
“I’VE BEEN EXPECTING YOU, Chase Iron Hand. Enter.” Agnes waved into her hogan. Although not related to him, he had visited and lived with her as a young boy. Chase saw Agnes as his adopted grandmother and she loved being that for him. He had just come off the bluff after a four-day vision quest, and taken the sweat lodge that must precede his speaking about his vision with her. Sunlight lanced in the doorway where he stood, awaiting her invitation.
He was dressed now in a white cotton shirt, the long sleeves rolled up to just below his elbows. The jeans he wore hugged his strong, powerful body. Agnes was pleased to see that Chase wore the black buffalo horn choker around his thick neck, an abalone disk attached to it. She had given it to him as a departing gift when he was a young man about to go to West Point Military Academy.
Chase’s military short black hair, still damp from the sweat, gleamed with blue highlights. He had obvious Indian features, a square face and high cheekbones, and a restless gaze constantly moving around to check out his territory. Golden cougar eyes. Agnes was pleased with Chase’s alertness. It was what had kept him alive during his years in Delta Force.
Turning to prop the door open to welcome in the morning air, Chase smelled the wonderful fragrance of sage. He knew that each morning, as the sun rose, Grandmother lit the sage in a rainbow-colored abalone shell, stood in her doorway and sang the sun up. The white smoke was healing and uplifting in a spiritual sense. It got one clean and in harmony for the coming day.
“Come sit.” Agnes gestured for her tall, well-built young man to sit on a red-black-and-white wool rug she had woven fifty years earlier. She watched as Chase moved with the boneless grace of a cougar to settle opposite her, legs crossed. She accepted the dried, wrapped bundle of sage that he handed her. That was a sacred calling card, regardless of nation—a gift of sacred sage from one party to another. It was a sign of respect.
Searching Chase’s eyes, Agnes saw that the four days of the vision quest had exhausted him. But that was the point of a quest: to wear down the physical body and mind enough so that the Great Spirit could talk to the supplicant’s heart in dream language.
When Agnes handed him a cup of steaming sage tea in a chipped blue pottery mug, he took it with a slight nod of his head. Chase had not eaten nor drunk anything in four days. Agnes watched as pleasure wreathed his coppery face, his eyes closing slightly as he sipped the fragrant, life-infusing tea. Sage cleansed a person physically, mentally, emotionally and spiritually. It was one of the most powerful members of the plant kingdom.
“This hits the spot, Grandmother,” Chase growled. “Thank you.” He savored the medicinal taste as the tea trickled down his gullet into his shrunken stomach and brought him back to life.
Pleased, Agnes lifted a beat-up copper teakettle and placed it nearby so that Chase could drink all he wanted. A person coming off a vision quest was dehydrated, no question. And sage tea was the perfect way to replace lost fluids. “I’m glad.”
Without hesitation, Chase drank two more cups of the tepid tea. After pouring a fourth cup, he looked over at the aged woman, whose shoulders were drawn back with unconscious pride. “I’ve missed sage tea,” he admitted, his voice raspy. “I’ve missed a lot, I think.”
Even in her nineties, Agnes Spider Woman was beautiful. Elegant. Chase wondered if he’d ever find a woman who had these inner qualities that shone through like sunlight, as they did in Agnes. At thirty years of age, he had given up hope of finding such a woman, convinced he had only bad luck with the opposite sex.
“You needed to leave the reservation to find yourself, Chase. There is nothing wrong with that.” Agnes spoke gently, seeing pain cloud his golden eyes momentarily. “We each have a journey we must take. And there are many tributaries to the Red Road, paths that we are called to take from time to time. Joining the army to feel your way through the white man’s world was one you had to take. I understand this.” Agnes watched Chase nod, his mouth twisting in a grimace. His face was deeply weathered by time he’d spent in harsh outdoor elements. Agnes knew that Delta Force was a very specialized unit whose members trained hard physically. That showed in Chase’s forearms, where the muscles jumped each time he lifted the cup of sage tea in his large, callused hands.
“Tell me of your vision,” Agnes entreated, folding her hands on the dark-blue velvet skirt she wore, her legs crossed beneath the fabric.
Chase wrapped his hands around the warm mug as it sat on his left knee. Closing his eyes, he allowed the vision to congeal before him once more. “I saw a great blue heron come flying out of this thunderstorm that was stalking me, Grandmother. And at her side flew a nighthawk. Lightning danced around the three of us, and I was sure I was going to be struck by it. The heron landed in front of me, a lightning bolt in her beak. The nighthawk landed next to the heron. Before my eyes, the nighthawk turned into a beautiful young woman.” Chase opened his eyes and grinned boyishly at his composed teacher. “She was a looker, Grandmother. Black hair and the most startling cinnamon-colored eyes I’d ever seen. They were the color of fresh, reddish-brown earth plowed up after a hard winter.”
Agnes nodded. “And did this young woman speak to you?”
“Yes,” Chase murmured, sipping the tea. “She asked for my help. I said how can I help you? She told me to go to the red rock country where you live, and meet me here on the next full moon.” Chase frowned. “And then the woman turned into you, Grandmother.” Shrugging, he said, “That was the end of my vision.”
“A good vision,” Agnes said, pleased.
Chase waited. It would do him no good to press her for an explanation of his vision. Patience was one of his strengths, so he waited. Outside, he could hear the merry chirp of a robin, and farther away, the trilling of a cardinal. He had hearing like a cougar, which was his spirit guide.
“I must tell you a story.” Agnes filled Chase in on the Storm Pipe being stolen from the Blue Heron Society two years earlier. When she mentioned Rogan Fast Horse, she saw Chase’s eyes instantly narrow with rage. His mouth thinned, as if he were struggling to hold back a barrage of toxic comments. Oh, she could feel Chase’s reaction, and because she was clairvoyant, she saw the angry red colors swirling in his aura, confirming his reaction.
Flexing his scarred fist, Chase waited until Agnes finished telling him the full story. Then silence fell in the hogan.
Taking in a deep, ragged breath at last, Chase expelled it. Agnes tilted her head to one side, like a bird listening for a worm.
“Just before I went to West Point, I met Rogan at a powwow,” Chase told her. “He cheated in the bow and arrow competition to win. I saw him do it. And so did the elders who were the judges. When they announced him as winner and not me, I challenged Fast Horse, because I wasn’t going to let him get away with it. The elders were wary of his sorcerer’s powers. Afraid that he would harm them or their families if they didn’t let him win.”
“But you weren’t afraid.”
“I was, Grandmother, but I also knew what was right. In that instant, I felt as if the Great Spirit had chosen to work through me because the elders were too afraid to confront Rogan about his cheating.” Looking down at his hands, his blunt nails and the thick calluses that covered his palms, Chase said softly, “There was a knife fight.” He touched his brow with his index finger. “I cut Rogan across his forehead. He bears the scar to this day. I won the knife match and he swore to curse me, to be my mortal enemy until the day I died.”
“Powerful words to invoke.”
Shrugging, Chase looked around the shadowy confines of the hogan. The woodstove was in the center, the metal pipe leading up through the top of the mud-and-timber roof. “Rogan doesn’t know humility. I taught it to him that day. I won the match and the rewards. I knew he was a sorcerer, but I also had faith that the Great Spirit would protect me from Rogan’s rage.”
“Did he?”
“Yes,” Chase said, a note of sarcasm in his deep voice, “after four years at West Point, I volunteered and was allowed into Delta Force for eight years.” He looked at his right arm, which bore many small, puckered scars. “Other than getting caught down in South America by rebels, held prisoner and tortured for six months before I managed to escape, I don’t think Rogan got to me.”
“He did not,” Agnes confirmed with knowledge and conviction. “And I am sorry you had to suffer so much in the army, Chase.” She gestured to his arm.
“It wasn’t fun,” he agreed grimly. Meeting her watery eyes, he asked, “So Dana Thunder Eagle must go after Rogan herself? I’ve fought him, Grandmother, and there isn’t a woman alive who could do what you’re asking of her.”
“We of the society realize this. That is why the Great Spirit sent you that vision. You are the other key to us reclaiming the Storm Pipe.”
Chase allowed her words to filter through him. Closing his eyes, he replayed the vision again in his head. Yes, she was accurately interpreting the dream. Sighing, he looked at her once more. Agnes sat there resplendent in her agelessness, the sun touching the silver strands of her flyaway hair. The lines in her face were a road map of her life. Chase knew she was a tough old buzzard, and her lean, thin body proclaimed her power regardless of her age. Admiring Agnes for her strength and great, warm heart, he offered, “Grandmother, I’m tired. I just left the army. I’ve been fighting the bad guys for so many years. Well, I’m just…tired.” Chase didn’t like admitting it, but he was. Six months of daily torture had reduced him to a level he never wanted to admit to anyone. And he needed time to reclaim his tortured spirit, heal from the awful, daily beatings, and try to become whole again.
“I understand,” Agnes murmured. Reaching out, she placed her thin fingers on Chase’s arm and squeezed it. “That is why you came home. Home to find your true calling. Dana must be toughened up not only physically, but to tap into her warrior side emotionally, mentally and spiritually.” Agnes lifted her hand and poked her index finger in Chase’s direction. “I need you to turn her into a warrioress, capable of reclaiming the Storm Pipe.”
“You want me to teach her the art of war? That’s all? And I won’t have to do anything else other than be her teacher?” That appealed to Chase under the circumstances. Right now, he was at a low ebb. The fact he’d allowed himself to be captured by the rebels was humiliating enough. But to be tortured and finally break, giving away secrets he’d sworn never to divulge, was a blow that had broken his spirit.
When he’d finally made his escape and got home, he’d left the army, defeated and wounded on every level. He’d put good men’s lives on the line because he’d squealed like a pig going to slaughter. Chase wasn’t proud of himself. And right now, he felt mortally wounded spiritually, which was why he’d come back home to Agnes in the first place.
And now, both she and the vision he quested for were asking him to reconnect with violence and war. Feeling as if he could teach this woman was enough of a demand on him. Chase didn’t even want to attempt to take on Rogan right now. It just wasn’t in his spirit to do so. “I can train her,” he stated. “But I won’t go with her to retrieve the pipe.”
Nodding, Agnes said, “Then that is enough.”
“I’m not a soft man, Grandmother. I’m hard. The training I’ve had is brutal. I don’t know how to be gentle or cajoling. Dana sounds soft. Unprepared. If I become her teacher she may quit. Do you realize that she could walk away, because she doesn’t have the heart or passion for this mission you want her to undertake?”
“Choices are always before us.”
“The kind of training needed to ensure her survival against Rogan will be harsh,” Chase warned grimly. “I won’t coddle her, Grandmother. I can’t. You’re saying we have five weeks to prepare Dana for this mission before the Storm Pipe has recharged enough to kill again under Rogan’s direction. Five weeks. That’s just not enough time.”
“It has to be,” Agnes declared. “You saw Dana in your vision. I know she is a beautiful woman and I think you are swayed by that. Beauty can be strong. A pretty face is not always weak, as you assume.” Touching her blouse above her heart, Agnes added, “In here, I know she has the stamina and courage to answer the challenge you throw at her.”
“So, weaver of people’s lives, when do I meet my student?” Chase knew that Agnes had spider medicine. She had the power to combine people and situations together when she felt it best. Trusting her, he acknowledged that spider medicine was like any other kind: good or bad, depending upon how the energy expressed itself through the individual. And Agnes was one of the purest-hearted people Chase had ever known. He trusted her more than anyone else in his world. His father had been a reservation policeman until he was killed trying to stop a bank robbery. His mother had died six months later of a broken heart, leaving Chase to be passed around from one relative to another until he was old enough to go to West Point. His time with his adopted grandmother Agnes had left the deepest impression.
“Tomorrow, Dana arrives. She will come and you will introduce yourself to her.”
Though he had his doubts, Chase said nothing, just nodded.
“The two of you will work as a team here in the box canyon. There is a small hogan farther up where you’ll stay. The winter sheep hogan has everything you’ll require. Dana will need your brawn and your cleverness as a warrior, Chase. You will pass your experience on to her so that she can confront Rogan and take the pipe back.”
Even though Chase had never met Dana, his protective nature was already at work within him. Oh, he knew that women could be warriors; he’d seen his share on the res, growing up, as well as while he was serving in the U.S. Army. Still, that didn’t erase the age-old conviction that was alive and well within him: that women and children were to be cherished, loved, protected and defended. Chase knew he’d have to readjust this mindset to work Dana into a tough, well-trained warrior. In five weeks. That seemed an impossible time frame.
But when Chase saw the hope burning in Grandmother’s eyes, he kept his worries to himself.
He did not want to disappoint his extended family, especially this most sacred of women elders. He’d already disappointed the U.S. Army, and humiliation still ran hot through him. Clearly, the Great Spirit was setting him up for another test. Perhaps by training this unknown woman, he might salvage his pride, his manhood, and learn to live with what he’d done while imprisoned in South America.
When Agnes passed some homemade fry bread to Chase, and a bowl of fragrant lamb stew, he thanked her. Fasting for four days had left him feeling like a hungry cougar. Dipping the dark, whole-grain bread into the bowl filled with thick chunks of lamb, onions, brown gravy and potatoes, he said a prayer thanking all those who had given their lives so that he might eat.
The moment he took a bite, Chase savored the flavors. Yes, he was home. Finally. It had been a circuitous route, he thought, as he swiftly ate to stop the gnawing in his stomach. Restless, he’d left the res because he was curious about the white man’s world. And he’d tasted it—at West Point and for eight years after graduating. Now, because he’d failed as a warrior, because he’d broken under torture and interrogation, he’d crawled to Agnes, his pride stopping him from going back to Grandmother Doris on his home reservation. Instead, he’d come here to Agnes on the Navajo reservation to reclaim his shattered spirit. He hoped he would lead a productive, honorable life once more.
As he ate the succulent lamb stew, Chase savored the flavors of rosemary and marjoram. Each bite was more than just a physical gift to his body, it was nourishment for his wounded soul. Already, Chase could feel his battered spirits beginning to lift.
A ray of hope threaded through him. He stopped eating for a moment and felt the tenuous emotion touch his war-ravaged spirit. Healing was taking place. Humbled as never before, Chase finished his stew. Agnes was a powerful medicine woman, and he knew she’d said healing prayers over the food. And he was on the receiving end of her loving hands and heart.
“This meal is wonderful, Grandmother. Thank you….”
Smiling, Agnes murmured, “I’ll get you another bowl from the kettle. You’re hungry and too thin. You need to regain the weight you lost, Chase.”
Watching the elderly woman slowly rise, with the elegance of a great blue heron lifting her wings, Chase admired her lean, graceful form. Agnes Spider Woman was a bright beacon of hope in his life right now, and he was grateful to have such a positive role model. He didn’t know how he felt about Dana, and that would be a challenge to him. Women weren’t his strong suit and never had been. Tomorrow, he’d have to start dealing with one.
Ordinarily, Chase would have said he couldn’t do it, but with the support and help of a powerful elder who believed in him, he would try.
CHAPTER SIX
CHASE SQUATTED on the smooth red sandstone ledge above the winter hogan. A nearby juniper hid his presence. The sun was hot, beating down on his bare shoulders, and he soaked it in like a man starving for life. He’d been six months in a green hell where there was no direct sunlight. Only rain, cold, and high humidity, all conspiring to break his spirit.
His gaze swept down the escarpment toward the hogan near the wall of the canyon. Restlessly, he sifted the fine red sand through his scarred fingers. The grit felt good. He liked having physical contact with Mother Earth. It was comforting to him. A breeze stirred, moving along the thousand-foot-high rock wall behind him, rustling the cypress and piñon trees.
What was Dana Thunder Eagle like? He’d seen her face in the vision, but he knew dream and reality could be very different. He frowned pensively. He hadn’t told Agnes how powerfully drawn he’d been to the woman in his vision. Hadn’t been able to tell her. It would be his secret. He watched the red grains of sand catch the sunlight, sparkle and then drift to the smooth rock ledge he was sitting on. Of course, Agnes could read minds, so he figured the elder already knew. Maybe it wasn’t important. But it was to him. Women had been a thorn in his side, not a pleasure. Oh, he’d had plenty of one-night stands, had found sexual gratification with a number of partners. But he’d never met a woman who made his world stand still.
Snorting softly, Chase decided that his parents must have had something very special that he would never experience himself. They’d been so much in love. As a child, he’d thought all husbands and wives had devoted relationships like that.
He’d been wrong to think true love was the norm. Going to West Point at age eighteen, Chase very rapidly got ensnared in the dating scene. Everyone wanted to stake a claim on the handsome red man who had broken through the white-males-only barrier. Women danced around him like butterflies, there for the taking if he wanted them. He’d been like a beggar in a candy store, grabbing every beauty who wanted to bed him. And for a while, he’d thought he was in a sexual heaven of sorts. But by his sophomore year, the one-night stands were becoming the same; the faces were a blur and the act meaningless beyond selfish gratification and release. Chase broke off the relationships because they were emotionally empty meetings of body only. He wanted more. Much more and never had found it yet.
The wind gusted sharply, making Chase lift his head. The sky was a blue vault with white horse’s mane clouds stretching across it.
She was here. He sensed it. Dana Thunder Eagle had arrived.
Grandmother Agnes lived at the mouth of this deep, rectangular canyon. The winter hogan was invisible from her summer home. Chase knew that Dana would spend at least an hour talking with her adopted grandmother, to receive her marching orders on how to rescue the Storm Pipe. The elder would then send Dana up here, around the bend of the canyon, to stay for the next five weeks. With him.
The winter hogan was a lot smaller than the summer one, making it much easier to heat during the biting cold and heavy snows. The small potbellied stove was also used for cooking. Navajos were practical about the extreme change of seasons on their large reservation. Still, even though Chase and Dana would sleep on opposite sides of the eight-sided structure, it was a very scant space.
A red-tailed hawk shrieked as it circled the tabletop mesa above the canyon. Chase followed the bird’s lazy spiral and enjoyed seeing its rust-colored tail. Only an adult redtail, five years old or more, had that eye-catching hue on its tail feathers. Chase’s mind—and focus—went back to Dana. What was she like? Did she have the right stuff to undertake this deadly mission? Already, he was worried. Five weeks was an impossibly short time to get Dana ready for such a serious undertaking.
Immersed in his thoughts, Chase felt time disappear. He understood that the magic of focus created this out-of-time sense of being. It felt good to Chase, and familiar. And before he knew it, he saw a tall, lithe woman in blue jeans and a white blouse, her hair in long, thick braids, walking up the canyon toward the winter hogan. She carried a red canvas bag in each hand. On her back was a dark-green knapsack. Even burdened as she was, she walked with pride.
Instantly alert, Chase studied her minutely. Knowing he was hidden, he felt the euphoria of a stalker and hunter as he watched the woman draw closer. His heart began to beat more strongly in his chest. Reddish highlights danced in her hair as the sunlight caught and reflected it. There was a deerskin pouch tied on the left side of her black-and-silver concha belt. Chase knew it would contain a mixture of sacred herbs that she would gift to the spirits of this place. One always bade the neighbors hello, like a person inviting another over for a congenial cup of coffee.
As much as Chase wanted to stay distant from this woman who was supposed to save the Storm Pipe, he couldn’t. As she lifted her head to scan the area, behind the hogan and up on the sandstone skirt, where he hid in the shadows, Chase saw a fearless quality in her wide, cinnamon-colored eyes. There was a stubborn angle to her chin, even though her face was smooth and oval. Her Indian heritage showed in her high cheekbones. Her nose was straight, with fine, thin nostrils, reminding him of a well-bred horse.
The horse image suited her, Chase decided, watching her approach the hogan and set her luggage down. Dana was perhaps five foot nine or ten inches in height, with a slender figure. As she pushed open the wooden door, which faced east, Chase noted that every one of her movements was graceful, like those of a mustang.
Taking in a ragged breath, he remained still and watched Dana disappear with her luggage inside the hogan. When she returned minutes later, she stood outside the door and took some of the sacred herbs from the pouch she carried. Facing east, she raised her hand above her head and slowly turned, stopping at each of the major directions until she’d completed her clockwise circle. Chase saw her throw the herbs into the air, the breeze catching and scattering them.
Good. At least she knew protocol. But then, if she was a personal pipe carrier being trained to carry an old and powerful ceremonial pipe, Dana would automatically contact the local spirits of a place. One never came to a strange area without offering a gift and requesting permission to stay. Omitting this critical step was considered rude and wrong.
Chase knew Agnes had directed Dana to climb to meet him, her trainer and teacher. As his eyes narrowed upon her uplifted face, he felt her energy. Indeed, Dana was beautiful. Just as lovely as she’d been in his vision. A part of him groaned in protest, because he was drawn to beauty like a honeybee to a flower in full bloom.
He watched patiently as Dana made her way up onto a ledge of sandstone, and then to another. The walls of the box canyon rose upward like a multilayered cake. Squatting on the third level, Chase saw that Dana had rolled up her sleeves, and her well-worn jeans couldn’t hide her femininity. Her long legs seemed to go on forever. A slow grin tugged at the corners of his mouth. Any man would be proud to have her as his woman.
Just as quickly as the thought seeped into his mind, Chase brutally pushed it out. This was business. All business. Besides, Dana was a recent widow. There was no room in her life for an emotional relationship. Maybe he could remold her grief into a driving strength, and a motivation for success in this mission. Perhaps…but that would mean wounding her all over again, and Chase had no desire to do that.
The afternoon air was filled with the scents of the desert—the medicinal tang of the sagebrush, the sharp wine scent of juniper in bloom and the warm, woody fragrance of the nearby cedar. The blouse Dana wore stuck to her form, outlining her full breasts and long torso. Her braids swung rhythmically as she moved. Sweat made her skin glisten. Her full mouth was set with determination.
Chase watched her come ever closer. Calling on his cougar ally from the other dimension, he ordered him to guide her to within a few feet of the juniper he crouched behind.
Like a lamb being led to slaughter, Dana intuitively picked up on his spirit guardian’s cajoling request. Trained medicine people, via clairvoyance or clairsentience, could usually detect a spirit guide, their own or another’s. That was how they communicated with the invisible realms. And sure enough, Dana turned and headed straight toward Chase without knowing he was hiding there. She had a lot to learn, he realized.
Dana blew out a breath of air, realizing how quickly she was tiring from the climb up the rear wall of the box canyon. Clairvoyantly, she’d seen a yellow cougar come out and meet her. He’d greeted her warmly and asked her to follow him. Sensing no negativity around the guardian, Dana complied. It wasn’t an unusual request; all places had spirit guardians, so she thought little about its greeting or request.
Having lived not far above sea level for the last two years, she felt the six-thousand-foot elevation of the desert plateau taking a toll on her. Her breath rasped as she climbed ever closer to a stand of juniper on the next tier of the sandstone formation.
Somewhere in the back of her mind, Dana recalled dreaming of this place. As a child, she’d come often to visit Grandma Agnes, and had played hour after hour upon these smooth red rock skirts. She’d been like a wild mustang filly, and the elevation hadn’t bothered her at all. Now it did.
But the warmth of the sun, the fragrance of the trees and brush, all conspired to relax her after the three-day drive from Ohio. Oh! How Dana had missed all of this—the wildness, the freedom, the silence of Mother Earth surrounding her. What had made her think she could ever be happy in the Midwest? Dana frowned as she recalled again how she’d run away like a coward after the deaths of the two people she loved most in the world. Her adopted grandmother was right: she needed to come home. To be here. To live here once again.
This canyon had always been a place of joy and healing for Dana. She used to play hide-and-seek with her friends up here where the trees grew. Fond memories flowed back, sweet as honey. The wide blue sky, the thin wisps of cirrus that reminded her of threads on a weaving loom, and the faraway song of a cardinal all conspired to dazzle her with the intense beauty of the moment. She should never have left. It seemed like such a stupid, knee-jerk reaction now.
Dana halted near the first juniper and slowly turned east, toward the winter hogan. Gasping for breath, she pressed her hand against her pounding heart. Perspiration on her temples dampened strands of her hair. Home. She was finally home. Back where she belonged. As she stood there, embraced by a cooling breeze, and hearing the cry of a red-tailed hawk, Dana felt much old grief sinking out of her, flowing from her body and into Mother Earth.
Yes, the grief that had encased her was finally shedding, like an old, worn snake skin. Closing her eyes, she took a deep, cleansing breath into her lungs, and felt so much of what she’d carried since their deaths miraculously dissolve. Perhaps the biggest mistake she’d made was not staying with Agnes. Her grandmother had pleaded with her to come home, to live with her after the tragedy. Dana regretted not having listened to the wise elder who loved her so fiercely.
As she opened her eyes, Dana inhaled a new scent, one unfamiliar to her. What was it? She lifted her chin, her nostrils flaring as the wind brought a whiff to her once again. It wasn’t unpleasant, and something about it stirred Dana’s womanly senses, long dormant.
Chase rose in one smooth, unbroken motion. Like the cougar at his side, he took three steps toward the woman, who had her back to him. As he threw his arm around Dana’s shoulders, his other hand gripping her left arm, he laughed to himself. She was such easy prey!
The instant the steel arm clamped around Dana, she gave a cry of surprise. That same musky scent filled her nostrils. Her eyes bulged as she was jerked back against the hard, unyielding plane of a man’s body, his powerful fingers digging into her left arm.
Without thinking, Dana jabbed her right elbow into his midsection. It felt as if her elbow had smashed into an unforgiving metal wall.
Letting out a cry of surprise, Chase nearly lost his hold on the woman. He’d expected her to be a rabbit, to stand helplessly, squeal and surrender without a fight. Instead, she’d fought back! Anger flared in him. It wasn’t anger aimed at Dana, but rather himself. A grudging respect was born in Chase as he expertly kicked her legs out from under her. Not wanting to hurt Dana, he monitored the force with which she fell to the smooth sandstone ledge, landing on her belly.
Bringing her left arm up between her shoulder blades, Chase carefully pressed a knee into the small of her back while he held her head down with his other hand. He tempered the amount of pressure he brought to bear on her, and was surprised once more by her fighting spirit. Dana struggled to escape. She didn’t scream, but tried to twist free, lashing out with both her feet.
Sweat trickled down Chase’s temples as he leaned over, his breath coming in gasps. “You made three mistakes, woman.”
Dana froze. The man’s husky voice was so close to her left ear it shocked her. The rock bit into her right cheek as he held her head down on the sandstone. His voice was dark, deeply masculine, and sent new alarms racing through her. Dana was receiving mixed signals from her intuition now. Confused, she finally stilled and stopped fighting. Who was this man? Was he going to kill her? The thought momentarily paralyzed her.
Chase felt the tickle of her dark hair against his mouth as he whispered into her ear, “The first mistake was that you didn’t pay enough attention to your surroundings.” Hard, sharp gasps exploded from her lips. “Secondly, you allowed me to draw you to where I was hiding, by sending out my cougar spirit.” He saw her face drain of color, her eye narrowing with rage. Good, she wasn’t a rabbit, after all. “Lastly, a warrioress always has her ally guarding her, but you didn’t send your own guide out to look for danger.”
With a grunt, Chase released Dana. He stepped back, hands on his hips, and watched her with veiled interest.
Dana scrambled to her knees, breathing raggedly. Leaping upward, she whirled around, wildly aware that her captor stood only a few feet from her. When she met his narrowed golden eyes, she checked the urge to run. She saw hints of amusement in those large, intelligent eyes of his. He was laughing at her! Fear turned to fury.
“Who are you?” Dana demanded, her voice low and off-key.
Chase gestured for her to sit down.
Dana refused, glaring at him.
He forced himself to ignore her primal beauty, the way she was crouched and ready to fight him all over again, if necessary. “Sit. Your knees are shaking so bad you’re going to fall down if you don’t.”
Grudgingly, Dana glanced down. He was right. She was feeling terribly shaky from the adrenaline rush flaring through her bloodstream. “How do I know you won’t attack me again?” she retorted angrily.
She took a few steps away from this giant of a man. He wore a pair of faded blue jeans, but no shirt, and his chest was broad, massive and without hair. He was Native American, no doubt about it. And powerful. Again, she saw laughter in his eyes. He hadn’t made a move toward her. Yet. Nervously, she wiped her damp palms against the thighs of her jeans.
“I don’t make a habit of attacking or raping helpless women. Sit down.”
Dana felt that same confusion overwhelm her once more. This man had attacked her. Then he’d released her. Was he her enemy? If so, why had he let her go? Her knees buckled abruptly, and she threw out her hands, cushioning her fall. Landing with a thump on the red sandstone, she felt weak and vulnerable before this warrior.
Searching his tanned, square face, Dana felt a sizzling sensation build within her and momentarily wipe out her fear and uncertainty. Her first impression, of a cougar, had been right. He had topaz-colored eyes that lightened or darkened with his mood changes. His face was hard, weathered by the elements. She couldn’t tell if he was a full-blooded Indian; his nose was hawklike, his nostrils now flared to catch even the faintest of scents.
The only hint that perhaps he wasn’t a killer appeared in his mouth—the corners curved naturally upward. Her darting gaze took in the powerful breadth of his shoulders. His chest was massive, his arms tight and thick with muscles. But he was far from musclebound; no, this man’s body was taut, in shape and honed to perfection. The sunlight made his copper skin glow with an almost unearthly radiance.
Dana blinked, unable to assimilate all that she saw and felt around this man, who stood like a nearly naked god. The jeans he had on were thin and faded from use. And he was wearing leather Apache boots, with their distinctive curled tip—designed for picking up snakes and hurling them off to one side. That way, the wearer was not bitten, and the snake lived to go about its business.
This man was indeed a cougar, coiled and waiting to leap upon her at any moment.
A sour grin edged Chase’s mouth as he studied her.
“Who are you?” Dana said resentfully.
“Chase Iron Hand. Your teacher.”
Shock bolted through her. Grandma Agnes had said he would meet her at the winter hogan, but she hadn’t found him there. “You can’t be…” she choked out, all her bravado dissolving. This man was powerful, physically as well as energetically. There was nothing soft or vulnerable about Chase Iron Hand. Dana could understand why he’d been given such a name. Indeed, he was like a piece of forged metal, far stronger than she would ever be.
Chase watched the fleeting emotions cross her stunned face. Her skin had a golden sheen wherever the sunlight caressed it. She sat with hands flat on the sandstone, her legs crossed. “Grandmother told you to meet me,” Chase informed her.
“At the hogan,” Dana snarled, anger once again replacing her fear. She felt the terror begin to leak out of her and into Mother Earth. “I thought—” She gulped, her voice tightening. “When you attacked me, I thought you were the same man who murdered my husband and my mother.”
Pain slammed into Chase’s heart. Damn! He hadn’t meant to do that to her. He could see anguish in Dana’s wide cinnamon eyes, which were now filling with tears. He opened his mouth to apologize and then snapped it shut. Right now she didn’t need his pity. She needed to learn how to work through emotional pain and keep her focus on the job ahead. “And if I had been, you’d be dead, woman. You’re supposed to be trained to take back the Storm Pipe,” he sneered. “And what did you do when confronted? You didn’t think about how to escape.”
His words stung her. Gulping back her tears, Dana saw the lack of respect he had for her. Chase was right: she had failed to look for escape. Not exactly what a real warrior would do.
“But then,” Chase added, “you have a habit of running away when things get tough, don’t you?”
Pain over that truth gutted Dana. She hung her head and placed her hands over her face. It hurt too much to speak.
Chase watched how Dana took his powerful words. She could hide nothing from him. Part of him was delighted with the discovery, but another part disdainful. Warriors showed no feelings, no matter if they were in the worst pain or on a natural high. He didn’t look too closely at himself, however. After six months of daily torture, he’d finally surrendered to the pain and given his enemies the information they’d wanted. Was he any different from Dana? Unwilling to go there, Chase hardened his heart against her and his own hidden shame.
“So, you’re a coward and you ran,” he drawled.
Dana’s head snapped up. Rage tunneled through her as she held his merciless stare. “Don’t give me that male superiority garbage!”
“Call me Chase.” He held out his hand to her. “Come on, let’s go down to the hogan, Dana. You’ve had enough for one day.”
Staring at his outstretched hand, Dana saw so many little pink scars on it that she recoiled. There was nothing warm, comforting or nurturing about this man. Her teacher. Oh, Great Spirit, he was her teacher? Dana had felt a lack of confidence sitting before Grandma Agnes, as she’d asked her to bring back the Storm Pipe. Now, in the shadow of this mighty warrior, all the rest of her confidence fled.
Scrambling to her feet, Dana lashed out and knocked his hand away. He laughed. It was like listening to the far-off rumbling of her beloved thunder beings.
Chase Iron Hand was beautiful in a rugged way. But in that moment, Dana detested him, because she had none of his confidence or strength within herself. Without a word, she scrambled down the sandstone wall and headed toward the hogan. To hell with him! She wasn’t about to walk at his side and chitchat, pretending nothing had happened. He’d scared her to death! He’d made her think she was going to die, as Hal and her mother had. Hatred toward him rose within Dana as she hurried down the escarpment.
Chase grinned and watched Dana storm down the canyon. Her shoulders were now thrown back with pride, her chin jutting out at a very defiant angle. He eyed her appreciatively as he followed, noting her hips swaying like a willow tree in a summer breeze. Mesmerized by that liquid motion, Chase felt a new trap—longing for a woman. Again he squelched that need. It had no place here, for sure.
There was a barbed wire fence on the last tier of sandstone, a wooden corral nearby for sheep and goats brought up to forage. As Dana bent to slip between the strands, the barbed wire caught on the back of her blouse between her shoulders. She was trapped. She tried to free herself without tearing a hole in the material, and by the time Chase arrived, he saw frustration in her features.
“Go on,” she snapped at him.
“I can help.”
“That’s the last thing I want from you! Get out of here. I’ll see you at the hogan.”
Chase smiled briefly. Well, Dana was showing some pluck now. “Let me help.”
She jerked her head, and Chase saw loathing in her furious eyes. Good, he’d use that to train her with, too. He didn’t take her anger toward him personally. No, the Indian way of thinking was that the feelings a person had were his or her own—not someone else’s. Why should he take responsibility for how she felt?
Lifting her blouse, he delicately eased the barbed wire from the fabric. “A warrioress knows when to ask for help, too.”
What the hell was he talking about? This was the second time he’d made a reference to her being a warrioress. Chase was crazy!
The brush of his fingertips on her back sent a tingling feeling across Dana’s flesh. As soon as she was freed, she slipped through the wire fence and hurried away without even a thank-you. Gulping for air, feeling hurt winding through her, Dana walked with resolve toward the winter hogan. Right now, all she wanted to do was run—again. Away from this coldhearted bastard. Away from her mission.
CHAPTER SEVEN
AS DANA WALKEDTOWARD THE hogan, she asked herself, What did I get into? Grandma Agnes was so loving. So nourishing to her starved and aching soul. This dude, well, he was an irritating, stinging salt in her wounds! Maybe this was a mistake.
Dana plowed on through the rabbitbrush, the yellow flowers scenting the air. Mouth set, she felt fear. Only fear. Chase had scared her to death.
Dana had thought she was being attacked, yet when she stopped being such a drama queen long enough to look at the experience, she had to admit Chase hadn’t hurt her at all—at least not physically. Oh, he’d made damn sure she got the message: that she was blind, deaf and dumb out here in the wilderness.
Dana dodged several smooth, red boulders on the steep slope to the hogan below. The wind was warm. The sun felt wonderful on her body. Mulling about Chase Iron Hand, Dana recalled a story her mother had told her as a child. There had been a race of fierce male and female warriors from the stars who had come to Earth to intermarry with the red people. The race was very tall, muscular, powerful and confident. Just like Chase. The star warriors had lived with their people and shown them how to weave, make weapons and defend themselves against invaders. Was he one of them?
Chase was too rough and unpolished, more animal than man, she decided. More wild than civilized. That scared the hell out of Dana. No man had ever sharpened her awareness of herself as a woman like he had in just one, potent meeting.
Pushing open the wooden door to the hogan, Dana stepped inside. She’d placed her luggage on the south side of the structure. The smell of sacred sage and juniper encircled her, calming and grounding. Some had been burned earlier in an abalone shell sitting atop the woodstove. Chase must have smudged the place, Dana guessed.
Rubbing her perspiring brow, she felt her heart opening. And with it came so much hurt and grief that she was momentarily overwhelmed. Chase had been brutal. But Dana was sure he would disdain her feelings and the hot tears that swam in her eyes. Valiantly, she choked down all her boiling emotions.
Tea…she needed some sage tea. Yes, that would help soothe her raw, nervous state. She knew Chase would come down soon enough. Dana didn’t want to be standing here like an idiot when he arrived. Nervously, she went through the motions of taking the teakettle off the stove. There was kindling in a cardboard box, and she quickly rolled up some pieces of newspaper. After putting them into the stove, Dona located a box of matches. The fire lit quickly, the dry kindling snapping to life. Dana added several larger sticks and then shut the door.
As she looked around the quiet hogan, the peace of the place infiltrated her tense state. Everything was simple. The floor was hard-packed red dirt, swept clean and then covered by several colorful, handwoven rugs. On the southern walls were pine board shelves holding mason jars filled with various herbs. On another shelf were weaving items—a spindle, herbs for dying purposes and some gathered wool wrapped around spindles, waiting to be used this coming winter. On the western walls were several shelves containing what Dana recognized as medicine tools Agnes used in her healing ceremonies. There was a yellow gourd rattle with a redtail feather tied by a leather thong to the end of the highly polished wooden handle. A fan made of golden eagle tail feathers lay next to it. Dana didn’t go over to look at them. Medicine objects were never to be touched except by the owner.
Turning, she set the beat-up old copper kettle back on the stove, after making sure there was enough water in it. The fire spat and crackled. Dana found a mason jar filled with dried white sage leaves. She took a small handful and dropped it into the kettle before replacing the dented lid. It felt good to be doing something rather than waiting for Chase to enter that open door.
Dana could feel him approaching. It was like sensing the invisible pressure of a storm front moving through the area. Steeling herself, she listened carefully, but couldn’t hear him. The man was more cougar than human. No one ever heard the approach of a mountain lion, either. Until it was too late.
She took a deep, ragged breath and waited. When he finally entered, like a silent shadow, her heart twinged with fear. Chase was so tall that he had to duck his head at the doorway. Dana guessed the lintel was six feet high, and he was a good three or four inches taller. She tried to ignore the beautiful play of glistening muscles as he straightened and focused those golden eyes on her.
Though her pulse accelerated, Dana compressed her lips and glared at him. She wasn’t going to let him scare her again. Or catch her off guard. Yet, as Chase moved on into the hogan, Dana couldn’t help gazing at his male body, naked from the waist up. The scars on his chest told her he’d participated in several sun dances up on a Lakota reservation. For that ceremony, wooden pins were pushed through vertical slits in the skin of a man’s chest or shoulder. Leather thongs were attached to the pins, and the sun dancer dragged buffalo skulls behind him as he danced for days on end around the sacred cottonwood pole in the center. The sun dance wasn’t for sissies, and Dana’s admiration for Chase rose whether she wanted it to or not. Any man who had completed a sun dance bore deep scars on his chest or shoulder blades. They were a reminder that he had the strength of spirit and the physical endurance to show his faith to the Great Spirit.
Her own scars, Dana thought, might be invisible, but they were just as deep and as hard earned. All people were wounded, she knew. But some scars couldn’t be seen. Staring at Chase’s broad, scarred chest, she wondered what other wounds he had endured.
Chase sat down on a rug, legs crossed, his powerful hands resting on his knees. “Sage tea?” he asked.
“Of course.” Dana tried not to sound tense and threatened. She couldn’t read this man as she could others; it was as if he had a wall up between them. When her back was turned, she could feel his eyes like two hot poker points. Hands trembling, Dana took a wooden spoon, pulled off the lid of the kettle and stirred the bubbling tea. The pungent fragrance of sage drifted upward and she inhaled, absorbing its healing and calming nature.
Dana tried to ignore Chase, but that was impossible. She went to the small sink near the door and found two chipped white mugs. After setting them on the drain board, she retrieved the kettle and poured tea into them. There was sagebrush honey on a shelf above the sink and she reached for it. Desert honey was delicious, and her mouth watered in anticipation as she spooned a thick dollop into each cup. Once she finished stirring them, Dana picked up the mugs and turned around.
Chase took his steaming tea. The moment their hands met, he felt her pull away. If he hadn’t wrapped his fingers around the mug, she would have dropped it in his lap. He saw her nervously lick her full lower lip.
“Sit here,” he told her, pointing to a place opposite him on the earth-toned rug.
Stung by his curt voice and blunt order, Dana hesitated, staring at the spot. It was much too close to him. She chose another spot a good six feet away and slowly eased into a cross-legged position.
After a few sips, Chase asked, “Did you bring the Nighthawk Pipe?”
“Of course. As a pipe carrier, I go nowhere without it.”
“Did your mother leave behind any ceremonial tools for you?”
The mention of her mother sent a sharp ache through Dana. She gripped the warm mug more tightly and gazed at him.
Lowering his eyes, Chase stared down at the red earth floor between the rugs. Ceremonial objects were powerful instruments of their healing trade. He moved his gaze to Dana once more.
“She surely had certain feathers, rattles and sacred stones she worked with,” he pressed. Dana looked fetching in her simple clothes, her hair mussed from the breeze, the black braids eloquent testimony to the blood that ran richly through her veins.
Frustrated with his abrupt statements and questions, she snapped, “Of course she did.”
Meeting her blazing eyes, Chase stated, “For someone who has such old and powerful tools, you don’t use them very well or very often.” Pointing toward the canyon wall they’d just descended, he added, “You didn’t even have an ally protecting you from my attack. You’re giving away power, woman.”
Stung, Dana growled, “Just who in the hell do you think you are? First, you attack me up there.” She gestured toward her puffy cheek, which had been held against the sandstone. “You’re the one who should be apologizing for hurting me! For scaring me to death! And you can wipe that disgusted look off your face while you’re at it. I’m not into judgmental people, so back off.”
“A warrioress never complains. She does not show her pain, no matter how much she suffers. And she should know the value of silence, of listening. You know none of these things.”
“What are you talking about?” Dana began to hate the man. He sat there nearly naked, dangerous to her female senses, and yet supposedly her teacher. A terrible combination. “Who are you to question how I walk the Red Road or utilize the sacred objects passed on to me by my mother?” Hot indignation welled up in Dana, something she hadn’t felt in two years. She wanted to run from the hogan, down the canyon to Grandma Agnes and tell her that she refused to work with this Neanderthal who called her “woman” of all things. The stormy look in his eyes scared Dana and at the same time fascinated her. His mouth was a thin line and the hard planes of his copper face gave no inkling of what he was really feeling. Disgust at her, most likely.
Sipping his tea, Chase allowed her husky words to reverberate through the hogan. When Dana got her feathers ruffled, she struck back. There was backbone beneath that golden, dusky skin of hers. That pleased him.
The tea and honey were a good combination on his tongue. Lowering the mug, Chase noted how she glared at him. Her hands were wrapped around her own mug, tightly enough to crush it.
“You are the only hope for the Blue Heron Society. Your grandmother already told you that. You are young, strong and possess the genes of your mother, who carried the Storm Pipe.” Chase lowered his voice. “I will work with you to prepare you on all levels for the tasks set before you by Grandmother Agnes. That is, if you are brave enough to take on this mission.”
Shaken, Dana dragged in a deep breath. The silence between them became oppressive. She stared down at the mug she gripped, her tea barely touched. Her hands were soft and without calluses, unlike his.
“I’ll do my best,” she finally rasped. Looking up, she met his narrowed golden eyes. For a moment, Dana allowed herself to drown in their darkening depths. Mesmerized by Chase’s blunt, powerful energy, she felt an invisible shift within her.
Blinking, she disengaged from his stare.
“Rogan lives up in a fortress in the Sierras,” Chase began. “He has a compound near Carson City, Nevada. The twelve women who work with him are true warriors. They are fanatical about keeping that ceremonial pipe for themselves. These women have placed their lives on the line to protect it and Rogan.”
“I’m not a killer.”
“No, but Rogan is. And his women will kill you if you don’t know how to be stealthy and protect yourself. This is no game, woman.”
“Dammit, stop calling me ‘woman’! My name is Dana Thunder Eagle.”
She felt stung by Chase’s humorless smile. Now, he was laughing at her, as a coyote would a hapless rabbit.
“Better to be called ‘woman’ than ‘child.’”
Drawing herself erect, spine taut, shoulders back, she said, “My name is Dana.”
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Lindsay McKenna
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Современная зарубежная литература
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 16.04.2024
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О книге: Dana Thunder Eagle is a beautiful woman with a fierce heart and powerful gift. But after the murder of her husband and mother, she ran away from the Rosebud reservation, hoping to leave the past behind her forever. Now, two years later, the killer is still on the loose. And only Dana has the mystical power to stop him.After six months of daily torture at the hands of South American rebels, Chase knows his latest mission may be his hardest: to whip Dana into fighting shape in just five weeks. Even more challenging will be to ignore his cinnamon-eyed student′s graceful beauty.United in a life-or-death mission, Chase and Dana must learn to lean on each other if there is any chance of stopping a madman who seeks to destroy a people′s history…and future.