Warrior's Moon A Love Story

  By Jaclyn M. Hawkes

  Be sure to read Jaclyn’s other books

  Journey of Honor A love story

  An entertaining historical romance set in

  1848 in the American West.

  The Outer Edge of Heaven

  A rollicking contemporary love story set

  on a beautiful Montana ranch.

  The Most Important Catch

  A tender and intense modern day story

  of devotion set against a backdrop of

  pro football in North Carolina

  Healing Creek

  A heartfelt and fun tale of love and trust.

  Rockland Ranch Series

  The epic saga of a Wyoming ranch family

  Peace River

  Above Rubies

  Once Enchanted

  What readers are saying about Jaclyn’s books:

  I have just one thing to say about Jaclyn M. Hawkes’ book The Outer Edge of Heaven! I absolutely love, Love, LOVE it! Okay, really, I actually do have more to say about it. . . I never wanted it to end, and when it did, I wanted more. Debbie Davis

  I have to say that as a writer, I think Jaclyn M. Hawkes has hit her stride. I enjoyed every moment of this story as I laughed, cried, and even went for my own bag of Oreos and glass of milk. Jaclyn M. Hawkes has found her place in clean, contemporary fiction. I would love to see more stories like this one from her. Cheryl Christensen A Good Day to Read

  Wow! I absolutely LOVED this book. I could not put it down, not to do homework, not to sleep, not to clean house, nada! Fantastic book! Tamera Westhoff

  This book is a fast read and one that you really won't want to put down. You will fall in love with the characters and not want the story to end. I enjoy Jaclyn's writing and hope to read even more books from her. Sheila Staley

  Killer dialogue, and the hero was well worth the wait. It was definitely a fun read. Heather Justesen

  A Warrior’s Moon

  By Jaclyn M. Hawkes

  Copyright© November 2013 Jaclyn M. Hawkes

  All rights reserved.

  Published and distributed by Spirit Dance Books. Spiritdancebooks.com

  855-648-5559

  Cover design by Roland Ali Pantin

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form whatsoever without written permission of the author, except in the case of brief passages for gushing reviews and for use in a classroom as an example of outstanding literature, where the title, author, and ISBN accompany such use. All opinions expressed herein are that of the author only. This is a work of fiction. The characters, names, incidents, places and dialogue are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to reality is coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or publisher.

  Printed in USA

  First Printing November 2013

  Library of Congress cataloguing in publication data

  ISBN: 0-9851648-4-3

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9851648-4-3

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to warriors everywhere,

  both men and women,

  who are willing to leave home and family,

  risking all,

  to battle for a stronger, more noble homeland.

  May we never forget their sacrifice,

  nor fail them in apathy.

  It is also dedicated to my husband.

  He’s earned my trust ten thousand times over and

  I would follow him into any battle anywhere.

  Prologue:

  Isabella Kincraig knelt before a patch of mushrooms, reached to gather them and then was still. The forest had suddenly become silent around her and the total absence of sound was a warning in itself. Anxiousness held her as motionless as the deer she sometimes came upon as she gathered her herbs here in this wildest tangle of trees. Completely still, she listened while she tried to sense what was wrong.

  Something was in the woods with her. The prickle on the back of her neck made her look around anxiously, but she saw nothing among the thickness of the understory. Worried, she turned to wake her small daughter, Chantaya, who slept on a blanket on the moss while Isabella gathered her herbs, but Isabella was caught roughly from behind before she could reach her.

  Knowing instantly who it was, she stilled, worried she’d harm her unborn child if she fought him. When he finally moved his hand from her mouth and turned her toward him, she wanted to slap his smiling face as she hissed quietly, “Let me go! My husband will be furious!”

  Young Lord Rosskeene simply smiled unconcernedly again. “He wouldn’t dare try to challenge me and it’s well you know it. I would see him hang. Then you would be only more available to the admiration of a benevolent landlord like myself.” His voice changed to an almost amiable cajoling sound. “If you would only agree to be with me, Isabella, you’d find that I can be quite pleasant. Even your husband would appreciate my generosity. If you’d come work right in the manor house, I’d see to it that you made a much greater wage.”

  He went to caress her cheek but she turned aside and ground out, “Your father would be ashamed if he knew of your behavior!”

  At that, the spoiled young lord’s smile froze for an instant, then he reached again to touch her face. He moved his hand down to gently encircle her neck as he threatened silkily, “If my father hears from you, I will kill your husband myself and take pleasure in doing it.” He gripped her throat for the merest second and then went on less gently, “Don’t try to fight me, Isabella. You know I get what I want. Always.”

  He leaned to kiss her and she jerked her face sharply away. He only chuckled and put a hand to her burgeoning belly and whispered huskily, “Is this child mine, Bella?”

  She couldn’t help the trembling that overcame her and she began to pray silently but desperately as she said vehemently, “No!” She jerked his hand away and pushed him. “Leave me alone! I must go! Your cook will be awaiting my herbs.”

  Without letting go of her, he leaned and placed a kiss on her neck where he’d been toying with it. “Ah, food. Another of life’s pleasures, but not nearly so satisfying. You know I’d forego nourishment completely to have you, Bella.” He kissed her again. “But, alas, Cook truly will be wondering where you are.” He rubbed the back of his hand over the spot he’d just kissed and she couldn’t suppress a shudder.

  Pushing her roughly away, he said, “Go, Isabella. Deliver your herbs. I’ll take my pleasure with you another day.”

  Chapter One

  Lightning flashed and in the sudden illumination, three-year-old Chantaya saw the whites of the cart horse’s eyes. Chantaya was frightened as well and hid her face from the furious wind in the folds of her mother’s cloak beside her on the seat. As a lone drop of rain found its way into the neck of her own cloak and made her shiver, Chantaya wondered again what they were doing traveling in the middle of a night as dreadful as this.

  Her papa scooted closer to them on the other side and when he put his arm round them both, she felt secure in spite of the slashing wind and threatening rain. For a moment, she let that feeling and the rocking motion begin to lull her small, exhausted body into a delicious sleepiness, but then seconds later that moment of security was shattered by the flash and crash of another deafening bolt of lightning and the cart was suddenly jerked violently forward. Chantaya unburied her face and looked out to realize they were racing down the rocky track they’d been following which wound down the dark hillside toward a village. Glimpsing a light behind them, she fought to hold onto her parents as she turned to see that the cart, piled high with all of their belongings, had somehow caught fire.

  The threatening rain hit in a sudden deluge as the little wagon picked up speed. Chantaya desperately tried
to hold on as her father sawed on the reins beside her and her mother put out a hand to hold her against the seat and began to pray frantically. Chantaya was caught up for a moment in the frightening motion, then the cart hit something in the road and gave a mighty lurch that made Chantaya lose her handhold. An even larger jolt to the side jerked her from her mother’s grip and launched her headlong clear over the wheel beside them.

  There was a terrifying moment of flight, then she hit cobbles and rocks with an impact that knocked the air out of her before rolling to pile up against the side of the muddy roadway. Her chest screamed with agony and a desperate need to breathe. When she was finally able to draw breath, she began to cry in pain and fear as she rolled to look toward the cart.

  It was still careening down the rocky roadway, but even as she watched, the frantic cart horse spooked too close to the edge of the track and a wheel went over. The whole flaming load tumbled off the edge in a horrifying cracking and snapping crash, dragging the frightened horse with it. In the near blackness, all Chantaya could distinguish was that the flames twirled as the cart tumbled over and over. Pieces of fire seemed to drip off the load as parts of their burning belongings came loose and were left behind the tumbling wreckage that finally came to a stop near the bottom of the incline.

  The storm still raged, but the relative stillness after the violence of the lightning-struck cart was frighteningly ominous to the now sodden and muddy toddler who lay in the track far above the inert wreckage. In the suffocating darkness broken only by the bits of tenuous flame that even now were melting under the sudden downpour, there was no sign of her dear papa or her mother with her great, tiring belly. Nothing moved except the trees blowing in the storm and the slanting rain.

  Far down in the village, a door slammed and Chantaya could see a lantern bobbing in the sea of blackness. Still crying, she put a dripping hand to her cheek to rub at the sting there and painfully climbed to her small feet. Mama and Papa were down there with the cart. She wanted to get down there to them. Even in the freezing cold rain, they would bring her comfort.

  She tripped in the dark and stubbornly wiped at the hot tears that irritated her eyes as she picked herself back up to slip and stumble on down the track. Without the protection of her parents, the rain drenched her unimpeded and her teeth chattered painfully, even when she wasn’t stumbling. The wind blew her cloak against her body and any warmth it might have provided was sucked away with each buffeting gust.

  As she finally neared the silent wreckage, she could barely make out her family’s strewn belongings. She trudged around Mama’s big washing cauldron and then tripped again on some dark item of clothing that was invisible in the inky storm. She fell headlong and then startled as she realized ‘twas her papa’s face that was there just in front of her own.

  Something was terribly wrong. Papa shouldn’t be sleeping out here in the rain and the storm like this. He needed to wake up and help her and Mama in out of the weather. Papa did those kinds of things. He always helped her and Mama. That’s what papas do.

  She patted Papa’s face and spoke to him, although her mouth was so cold that it wasn’t working quite right. Papa was so sleepy and didn’t respond. She patted him much harder and shouted at him above the wind. Something was terribly wrong. She needed to find Mama. Mama would wake Papa up.

  SSSS

  Storms didn’t usually bother him. In fact, he typically reveled in them, but for some reason, a crack of thunder had woken eight-year-old Peyton Wolfgar and he hadn’t been able to go back to sleep in his bed in the loft above his parents. The wind whistling through the eves had always been comforting to him secure here in the cottage, but on this night it seemed to carry a warning. He turned on his side and snuggled deeper into the ticking of his bedding and wadded his pillow under his cheek. That was a wicked storm. ‘Twas cold even here near the ceiling and it was only early fall.

  After another thunderous crash he sighed and got up, tucked the bedding more snugly round his younger brother and quietly slipped down the ladder. He might as well build up the fire since he was awake anyway. Stirring the coals, he added logs then went to the window and cracked a shutter to look out at the wildness of the tempest. God was in a fury at someone on this eve, that was sure. The trees were rocking crazily in the wind that blew sticks and debris straight sideways.

  Lightning flashed yet again and Peyton squinted his eyes in the blindness after the glare. He could have sworn he saw something out there. Surely someone wouldn’t be traveling on a night such as this and certainly not down the treachery of the briar canyon, yet he was sure he’d seen something.

  He cracked the shutter wider and only had to wait a moment or two. The lightning flared again and this time there was no doubt. Up on the rocky dugway down from the ridge above there was a small, but heavily laden cart drawn by a single horse. Lightning struck again further up the ridge and Peyton shook his head and whispered, “God help the poor beggar that be travelin’ up in that on a night like this.”

  Tugging on the shutter, he was just turning to go when lightning flashed seemingly right on top of the cart. Peyton turned back in surprise when the cart burst into flame and then began to race down the dangerous rocky roadway. That track was perilous in the broad light of a clear summer afternoon. And on fire! The cart horse must have gone crazy! As the rain that had been threatening hit with a vengeance, Peyton threw the shutters wide and shouted for his father, then watched in morbid fascination as the cart plunged unchecked down the slope.

  His father sat up and rubbed his eyes, muttering about letting the rain in and had only just stood when he stopped stock still as he too spotted the careening cart through the window illuminated by the lightning. “Great thundering Methuselah! Light the lantern, boy! Quickly! Lord only knows what he’s about, but he’s in trouble! Quick Mother! Build up the fire and find some blankets. We’d best be . . . ”

  He broke off speaking as the cart, weirdly lit by the flames that were fanned by its speedy descent, tumbled off the edge of the track and began crashing and rolling to the bottom of the hill. As it finally slowed and stopped, Willem Wolfgar shook his head sadly and whispered, “Lord, help us. Bring the lantern, Peyton. ‘Tis not likely, but maybe the poor beggar survived.”

  They were soaked to the skin long before they made it to the wreckage that was strewn for an impossibly long distance down the hillside. Mud pulled at Peyton’s heavy boots and the lantern light barely reached out into the sodden dark in front of them. The sucking mud actually tore a boot from his stockingless foot and he had to pause one footed to reach down and haul it out to pull it back on. He shrugged his hood more forward as he heard his father in front of him say almost reverently, “Please no.” Peyton hurried ahead to see his father reach down to pick up a dripping rag doll with a torn dress.

  Holding the lantern high, they struggled to see through the storm to discern anything at all in the wind whipped gloom. Slowly, they began to walk back and forth, moving a few feet forward with each pass to search for whomever might have been with the cart on this harrowing night, but they found nothing but what appeared to be household items for several long minutes.

  But for the lightning, they would have missed seeing the tiny child huddled beside what at first appeared to be a wad of bedding. As the lightning passed, they were temporarily blinded and then as they came near with the lantern, the youngster was gone. Searching around, they didn’t find her again, although they discovered that what they’d thought was bedding, was, in fact, a woman, wadded and thrown, but breathing.

  Several more moments of searching revealed a man who hadn’t survived the wreck and then, finally, they found the child again, hiding near a bush. They could see the fear in her eyes and Willem said in a kindly of voice, “Go to her, Peyton. An eight year old must be less scary than a whiskery man. Pick her up and tell her it’s going to be all right and ask her if there were more children in the cart that we need to search for. I’ll go get the wagon to bring her parents.”


  Willem left at a trot and Peyton watched the little girl for a moment and then knelt down a few feet from her and began to speak softly. At first, she hesitated. She was frightened, but she was also obviously completely chilled through and finally, Peyton simply said, “Come little one. We need to get you home to the fire to warm. Come. I’ll carry you inside my cloak. Father will bring your Mama.” At the mention of her mother, the little dark haired child finally started to stand and tried to walk toward him. She was so cold she could barely move and he caught her just as she fell.

  As they walked back toward his home, he asked, “Was there anyone else in the cart with you other than your Mama and Papa?” She didn’t say anything, just shook her little head, making water droplets flip off the tips of her hair and run down Peyton’s chest under his nightshirt. “No other children?” He asked her further, but she shook her head again.

  He met his parents coming back out with the wagon as he trudged through the rain with the cold little girl and he knew from the look on his mother’s face that his father had already told her about the child and the condition of her parents. As they continued on, he wrapped his cloak tighter about her and hugged the child a margin more snugly. This little girl had lost at least her father tonight, and possibly her mother as well, from the shape she appeared to be in. ‘Twas a thing to be pitied. The child was a mere slip of a thing. Hardly more than a baby.

  Peyton got her in and before the fire and knew he had to get her out of her wet things, but he couldn’t seem to get her to let go of him. She was gripping his shirt as if she never meant to turn him loose and had all but buried her little face against his chest. He hailed his little brother Tristan to come and help him. Between the two of them, they managed to undo her little shoes and pull her stockings off and try to hold her feet out to the fire’s heat, but she still didn’t want to let go of Peyton’s shirt. She’d at least moved far enough away from his chest that he could see she had several cuts on one side of her face and a rather large one on the side of her forehead.