A Restless Wind Read online

  A RESTLESS WIND

  Siara Brandt

  Copyright © by Siara Brandt.

  First Edition. All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form is forbidden without the written permission of the author.

  A RESTLESS WIND

  ISBN: 978-1492847953

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Printed in USA

  for Shanna who went East, too

  Prologue

  He brought his black horse to a sudden halt on the north side of the creek. Across the shallow stream of water, three men also sat their horses. They watched him like a pack of wolves held at bay, he knew, only by the threat of his guns.

  Moonlight filtered down through the trees, casting briar-like shadows across the man’s face. The moonlight shone full into the other men’s faces, however, making them appear as wan and bloodless as the color of death.

  A heavy mist followed the path of the creek. It crept up the rocky banks and seeped ghostlike into the thick underbrush so that the horses rose, seemingly, from the mist itself. An owl hooted. It was as far-off call to a mate, repeated once in the darkness. Although every man heard, there was no movement, no outward notice of it. Save for that sound, only the shrill peep of Spring frogs and the occasional creek of saddle leather broke the silence.

  The rider of the black horse waited. Beneath the shadow of his hat brim, there was a resolute set to his jaw. There was as grimness in the lines about his mouth. He had lived his entire life on the harsher edge of reality and he had stared death in the face many times. He knew that he faced it now.

  And yet, despite the cynicism that had long ago sunk its claws deep into his soul, he had come to believe that fate had a hand in all things this side of heaven. He waited now, accepting that fate. And when a faint smile touched one corner of his mouth, there was, perhaps, a hint of recklessness in the smile.

  The sharp query cut suddenly through the silence, came as he knew it would. Just as he knew what his answer would be. He would not change it. Hell itself could not make him change it. He had come, finally, to believe in something beyond himself. And it had changed him. She had changed him.

  He shook his head slowly. In the wake of his silent reply, there was a brief space of time in which no man moved. He was aware of each man’s eyes boring into his own, but it was the man directly opposite him who commanded his attention.

  The rider stared into eyes that were colorless in the moonlight, eyes that gleamed with a malevolence that was unmistakable. Behind those eyes lay a cold-blooded, merciless soul, one capable of killing a man merely for the pleasure of it.

  The rider watched as the cruel lips of the man before him lifted. It was a mirthless grin, a mere baring of teeth.

  “Tell me something.” The man’s words were deceptively soft, gentle even. They had a dangerous undertone to them, however. “She worth it?”

  “More’n you’ll ever know,” came the rider’s slow, steady reply.

  At his words, the rider saw blackness of soul laid bare in the man opposite him. He saw hatred. The other man’s eyes spoke it. His body spoke it as well. The promise to punish was in the subtle change of his posture, for he would punish. With this man, hatred always begat violence. And the men beside him were no less eager for the spilling of blood. It was a dangerous wolf pack.

  “This makes twice you’ve double crossed me,” the rider was reminded.

  “You would know about underhanded dealin’,” came the low, drawling reply.

  Following the bold-faced insult, the owl hooted again in the deep silence. The wind rose, haunting in its suddenness for the night had been still until that moment. The wind rustled through the leaves and wafted like a sigh through unsubstantial mist. It carried the scents of pine and black locust, brought to the rider’s mind an awareness of beginnings. There was, within him, a strange sense of clarity, of purpose.

  It came suddenly. A blur of movement, an explosion of gunfire that shattered the brooding silence. The man on the black horse had the satisfaction of knowing that the first reports that cut the night air were from his own guns. But fast as he was, it was not enough.

  The last bullet tore through his chest. The heavy lead went clear through him before he hit the ground. He felt the fire of it as he lay on the rock bed that rose from the creek. He was aware of the warm, pulsing flow of blood from many wounds even as the last echo of gunshots faded.

  Through his pain he heard the receding hoof beats. With one hand clamped over the wound in his chest, he drew a ragged breath and willed himself to rise. The effort was too great for him, however. He sank back down and closed his eyes.

  When he opened them again, it was to see the moon shining through the leaves of the trees above him. It was a full, radiant moon in a sea of endless stars. He closed his fingers around the lavender ribbon that was tied around his wrist. It was soaked with blood now, but the presence of the ribbon and the memory of the one who had given it to him gave him a sense of peace for her secret remained there in his fading heartbeat.

  The silence around him was deep, though the peep of Spring frogs had resumed and closer, the creek continued its familiar murmur on its endless course through the wilderness. However, it flowed now with blood that stained the rocks and seeped into the water where he lay.

  He heard the wind all around him. Like the flow of eternity, it had no end and no beginning. And into that eternity, he was fading away one moment at a time. His lips moved though the words fell silently. And the moon, full and luminous and serene, continued to be reflected in his eyes, even as the last breath left his body in a sigh, even after the world turned to darkness.

  Chapter 1

  Dawn rose on gentle wings. Night, with its secrets well-guarded, vanished on its own silent flight. The light grew in subtle, changing hues and though the far hills yielded up their shadows, the morning mist lingered as if reluctant to unveil its mysteries.

  Hetty sat motionless while the wind whispered through the leaves of the wooded slopes above her. In the clearing where she sat her horse, the wind wandered lazily, subject to its own mood. She lifted a gloved hand to absently brush aside a soft strand of hair that had blown across her lips. Drawing a slow breath, she let the peaceful feeling of the morning steal more deeply into her blood.

  The early sun warmed the air. It warmed her, too. All around her, the morning songs of birds filled the woods while a faint breeze carried the sweet scents of pine and black locust. Spring was the best time to come back, she decided. She was finally here. She had come home.

  The sunlight, sifting through the branches above her, struck golden gleams from her hair, most of which had come loose from its confining pins and hung in glistening ringlets over her shoulders and down her back. Hetty, too, had felt like a thing confined these past winter months, so with the dawn she had ridden here alone, a thing she had been all but forbidden to do. Freedom, however, had beckoned and she had not been able to resist its lure.

  Two years in the East had made her long for home. Boston had offered a great deal. In addition to an education, museums, art galleries and theaters were among its many attractions. But Boston had nothing like this. Boston could not compare to the beauty that surrounded her now. It was more than beautiful. It was wonderful. Inexpressibly so.

  She absently pushed her petticoats down. They were bothersome, even dangerous when riding through the brush, so she had hitched them up to her knees. She had even thrown her leg across the saddle to ride astride as s
he used to do because just now there was not a soul around to scowl or shake their head in disapproval. She would have donned trousers for her ride if any of her old clothes had fit properly. A faint smile touched her lips when she thought of the scandal that would have caused in Boston. But she was not in Boston now.

  Her smile faded when she turned to stare at the cabin. Her gaze shifted to the out-buildings beyond it. She saw no movement. The doorways were black openings, but vacant. The windows held no ghostly faces to stare back at her.

  And yet the eerie feeling persisted that someone was watching her. No matter how much she tried to ignore it, that sense of uneasiness made her glance over her shoulder once more to make sure that she was alone.

  No one was watching her, she told herself. Her imagination was running wild. It was cause of the stories she had heard. It was the mystery that surrounded this place.

  Her gaze returned to the log structure. In the past Hetty had ridden here alone, many times, and she had felt perfectly safe in doing so. But now there were signs of neglect everywhere. The yard was overgrown. Leaves, blown by winter’s harsh winds, littered the front porch. They were piled thickly in the corners in spite of the broom that leaned negligently against one of the porch chairs. Curtains still hung in the windows. But like ghostly remnants of the past, their purpose now seemed to be to veil the interior of the cabin from the outside world.

  Hetty shook off a strange sense of foreboding and urged her horse along the split-rail fence. With an easy movement she swung down from the saddle. The gate that had always been kept closed gaped open before her as if in silent, mocking welcome. Leading her horse, Hetty passed through the gate, noticing that flowers were struggling to find their way through the tall weeds. Sara had loved her flowers.

  Hetty tied the mare to the post nearest her and stepped up onto the porch. She hesitated a moment before she placed her hand on the latch. She pushed lightly and the door swung slowly inward on creaking hinges.

  The heels of her leather boots and the whisper of her riding skirt as it caught leaves and dragged them across the threshold were the only sounds that disturbed the deep silence of the cabin. Dust motes drifted slowly in the sunlight that flooded the doorway behind her. The sun’s bright rays also pierced the muslin curtains at the windows, but the slanting bars of yellow reaching across the wooden floor only seemed to emphasize the deep gloom of the cabin.

  Books and clothing were strewn everywhere. Dishes lay in shattered shards across the floor. Violent hands had overturned furniture and wantonly scattered Sara’s possessions. Looking for what Hetty did not know. Something of value, she supposed.

  Since Sara’s disappearance, rumors persisted that the cabin was haunted. A cowboy passing by had sworn that he had heard a child’s voice. Another claimed to have seen the ghost of Sara herself one night on the ridge behind the house.

  Maybe the place did harbor ghosts, Hetty thought, for it did seem to her that the shadows had eyes and that they watched her every move though they kept their secrets to themselves.

  Hetty remembered the day she had received a letter in Boston telling her that Sara Cade and her four-year-old daughter were missing. In spite of search parties being sent out, there were still no answers. Months had passed but both mother and daughter had vanished without a trace. If Sara had left some clue behind, so far no one had been able to find it.

  Most people believed that outlaws were responsible. The hills were full of them and their crimes had been growing bolder and more violent. Recent depredations proved that at their hands no one, not even a woman, or a child, could expect mercy.

  Hetty and Sara had been more than neighbors. They had been friends. Sara was honest, genuine and uncomplicated, rare enough virtues in the world.

  Life had never been easy for Sara. Her husband’s weakness for liquor and gambling had always kept them on the edge of poverty. And when he was drinking . . . Hetty had seen him drunk. Her opinion of Lubin Cade had never been a favorable one. The man should have been here to protect his wife and child. Obviously he had failed at that the same way he had failed at everything else in life.

  On the hill behind the cabin was a small headstone. A memorial for the infant boy that had died shortly after birth. It had been another hard loss for Sara.

  Glass crackled under Hetty’s boot as she turned towards the window. Several panes were missing. A sudden breath of wind lifted the curtains, made them float like pale ghosts into the room.

  It was at that moment that Hetty noticed a book on a shelf above her. She had to stand on her toes to reach it. In the book she found a crocheted marker. A fragile flower was pressed between two pages. There was also a lock of child’s hair and a verse in Sara’s handwriting.

  The wind, it whispered memories.

  My heart had gathered these.

  The woodland wove a secret spell

  As misty darkness fell.

  And when a restless wind arose

  There among the silent rows

  The wind continued to move the curtains as Hetty contemplated the unfinished rhyme. And then a rustling sound caught her attention. It was no more than a faint fluttering but it caused her to look up.

  A small white triangle, the corner of a piece of paper, showed over the edge of the shelf. It had been moved by the wind, perhaps, or by her hand when she had removed the book.

  She found several sheets of blank paper and, further back on the shelf, there was an envelope, still sealed. In Sara’s handwriting a name was written across the envelope. It was the name that caused the sudden change in Hetty’s face. That name was responsible, as well, for the frown and the far-away look in her eyes as they lifted to the distant hills beyond the window.

  Hetty’s hand lifted absently to the row of black buttons that ran along the bodice of her riding habit. She was still frowning as she noted how the sunlight touched the leaves hanging over the porch and how the sun’s warmth held the morning almost in a spell. She closed her eyes, lost for a moment in the past and in remembering.

  With an effort, Hetty shook off the memories. She forced herself back into the present, closed the book and, along with the unopened envelope, slipped it into the pocket of her riding skirt. She stepped out into the sunshine, leaving the shadows and the unanswered questions behind her. Mounting her horse, she gave a last fleeting glance at the cabin before she turned her horse’s head in the direction of the ranch and began her ride back home.

  The silence inside the cabin was broken by boot heels that echoed hollowly across the wide planks of the wood floor. They were unhurried steps, accompanied by the faint, metallic sound of spurs. Where the woman had stood only minutes before, a man now stood. He leaned a gray-clad shoulder against the door frame while his gaze thoughtfully followed the path that she had taken.

  The blaze of morning sunlight was full upon him except for that portion of his face which remained shadowed by his hat brim. It was a strong face with hard masculine lines. It was a contemplative face at the moment. The man’s dark brows were drawn into a slight frown as he, too, felt the lure of the past.

  The years had not changed her, he decided. He recalled much the same expression in those pale blue eyes as they had looked up at him two years ago.

  His own eyes sobered. He ran one hand along his unshaven jaw and frowned slightly as he took in the details of the porch. The wisteria had flourished in spite of neglect, twining rampantly around whatever it could find for support. As had the roses. The memory of the one who had tended those flowers followed and his eyes changed. Like stormy skies, they had depths that were unfathomable.

  Sara had told him of the envelope and its contents. And she had told him when he should come for it. He had come here to find that envelope. He had seen the look on Hetty’s face and he knew that she had found it first.

  He stared southward to the hills where the mists were still clinging, though faintly. He knew those hills, knew them as well as he knew his own name. As he stood in the doorway, the wind whispe
red against him, warm and fragrant and familiar. And alive with the secrets it held.

  Chapter 2

  “I don’t need a man to speak for me,” Hetty said as she set a cup on the table and poured hot coffee into it. “I have my own voice.”

  Her uncle, who was sitting at the table, lifted the cup to his lips, scowled when he found the coffee too hot and set the cup down again. Zebadiah Parrish was an imposing man past sixty with iron-gray hair and a direct, piercing gaze that was capable of making ranchers and ranch-hands alike quake in their boots. He fixed his niece with that gaze now.

  “And just where did you learn to express such notions so freely, young woman? Certainly not in Boston.”

  “Yes. In Boston,” Hetty replied as she set his breakfast plate on the table.

  “And did Boston also teach you that it is considered unseemly for a woman to be so outspoken about such things?” he queried as he unfolded his napkin.

  “Why, Uncle. Did you think that Boston was going to change me so much?”

  Zebadiah leaned back in his chair and considered his niece. The truth was, Hetty had always been outspoken. She had always voiced her opinions straight out.

  “I thought that Boston would- ” He frowned as he searched for the right words.

  “Teach me that straightforward expression is reserved for men only?” she suggested as she set a tin of maple syrup on the table before him.

  He hadn’t meant that. Not exactly. Not the way she made it sound. “I wasn’t meaning that, Hetty.”

  “Then perhaps you are of the opinion that a woman never speaks unless she first asks permission from a man. To make sure that he approves of her thoughts?” She was standing at the cupboard, reaching for another plate and she glanced at him over her shoulder.