Blackwood's Woman

Prologue

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Epilogue

Prologue

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Trinidad, New Mexico

September 1925

W
e met in our special place today and made love for the last time. Tomorrow
Ernest, the boys and I will leave New Mexico and return to Virginia, and I will
never see Benjamin Greymountain again. No, that isn't quite true, for I will see
Benjamin through my precious memories until the day I die. We cannot be
together, and yet we shall never truly be apart.

I had not experienced passion and real love until I met Benjamin. I would give
my life to save his, but I cannot stay with him. I have given him my heart forever,
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my li

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fe to save his, but I cannot stay with him. I
Blackwood's Woman
have given him my heart forever,
but I cannot share my life with him.

He brought two rings with him. They are beautiful, intricately carved silver
bands, each embedded with three small turquoise stones to represent the two of us
and the child we can never have together. When he placed my ring upon my finger,
I wept. He brushed away my tears and told me that he loved me. Then I placed his
ring upon his finger and we pledged ourselves to each other for all eternity.

If only there weren't so many obstacles standing in the way of our happiness.

No, I must not dwell on what could have been if our lives and the world around us
were different. I must be thankful to have known such love, to have experienced
such ecstasy.

For as long as I live—indeed, for as long as my soul exists—I shall love Benjamin
Greymountain, and know that my love is returned in equal measure.

Joanna couldn't bear to read another word. She closed her great-grandmother's diary, tied the worn leather volume with the yellowed ribbon and laid the book inside her suitcase.

For the past six months, ever since she had returned to live in her parents' home and discovered the diary in Annabelle Beaumont's old trunk in the attic, Joanna had found solace in her ancestress's tragic love story.

In a world gone mad around her, Joanna had lost the ability to believe in love; and she could not imagine ever finding joy and passion in sex.

She had to admit that the months of therapy had helped, but nothing could ever erase the nightmarish memories of that fiendish face or the feel of those bruising hands. Even knowing that she and the three other women who'd bravely testified had put their attacker in prison for the rest of his life could never erase the past nor undo the pain. His punishment did not end their punishment. What he had done to them, and to others, had irrevocably changed their lives forever. Had changed Joanna's life forever…

Her fiancé had deserted her, her overprotective mother treated her as if she were dying, and she had resigned from her job at the museum, unable to cope with being around people every day. People who whispered behind her back.

But she knew she could not go on forever in this state of recovery. She was young and healthy, with the rest of her life ahead of her. And she had decided that she did not want to stay in Richmond where everyone knew what had happened to her, where her mother smothered her with attention, where she might run into her ex-fiancé and his new girlfriend. She'd made up her mind weeks ago, but had told her mother only today.

She, Joanna Beaumont, was moving to Trinidad, New Mexico, to find a new life, to paint the land and the people her great-grandmother had found so fascinating, and to dream of finding a man who would love her the way Benjamin Greymountain had loved Annabelle. A tender, sensitive and gentle man.

Joanna lifted from her suitcase a small leather pouch that had been tied to the diary she'd found in Annabelle's trunk. She loosened the drawstring, turned the pouch upside down and dumped the contents into her hand. She stared at the exquisitely lovely silver-and-turquoise ring, then picked it up and slipped it on the third finger of her right hand. It was a perfect fit.

Chapter 1

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Blackwood's Woman

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N
o
. Absolutely, positively no. Not now. Not today. Not on this lonely stretch of road.

Not when it was ninety degrees in the shade.

Glancing at the red warning signal, Joanna Beaumont groaned. What could be wrong? Her Jeep Ranger was less than four years old and she had it serviced regularly. How dare it cause her a problem when she took such good care of it!

She wondered just how far she could drive with the warning light on before the vehicle quit. She was miles away from the ranch, even farther from Trinidad, and she'd left the reservation behind nearly two hours ago.

Clouds of white steam rose from beneath the Ranger's hood. Damn! That had to mean either the radiator was overheating or one of those stupid hoses had burst.

Admitting defeat, at least temporarily, Joanna pulled the Jeep to the side of the road, cut the engine and sat there fuming for several minutes. Well, no use just sitting. She popped the hood, opened the door, got out and marched around to the front of the Jeep. Water. She heard water dripping. No, she heard water pouring.

Billows of steam gushed from the engine. Joanna kicked the front bumper, then yelped when pain shot through her foot. If it had been a flat tire, she could have fixed it, but this was altogether different.

She gazed up at the midafternoon sun, blinding in its intensity. Elena and Alex were in Santa Fe and wouldn't be home until late, so if she called the ranch, she'd have to ask Cliff Lansdell to help her. It wasn't that she disliked the ranch foreman, it was just that Cliff had a difficult time accepting the fact she wasn't interested in a relationship with him.

When the steam began to subside, Joanna leaned over cautiously and peeped beneath the hood. At first she couldn't see anything wrong, then she noticed a small tear in the radiator hose. Dammit! Well, she didn't have any choice. She'd just have to call Cliff and allow him to play her knight in shining armor.

Perspiration beaded on her forehead. Late springtime in northern New Mexico might be cooler than in the southern part of the state, but daytime temperatures could still rise to smoldering degrees in the month of May. When she'd first come to Trinidad, over four years ago, Joanna would have expected nothing but an arid desert region, had it not been for Annabelle Beaumont's descriptions of the mountains and trees and crystal-clear streams.

Slipping inside the Jeep, Joanna lifted her cellular phone and dialed the Blackwood ranch. The phone didn't ring. What now? Glancing at the phone's digital face, she saw that the battery was low. It was her own fault; she'd forgotten to charge the battery last night. How could she have been so stupid?

Now what was she going to do? Well, there was only one thing to do—start walking. It was a good ten miles to the ranch house, but if she was lucky, someone she knew would come along and give her a lift. Trinidad was a small town and she knew practically the whole population.

Locking the Jeep, Joanna swung her enormous leather purse, containing her 25-mm
semiautomatic, over her shoulder and headed straight up the road. She hadn't gone far when she thought she heard the sound of drums—somewhere far away, just a distant rumble. Perhaps it was thunder. Well, rain in New Mexico wasn't impossible. Maybe an electrical storm was brewing. Glancing up, she saw the sky was still clear. And blue, so incredibly blue. Sparse, virgin-white fluffs of cloud F:/…/Beverly Barton - Blackwood's Wo…

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10/31/2009 still clear. And blue, so incredibly blue. S

Blackwood's Woman parse, virgin-white fluffs of cloud floated overhead.

Lowering her eyes to protect them from the glare of the sun, she saw a horse and a lone rider on a nearby flat-topped hill toward the north. Blinking once, twice, she felt certain the image was a mirage. But no. They were still there. A big man astride a magnificent black-and-white Appaloosa.

The sky at their backs, the afternoon sun coating them with a coppery gold glow, man and horse resembled a bronze statue. Joanna's heart pounded. Her palms grew clammy. There was nothing to fear—not in Trinidad, not from the fine people she knew and respected. Surely this man was from the ranch, a hand she would recognize as soon as he rode closer.

But he did not move, simply sat there high above her, staring down at her. She waved at him. He didn't respond.

"Hey, there, are you from the Blackwood ranch?" she called out as she walked off the road and began to climb the hill. "My radiator hose sprung a leak."

The man didn't answer her, but he did direct his horse into movement. She continued toward her potential rescuer; he rode slowly in her direction. Joanna swung her purse across her chest, unzipped the top pouch and felt inside for her gun.

She sighed when she felt the cool metal. If this man turned out to be a stranger, he was a possible threat. Joanna never took chances when it came to her safety. Since surviving the brutal rape nearly five years ago, she had purchased a small handgun and taken several self-defense classes.

When the horse stopped a good twenty feet away, Joanna stared at the rider. She didn't recognize the man, had never seen him before in her life, and yet she had the oddest sensation that she somehow knew him. Her whole body trembled, but the quivering riot was contained within, showing only a slight tremor in her hands. She could not stop staring at the man even though the very sight of him created a sense of foreboding.

He was big, wide-shouldered, long-legged and narrow-hipped, and probably well over six feet tall. But it was not the perfection of his body that held Joanna spellbound; it was his gloriously rugged masculine face. Straight, jet black hair that touched his collar at the back of his neck had blown down across his forehead, escaping his tan Stetson. Over his left eye he wore a black patch. He glared at her with his uncovered eye, the look unnerving her. Joanna swallowed, and tried to look away. She couldn't.

In one glance she took in his long, straight nose, his cleft chin, and the hard set of his full lips. Whoever he was, he was Native American, or at least part Native American. If he was Navajo, perhaps he would respond to their standard greeting.

"Yá' át' ééh,"
she said.

He merely glared at her even harder, and she instinctively knew he had understood her words.