Hawk’s Gift – Historical Romance Canada’s Civil War – 1885
Wind spirits spoke softly through the dried grasses. Rustling reeds swayed in rhythm with a soaring hawk overhead. Sun-bleached bones were first revealed, and then concealed by the undulating prairie foliage. The smell of freshly butchered meat mingled with the warm winds. A monarch butterfly, now forgotten, fluttered away to another sweet, fresh buttercup.
He was the son of a Metis hunter. She was the daughter of an aristocrat. How he knew this, Damien wasn’t sure. Maybe it was the way she stood, tall and arrogant, although she wasn’t much over five feet. Perhaps it was the way she was wringing her slender, white fingers or the look of utter confusion in her green, cat-like eyes. That bewitching gaze was turned in his direction, begging him to help her. And Damien, being the true gentleman he knew himself to be, raised his hand and quietly bid one thousand dollars for the little wench.
He had no idea where he was going to get that kind of money. Nor did he care. The gleaming metal pistol he held ominously in his low-slung holster and his huge roan horse, tied outside the saloon were more than sufficient to ensure he got whatever he desired. He had no use for money and a thousand dollars was a ludicrous amount to pay for a bit of fluff, virgin or not.
Unrest and Conflicts
“And so what happens now? Will your hatred and bitterness help put everything back the way it was?”
He shook his head, glaring at her sullenly.
“Then what’s left, except to go forward and adapt? You have to accept the way things are now.” She couldn’t stop the niggling guilt inside.
“Don’t patronize me!” He stepped forward to yank her to her feet, digging his lean fingers into her soft upper arms.
Then, as though realizing he was hurting her, he stopped. He rubbed the bruised flesh with tenderness. “So will you allow us heathens into your elite world? Where will you place us – a step above your cattle, hopefully -but a hundred steps below you I’m sure?”
Misgivings clouded her eyes as Bobbie searched around Piapot’s pathetic little village. They were back in Canada. The gaunt people who greeted them, with torn clothing hanging on skeletal frames, all looked like they were starving. They looked like refugees from a war-torn country, not residents of Canada. In contrast, Big Bear’s people looked healthy and even well dressed. Their ponies were loaded with buffalo meat. A large herd of horses followed the group into the village.
He wore tight jeans, as though denim had been invented specifically for him. A black shirt was unbuttoned halfway down his chest. He was as tantalizing and primitive exciting as ever. She felt the jolts wracking her body.
Fighting her tortured equilibrium valiantly, she refused to look into his eyes – his bewitching, devil eyes. Instead she studied the heavy gold chain around his neck. A golden cross dangled from the chain.
Sacrilegious heretic! He was not a Christian. He had made that perfectly clear – three years ago. Damien loathed the white man’s churches.
A raw, futile moan clogged her throat. She fought for composure. She didn’t want to see him. Closing her eyes, she tried to ignore the longings washing throughout her body.
“Here’s your wine, mignonne.” His voice was that same husky sound, like water running over pebbles, gravel and soft simultaneously.
There was nowhere to hide.
“Did you know?” Bobbie whispered. She looked up helplessly into his eyes. She could feel his magnetic heat immediately.
“Did I know what?” Damien smiled. He didn’t look surprised to see her.
“That I was coming?”
“Of course I knew. I always knew when you were coming.” His voice was smooth rapture. He moved with catlike grace, closer…
…“Mrs. Watson,” Damien’s voice turned hard.
“Yes, I was married.” Bobbie’s voice trailed off as she noticed Damien watching her lips with special interest. Oh my God… Please help me. “He was killed… tragically… by savage Indians…”
“Didn’t you say he died at sea?” Marie turned from the hall, looking startled.
“Perhaps she’s had two more husbands.” Damien’s sensual mouth quirked, revealing his dimples. Bobbie wanted only to touch those lovely creases – with her lips. “That makes three, doesn’t it? Take your wine, mignonne.”
“I don’t drink.” With stiff reserve, Bobbie forced her shaking legs to move over to the chair. She needed to sit down. What game is he playing now?
“I know you don’t drink.” Damien moved over to the chair. He leaned down, his breath tickling her ear with erotic skill. She winced.
He carefully placed the wine glass into her hand and Bobbie automatically downed the contents.
“Where’s Pierre?” Bobbie whispered. The wine sank, thankfully soothing, into her belly.
“He’s in the kitchen.” Damien shrugged his shoulders, still holding her gaze with his mesmerizing eyes.
“Is that your carriage in the driveway?” Bobbie laughed softly, as the warmth of the wine penetrated.
“Yes. My horse was brutally murdered by savage Indians.” Damien grinned, raising an eyebrow. He walked over to the sideboard, bringing a bottle back to her chair. Holding her hand, he carefully poured some red liquid into her empty glass.
Come into Damien and Roberta’s world of War and Peace and in the end their love that conquers all.