Heart of the Storm

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.”