Cheyenne Storm: Cheyenne Series, #1

Chapter 1

November 7, 1812, Colorado

Storm-Chaser woke to an owl hooting. He rolled over to gather Leaping-Deer into his arms, but only found empty buffalo furs. He bolted upright, sweat beading across his forehead. Then his mind realized the truth that he’d wrestled with for months. She was gone.

He cursed himself that he didn’t make her stay behind that day. She was pregnant and just past the stage of all day nausea.

Cooped up for weeks because of her condition, he couldn’t refuse her when her dark eyes held such hope of stretching her legs and running through the forest in her animal form.

I’ll be careful. Just a short run…prance then, so you don’t scowl at me.

For a long time, he stayed in his wolf form and watched her from a distance. When she spotted him, she nudged him away. Reluctantly, he left her to join a nearby wolf pack. Then the gun sounded.

He shook off his wolf-brothers’ warning and raced through the forest. A hunter tied her legs together and Storm-Chaser snapped his jaws on the man’s throat. The sweetness of the blood filling his mouth almost made him forget he was human.

When the man no longer breathed, Storm-Chaser dropped him and spat out what blood he could. He shifted.

Naked, he reached for her. She, too, had now shifted back to her human form. He knew she was vulnerable in her deer-form. Why hadn’t she listened to him?

I will take you to White-Hawk. He will heal you and the baby.

It’s too late. I feel the baby and me both slipping away. Promise me, you will look for love again. Don’t harden your heart when it comes to you—even if she doesn’t understand it with her mind and words, your and her heart will know it.

Shhh…you aren’t going anywhere. I will not let you die. How could he marry another? She was his wife and heart. Without her, there was no love inside him.

She smiled and kissed him. Her spirit left her body and he shook, holding her. The others came to him, telling him she was gone, but he could not let go. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

Chapter 2

March 30, 1814, France

Sylvie brushed her wheat-colored hair out of her face, as she searched her grandfather’s library for something to read. The scent of his cigars lingered in the air as her bare feet sunk into the blue and silver lined Oriental rug. Removing a tome of Homer’s collections of the Iliad and the Odyssey , a dark book with gold markings, lay beyond them.

Putting Homer aside on the three-legged guéridon table next to her gloves, Sylvie eased out the dark book hidden behind.

What is this? She opened a latch on the book and inhaled sharply at seeing a mound of letters. Father? Many were unopened and marked from America. When she was a child, her father left for America to seek his fortune as a fur trapper. Grandfather had told her and her mother that he died in a shipwreck that washed up bodies on France’s coast for weeks.

Sylvie’s legs wobbled and she plopped down on the rug with the letters spilling out of the secret box. A mixture of opened and unopened letters.

Did grandfather hide these? There must be some purpose that he kept them and did not burn them. Sylvie fingered a letter and bit her lip. Really, she should take these to her mother, but she was curious about them and wondered if perhaps her mother had hidden them from her.

She snatched up the opened letter and scanned the contents. A love letter and descriptions of a fur trapper her father, Joseph, had met.

Surely, there must be something scandalous here that caused this horde of love notes to be secreted away. Another letter talked about his returning soon with enough money that Sylvie’s mother and she could live with him in America.

The third letter made Sylvie bite her lip.

Dearest love,

I have been bitten by a wolf. Not just any wolf, but a werewolf. My hand shakes as I write this and even the medicine man I sought out doesn’t know if my fever will ever break, and I too, will howl at the moon or die.

I am not mad or drunk. If I were you, I would not believe me either. But the man become a beast. Then he attacked me when he found me watching. I think it was his intent to guard his secret.

Write to me that you still love me. I understand if you never wish to see me again. But I swear on all that I know and is holy, a man-wolf bit me and I fear I might not recover—or be damned.

Yours eternally,

Joseph

Werewolf? Such a thing was a myth, a legend. Surely, her father was delusional with his fever.

What are you doing with those? her grandfather hissed. Put those away, or better yet, burn them.

You kept these? She waved a fistful of letters under his white mustache. From Mother, from me?

He’s a commoner and a fur trapper. He straightened this blue waistcoat. And if you read his later letters, you’ll know the man has descended into madness.

You told us he died!

He might as well have. Her grandfather reached to snatch the letters, but she drew back.

No. Mother has a right to see these.

You’ll only break her heart…again. He dove for her, but she skirted around him.

At her mother’s door, she tapped. When whimpering answered her, she pushed the door open. A single candle dimly lit the bedroom.

Mother? She locked the door, then sat on the bed beside her and stroked her mother’s hair. Please tell me what’s wrong.

Her mother wiped her tears with a trembling hand. "Oh, Sylvie, I’ve wronged you so. I’ve allowed you to grow up without a father. I should’ve listened to my father when he begged me to forget about Joseph and marry the Marquee.

With your approaching wedding to Daniel, I wrote your father months ago, begging him to return to me. Naïveté, part of me refused to let him go. I imagine him striding through the door any moment. Her blue eyes seared into Sylvie’s. If he was alive, he’d come before now. He must be dead. She hiccupped.

I found these just now in Grandfather’s private library, she whispered.

They never should have listened to her grandfather. Over the years, she came to understand her grandfather more. He would lie if he thought it protected him or his family. Her father’s body was never found.

What? her mother asked.

Here. Why hadn’t she thought to check for proof before?

Her grandfather bellowed, Open this door at once or I’ll rip it from the wall. His fist pounded on the wood. He’s a madman…a drunkard. The tales of him changing into a wolf are preposterous.

What if what her grandfather said was true? Or what if her father did—she blocked out the thoughts.

A whack sounded against the door making Jacqueline cringe. If she obeyed, she would have opened the door, but she did not as the old letters spilled out from the hollowed book. Joseph’s letters?

Oui, Grandfather hid all of Father’s letters from you. And I suppose your letters never reached Father.

Her mother opened a letter. Her hands shook as she held it. This one’s dated six months ago. She tore open the envelope and scanned the contents. He begs me to answer him if I love him, or he’ll allow the fierce winter to take him—or a hunter’s rifle in his wolf form. I don’t understand. Why does he think he’s an animal? She fingered through more of the letters. Her tears cut into Sylvie’s heart. You knew about these? Why did you not tell me?

I just discovered them. She bowed her head. When the storm brought those corpses years ago, I thought Grandfather spoke the truth of Father’s death.

Joseph loved us. He pleaded with me to leave with him, leave the estate, the money, everything. He wanted us to go with him, but I couldn’t for a life of nothing but his love. She clutched the recent letter against her chest, and sobs tore from her throat. And I’ve realized too late that his love, his embrace and kisses mean more to me than all the gold or impressive nods from even Napoleon. Tears streamed down her face. Leave me.

Sylvie walked to the door, and closed it behind her. She swallowed back the lump in her throat as tears threatened. This injustice must be set right, and she knew she was the one to do it.

Her grandfather blocked her path to the stairs, an iron key in his fist. You’ve ruined everything, he spat at her.

No. She shook her head. You’ve ripped my father from me and nearly destroyed my mother.

He opened his mouth to argue, but shut it at her stare. He looked as though he wanted to tongue-lash her, but he allowed her to pass.

Out on the veranda she approached Daniel, her dress ruffling in the breeze. Daniel stood in the night air, his back rigid. She shook her head, for he never relaxed.

He must have heard her coming, for he turned and she rushed forward into his embrace. She thought of her mother’s misery. Daniel?

Oui? His breath blew against the top of her head.

She bit her lip. I can’t marry you yet. She looked up at him. I must go to America first. Beneath her fingers, she felt his muscles tighten.

I see. He breathed in and his mouth was taunt. Why?

To find my father.

He grasped her shoulders, holding her away from him to stare down at her. I won’t allow you—

You’ll not dictate to me what I can or cannot do.

Sylvie. He stroked her arms. We’ll marry now, then I’ll escort you. You’ll not go alone. War is in America, for God’s sake, and I’ll not have you risk your life.

You promise we’ll leave after the wedding? She gazed up at him.

I hoped to spend our honeymoon in Switzerland, not scurrying across the wilderness. He kissed her forehead. But we’ll go and find your father if it means that much to you.

Later, Daniel bid her goodnight. She raced inside and bound up the stairs. When she was out of sight, Daniel slammed his fist on the railing.

What did she tell you? her grandfather asked, joining him on the balcony. He held two glasses of wine and sipped from one.

She knows about the letters. You should have burned them. He leaned back against the railing, his arms folded across his chest. She wants to leave and find her father.

Of course, if you’re man had done his job, Joseph would be dead and the letters meaningless. He shrugged. Oblige her. He handed Daniel one of the glasses.

Daniel accepted the wine. What do you have in mind?

No one knows where her father is. He moved in with heathens shortly after he spouted this nonsense about him becoming a wolf. He waved his hand. I’ll pay a man who resembles Joseph. He’ll wait on the west of the mountains and pretend to be him. He took a sip of his wine, and his gaze darkened. He’ll hurt her. Tell her he wants nothing to do with her or her mother.

Why not pay someone to pretend in Virginia?

He shook his head. Too easy. She’ll read the letters. They show that he was west of the Rockies a few years ago.

A handshake sealed their deception.

After the wedding, Sylvie was relieved. Her headache from the weeks of arguing with her grandfather lessened.

Even now as Daniel packed the carriage, her grandfather stood with his arms folded over his chest. She hugged her mother and kissed him on his cheek.

Have I told you I forbid you to go? He mumbled.

Oui, but we’ll return. And when I bring Father back, I’ll not have you frown at him so. She shook her finger at him. Do you understand?

He let out an obnoxious huff. I still say you’re as mad as King George.

While she tugged on her lace gloves, she winked at him. She and Daniel waved goodbye from the carriage. As Daniel hauled her back inside, she laughed. He kissed her breathless.

Well, Madame Vergne, I suppose a ship’s cabin will have to do for our wedding night.

Oui, Monsieur Vergne. Sylvie answered him. Any place, as long as I’m with you. But if you kiss me anymore like that, we’ll miss the boat entirely.

Then perhaps I should try harder. His eyes twinkled mischievously. She screamed, then giggled as he dove for her.

Moments later, the driver called to them that they’d arrived at the dock.

Wait. I can’t find my other glove. Sylvie laughed.

The captain won’t wait for you. Daniel ran his fingers through his graying hair. You’ve five trunks full of clothes. He noticed her pout and continued. I’ll buy you another pair when we arrive. Hurry, I want to finish what we started.

She swatted his arm with her fan. Oh, you scoundrel. A deep blush spread over her face.

Chapter 3

August 24, 1814, Washington, D.C

Four o’clock approached as they strolled to the capital. Streets were crowded, busy with wagons, horse-drawn buggies, and dogs barking. Metal clanked against the forged steel and sparks flew from a blacksmith’s hammer.

People milled about. Politicians