Ride The Wild Wind (Time Travel Historical Romance) Read online

  RIDE THE WILD WIND

  Copyright 2009, Kimberly Ivey Wuttke

  1st Publication September 2009; 2nd Publication March 2012

  Publisher: Endless Sky Productions

  Word Count 108,000

  Genre: Time Travel Western Historical Romance

  Cover Design: Endless Sky Productions

  Ride The Wild Wind is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination, or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental. All trademarks, service marks, registered trademarks, and registered service marks are the property of their respective owners and are used herein for identification purposes only

  The following deceased historical figures mentioned in the manuscript, although not depicted as actual characters within the story, were real: Chief Manuelito of the Navajos; Navajo Headmen Barboncito, Armijo, and Delgadito; General James Carleton; and Colonel Christopher "Kit" Carson

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print, or by any other means now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without written permission of the author and Endless Sky Productions, except in the case of brief quotations of less than 75 words embodied in reviews. Due to copyright laws you cannot trade, sell or give ebooks away. Please do not participate in the piracy of ebooks and purchase copies from reputable publishers.

  Reviews

  “Ride the Wild Wind is one of the most dramatic and emotionally charged novels I’ve ever read. The plot is long and involved, jam-packed with action, suspense, twists and turns, sultry passion, emotional angst and even humor, along with the historical fact encompassing Gen James Carleton’s scorched earth policy against the Navajo Nation.”

  --Merrylee, Two Lips Reviews 2010 Voted a Recommended Read and Reader’s Choice Award recipient, 2010 from Two Lips Reviews

  “Kimberly Ivey’s Ride The Wild Wind is a captivating story from beginning to end. As a reader, I was swept back in time, and my heart ached for the Navajo people and the tragedies they endured.”

  Chrissy, Reviewer for Love Western Romance Book Reviews 2010

  For my husband, Jeff, as always.

  RIDE THE WILD WIND

  Award-Winning Time Travel Historical Novel

  by

  Kimberly Ivey

  PROLOGUE

  The Past

  Antonio Whitehorse bolted upright at the sound of gun shots. Instinct propelled him behind a hill of tumbled rocks and scrub brush. He drew his pistol, his heartbeat hammering in his chest as he crouched low.

  They’d found him.

  It took a moment to orient himself to his surroundings. Relief seeped into his fogged senses. There’d been no gunshots. It had only been a dream, another one about the red-haired woman. But this time, it had taken a bizarre twist.

  Drawing in deep, steady breaths, he willed his pounding heart to calm. Tension slowly uncoiled within as he eased from behind the rocks. He slid the gun back into the holster and stood, rubbing grit from his eyes. When would it all end? Or was victory even possible for The People in this war against the United States government?

  He glanced at the dying fire beside him, its glowing orange coals barely visible. How long had he slept. An hour, or two? The ebony darkness of the vast canyon lands threatened to swallow him. Soon the moon would rise above the rim, a golden orb to illuminate the landscape with purple shadows and he would not be alone anymore.

  Blinking back the sting of perspiration, he realized his shirt and breeches were drenched in sweat despite the plunging nighttime temperatures. The dry aching in his throat he recognized well. Fear.

  In tonight’s dream, the mysterious woman had been swept from his arms and sucked into a vortex of gray swirling storm clouds. Always before he’d searched for her in the darkness, not knowing why, but only that he must find her.

  Tonight he had.

  He’d tasted her lips and caressed the soft curves of her body—had threaded his fingers into her vibrant red hair. But she had been whisked from his arms before he could ask her name.

  And at the sound of what he’d thought was gunfire, he awakened.

  Was this a dream foretelling his future?

  He touched his fingers to his lips, a shudder of desire rippling through him. Still, the memory of their carnal kiss lingered. His body trembled, aching with a yearning to touch her again, to make love to her.

  Trying to shake the memory he moved about camp, gathering dry twigs and brush for the dying fire. But the simple task failed to distract him or steady his nerves. It was a matter of time before their paths crossed. He felt it in his gut.

  Half an hour later as he stared into the leaping flames of the fire, he recalled with clarity the face of the beautiful woman who’d haunted his dreams these past months. Was she real, or simply the conjuring of his imagination?

  He’d told his cousin, Son of the Old Ways, or Sonny as he called him, his tribe’s mesjaja hatali—medicine man—of the plaguing dreams. Sonny stated he had seen her, too, in a vision while in the sweat lodge and believed she was coming to save the Navajo.

  The howls of a wolf pack drifted on the breeze, followed by the flicker of lightning in the distance. Moments later, a long roll of thunder grumbled across the valley. A gust of wild wind whipped his unbound hair about his face. The air about him sizzled and sparked as a chill skittered up his spine.

  A sign.

  He watched intermittent flashes of lightning in the western sky grow more frequent, hoping the storm would blow around and miss him. Still, he pondered hard at the realization there was something more significant to his dreams of the woman, even more to the storm brewing in the west.

  He raked his fingers through his unbound hair. No, he hadn’t imagined her. She was coming—along with something greater than his cousin’s vision foretold.

  Releasing a pent up breath, he redirected his thoughts. What had she said before he awakened? He turned his face into the warm night wind and closed his eyes, trying to remember.

  Her face came into view, a perfect oval-shape. Whiskey colored eyes and hair the color of a fiery canyon sunset. He was certain he had never seen or spoken to her. Proper women did not associate with half-breeds, not that his clandestine journeys as gun runner between the territories of New Mexico and Arizona placed him in their company. Even with his gray eyes and golden-brown hair, his skin color and features were dark and distinctly Indian, enough that he exercised caution in associations with whites.

  He’d straddled two worlds all his life—those of his Navajo mother and the one of his light-featured criollo father—Mexican born, but of pure Spanish blood. It mattered not that he had been educated by the finest tutors and English governesses afforded by his wealthy grandfather. To The People—the Navajo—he was Navajo. To whites, he was an Indian, a menace to be dealt no mercy.

  And he’d left the white man’s world two years ago, never to look back.

  His mount, hobbled nearby, reared its dark head and snorted as the wolves’ howls edged closer to camp. Antonio shook his head to loosen the lingering effects of sleep.

  He tossed scraps of cedar and sagebrush it into the dying flames again. The fire rose higher, snapping and crackling as it consumed the dry twig in a cloud of thick billowing smoke. Squatting down, he gazed into the leaping orange fire and soothed his senses by fanning thick, purifying smoke over his body. One Navajo tradition he had clung to since childhood.

  Speaking in a
hushed tone, he reassured his horse they were safe from predators. Yet it failed to ease the uneasiness thrumming through his veins, or the hot desire for a mysterious woman he had never met.

  He closed his eyes again, tried to summon her back in his mind’s eye. He drew his hands to his face, bringing cleansing smoke to his nostrils, inhaling deep. Instead of wood smoke, the light floral scent of her hair lingered on his fingertips. Opening his eyes, he stared at his hands. But it had only been a dream!

  He stood, the hair rising on the back of his neck. Wind whipped his hair about his face as alarm rippled up his spine. He spun around, his gaze darting into the shadows. She was here—somewhere in the darkness.

  The crash of thunder jolted him back into the moment and an angry wind arose, whirling up dust and pebbles. He had misjudged the direction of the fast moving storm.

  He gathered his blanket and bags, saddling Dinishwo in a near-blinding sand storm. He barely finished when a driving rain pelted the ground in silver dollar sized drops. Guiding his horse in the darkness, he directed his mount up the steep, mud -slicked embankment in the direction of the main trail seeking higher ground.

  A dazzling light struck ahead. Dinishwo reared, almost bucking him off. He tried to calm his horse with soothing words, yet the fierce howl of the wind drowned out his voice. Cold rain stung his face. It became difficult to see. Thunder crashed again and he reined in his spooked horse and took shelter beneath a massive rock overhang, sliding from the nervous animal’s back.

  Frustration clawed at his insides as the hard rain continued to slash at the muddy ground. He had to find her and soon. At first light, he would search the canyon again for traces of the woman. If she wasn’t here, he would continue traveling eastward on his reconnaissance mission, then track back to Albuquerque for a meeting with his arms supplier. He prayed Diablo’s men had been able to intercept the stolen shipment of new Joslyn carbines bound for Union troops. If not, he would settle for Georgia-made Griswold revolvers to replace the older muzzle loaders.

  Time was running out and funds growing scarce.

  He did not wish to consider his last alternative—sell Rancho de los Santos.

  A wave of dread washed over him. He could not do it.

  He would never dishonor his grandfather’s legacy.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Santa Fe, New Mexico

  The Present

  “Okay, mister. Sit tight while the blood on your neck stump dries.”

  With a shove, Halle Brooks wheeled her rolling chair away from the art table and stood, perusing the grotesque, headless male torso.

  Her latest masterpiece.

  Folding her arms across her chest, she stared at “Tom,” as she’d dubbed him. The headless theatrical prop needed something else. But what? She turned to Max, her Chihuahua, who was dressed in his Zorro hat and cape. “What do you think? A little more green rot around Tom’s neck? A gory artery dangling out? I know! Jagged cuts where the serial killer’s saw severed his head. Yeah, that’s it, don’t you think?”

  Max yawned disinterestedly and Halle bent down to scratch the dog’s muzzle. “You’re no help. And you have the nerve to call yourself my assistant? You are so fired, mister. Clear out your doghouse. No severance bones either!”

  Max gave a low whine and put his muzzle to the floor. She gave his head a reassuring pat. “Just kidding. What would I do without you, Max? You’re my inspiration. My best buddy. My reason for living.”

  Max lifted one bug eye as if to say, “Knock off the crap.”

  “Okay. I get the message.”

  Standing back, Halle gave Torso Tom another once-over. Yep. Definitely something missing. “Maybe tomorrow I’ll be more inspired.”

  After tossing her gloves aside, she slipped from her paint-splattered smock and hung it on the peg by the door. She cast a glance toward the front windows of Back Stage, the costume and theatrical prop studio where she worked as a designer. Already the sky had darkened. Holy crap. How had she lost track of time?

  She dashed about, snatching her purse and keys from the art table, mentally taking notes. Car keys? Check. Phone? Check. She placed her cell phone beside the tote bag. Pour out the old coffee. Quickly, she dumped the contents of her hours old latte’ down the art room sink and washed it away with a flick of the faucet handle.

  “We’d better get on the road, boy. It’s a four hour drive to Las Cruces, and that’s if we don’t hit rush hour in Alburquerque. And there’ll be absolutely no stopping to water the tires, so cross those bony little hind legs and hold it.”

  Lifting her denim tote bag, she paused to finger the clasp on the large manila envelope, and then eased it back into the side pocket. There was no use looking at the photograph again. The woman in the faded Polaroid picture wasn’t her mother.

  Following her eighteenth birthday Halle’d been allowed access to state adoption records, only to discover her birth mother left no forwarding address or information on other relatives. But a week ago Grace Montez, long time director of the children’s home where Halle’d spent fifteen years of her life, discovered a forgotten envelope in the bottom of an old file box destined for the trash. Halle’s biological mother apparently left a photo and a few mementos in the misplaced packet. But this woman—the woman in the photograph Grace gave her—was not her mother. She couldn’t be.

  Although she’d been almost four when she entered the foster care system, Halle remembered the real

  Naomi Brooks, a slender, African American woman with exotic, cat-like eyes and straight jet hair. Her mother had been beautiful and tall and graceful like a supermodel. The woman’s picture in the envelope Grace gave her was Caucasian and blonde.

  For the past four years, Halle’s internet searches and phone calls turned up dead leads. But Grace, who’d sympathized with her plight to find her birth mother, eventually located an N. Brooks in Las Cruces. The best Grace extracted from the woman was an admission she once lived in Santa Fe and was related Naomi Brooks, although she refused to elaborate, or even admit she was the woman in the photograph.

  Still, it was their last hope. Grace phoned and set up a first meeting for Halle. The woman appeared reluctant, but agreed. Still, it changed nothing. Everything in the faded envelope was a lie. All she hoped and dreamed of finding all these years. A connection to her family, her roots. Gone.

  So who was this woman, and why was she impersonating Naomi Brooks? That’s what she intended to find out tonight.

  She fished the keys to Back Stage’s front doors from her skirt pocket, and then placed Max into the tote. The shop’s owner, Harvey Schroeder, didn’t mind her bringing Max to work. He called the dog his lucky charm, claiming orders for pet costumes increased when Max strutted around the store in full regalia. Though Harvey was home recovering from back surgery and the shop short-handed, Halle couldn’t miss an opportunity to close early and make the long drive to confront the imposter woman. Besides, she was way ahead of the week’s schedule, having put the finishing touches on two specialty latex monster masks that morning, dyeing two zombie wigs, and Fed Ex-ing a crate of realistic-looking vampire bite patches to a Hollywood studio.

  After flipping off the lights, she punched in the store’s alarm code and stepped outside to lock up. Dusk greeted her. Crap. She still couldn’t believe she’d lost so much valuable time engrossed with Torso Tom this afternoon.

  A quick glance at her watch revealed it wasn’t late, only dark. Unease flitted over her skin as a gust of hot wind whipped through the dimly lit street, sending a swirl of gritty dust around her. Overhead, dark green-tinged storm clouds brewed against a backdrop of silvery pink. She’d never seen the sky this color at five in the afternoon. That meant one thing. One hell of a storm was brewing. Even Max suddenly had turned squirmy in her tote bag.

  Halle made her way to her car, parked curbside. She’d just managed to get Max inside when a gust of dry, hot wind buffeted her, scouring her with dirt and small debris from the sidewalk. A jagged spear of lightnin
g struck vertically in the distance and the air sizzled with dry heat mixed with the scent of rain. Great. Being delayed by a freak summer storm was the last thing she needed if she were to make it to her meeting tonight and be back in time to open Back Stage in the morning.

  Once inside the car, a quick glance into the rear view mirror revealed a spectacular display of lightning in the western sky. It also reminded her she hadn’t removed her faux pierced lip ring or the black Goth lipstick. She also intended to rinse out the stiff streaks of sparkling purple gel in her red hair.

  Each week a different theme reigned at Back Stage. Goth was currently in full swing. While she enjoyed wearing brash, original fashions, and costumes to work, she didn’t want to frighten the mystery woman before she had a chance to find the truth about her real mother’s disappearance. She made a mental note to stop at a roadside rest area and do a quick makeover, which included removing not only the garish make up, but the temporary purple hair highlights and spider web stockings.

  A low rumble of thunder and another flash of lightning prompted a growl from Max. He’d shed his Zorro hat and had managed to wriggle beneath his well-nibbled blanket beside her. After a quick zip through town she entered the on ramp of the interstate, relieved to have beaten rush hour traffic.

  Soft rain began to mist the windshield. Within seconds raindrops grew to quarter-sized plops. The inky ribbon of highway ahead became difficult to see. Halle switched the wipers on berserk speed and rolled up the driver’s side window to avoid getting soaked. Max whimpered as another long rolling growl of thunder rattled the windows of her compact car. “You okay, buddy?”

  The little dog whined what sounded like a yes. Sometimes she swore he was actually trying to talk.

  “Don’t be scared. It’s just a little storm. No big deal.”