Warrior's Embrace Read online

  WARRIOR’S EMBRACE

  PEGGY WEBB

  An Exclusive Three-book Anthology

  Indiscreet

  The Secret Life of Elizabeth McCade

  Witch Dance

  Warrior’s Embrace by Peggy Webb (An Exclusive Three-Book Anthology)

  Smashwords Edition

  All rights reserved. This anthology is a work of fiction. The events described are imaginary, and the characters are fictitious and not intended to represent specific living persons.

  Copyright 2014 by Peggy Webb

  Cover design copyright 2014 by Kathy Carmichael

  Dreamstime.com (Manipulated)

  Excerpt for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden, without the written permission of the publisher.

  Published in the United States of America

  Indiscreet (Author’s cut) Copyright 2014, Peggy Webb

  Publishing History/Copyright © 1996 by Peggy Webb.

  The Secret Life of Elizabeth McCade (Author’s cut) Copyright 2014, Peggy Webb

  Publishing history/Bantam, Copyright © 1991 by Peggy Webb

  Witch Dance, Copyright 2012, Peggy Webb

  Publishing History/ Bantam Fanfare

  Copyright 1994 by Peggy Webb

  Table of Contents

  PRAISE FOR THE AUTHOR

  INDISCREET, BOOK ONE

  THE SECRET LIFE OF ELIZABETH MCCADE, BOOK TWO

  WITCH DANCE, BOOK THREE

  BOOK NEWS FROM PEGGY WEBB A.K.A. ELAINE HUSSEY

  AUTHOR BIOGRAPHY

  BOOK LIST

  PRAISE FOR THE AUTHOR

  “Lovely, flowing prose…a nuanced character study.”

  Booklist

  “Wonderful style of storytelling…an unforgettable book.”

  Fresh Fiction

  “Webb captures charm and grace…sure to delight.”

  The Times Record News

  On The Sweetest Hallelujah by Elaine Hussey (pen name for Peggy Webb)

  “Hussey has written a lovely, poetic book about race, love, mothers, daughters

  and friends that navigates a spectrum of emotional minefields.”

  Kirkus Review

  “With The Sweetest Hallelujah, Webb has joined the ranks of the Southern literary greats.”

  Kathy Fong Yoneda, former Disney executive

  On The Tender Mercy of Roses by Peggy Webb writing as Anna Michaels

  “An unforgettable story told with astonishing skill and clarity by a truly gifted writer.”

  NY Times bestselling author PAT CONROY

  “A thrilling page-turner…a treasure!”

  CASSANDRA KING, author of The Same Sweet Girls

  “Enchanting …magical moments of insight that took my breath away!”

  NY Times bestselling author MARY ALICE MONROE

  “A magical story…lyrical and powerful.”

  NY Times bestselling author, PATTI CALLAHAN HENRY

  “A story so moving and lyrically written it sometimes seems like a dream.”

  Delta Magazine

  On The Language of Silence by Peggy Webb

  “Recommended for fans of Water for Elephants.”

  Library Journal

  “Beautiful and terrifying…the kind of book you want to say, Go away, go away, I’m reading.”

  CA bookseller

  “Magical...a page turning novel.”

  Publisher’s Weekly

  INDISCREET

  PEGGY WEBB

  DEDICATION

  To my dear friend, Shirley, who fought with grace and courage against breast cancer—-and won.

  ONE

  “Bolton, I need you to fly down to Mississippi and interview Virginia Haven.”

  Glenda Williams, editor of Famous Faces, Famous Places always got straight to the point.

  Bolton’s horse was saddled, his camping gear packed, and his dog waiting at the door. Outside his window the White Mountains beckoned. He hesitated only a moment before answering.

  “I’m going camping. Send somebody else.”

  “Who? Luke Farkins? Samuel Bevins? She’d chew them up and spit them out.”

  “That’s not my problem.”

  “Look, Bolton. Virginia Haven is the hottest writer today. She’s just come out with another blockbuster, and every magazine in the country wants a shot at her. But we got her. You understand that? She’s granting one interview, and she’s requested you.”

  Bolton Gray Wolf felt a surge of adrenaline. The wind sang through the trees, his horse whinnied, and his dog tugged at his pants’ leg. Still, he was being granted an exclusive, and with a woman who was said to be as difficult as she was famous.

  “Why me?”

  “Don’t you ever look in the mirror? Women bare everything they’ve got when they see you. You’re the only photojournalist alive who could make the presidents of Mt. Rushmore give up their secrets.”

  Bolton laughed. “Does that mean you’ve finally realized I’m good?”

  “That’s what I just said. Come on, Bolton, stop giving me a hard time. You know you love a challenge.”

  He did. And that’s why he unpacked his camping gear, repacked for the muggy Indian summer days of Mississippi, and apologized to his horse and his dog for the inconvenience of a delayed trip.

  “We’ll go as soon as I get back, fellows. I promise.”

  His dog Bear forgave him with a thorough tongue bath, and the stallion Lancelot nuzzled his hand and permitted extra stroking. He stayed so long in the stables, he had time to do little more than change his shirt and run a brush through his wild black hair before his date with Janice Blaine.

  They’d been seeing each other off and on for three years. Janice was a good friend, an adequate lover, and a darned good schoolteacher.

  “Hi, Bolton. You look nice.” She always said that, and she always greeted him with a kiss on the cheek.

  “So do you.”

  It was Thursday, spaghetti day. After dinner they sat for a while on the front porch holding hands; then when the stars came out they went inside to her small bedroom.

  Theirs was a comfortable routine, broken only by her occasional pleas for commitment. Around midnight she stood barefoot at her door and begged him to stay.

  “I can’t, Janice. I’m flying out early tomorrow, and I have to go home and get the rest of my gear together.”

  “If we were married, I would help you get all that together, and you could get a good night’s rest.”

  The back of her neck was warm and soft where Bolton rested his hand. Janice was sweet, intelligent, and attractive. She would make a good wife and a great mother.

  Tears glittered on her lashes as she took his silence for yet another refusal. He gently kissed them away.

  “Don’t cry, Janice.”

  She clutched the lapels of his soft doeskin shirt. “Promise me you’ll think about it, Bolton. Promise!”

  “I promise.”

  Bolton wanted marriage and children, and at thirty- five he wasn’t getting any younger. Of course, what he really wanted was the kind of marriage his parents had, a union full of fire and magic. Over the years he’d kept hoping to find that kind of love, but it had eluded him.

  He thought of all those things on the drive back to his cottage. The dilemma kept him awake most of the night, and on his way to the airport he stopped and bought Janice a ring. If the purchase didn’t fill him with joy, at least it gave him a sense of movement into the future.

  Sometimes a man had to settle for what he could get.

  On the pl
ane he forgot about the ring in his pocket. Instead he concentrated on the impending interview. Bolton Gray Wolf prided himself on the excellence of his work, and he wasn’t about to go unprepared for an interview with the indomitable Virginia Haven.

  o0o

  Bolton liked to get the lay of the land before he announced his presence.

  The first thing that caught his eye was the stallion. It was an Arabian, strong, surefooted, white as the crest of the snowy egret and as swift as the north winds that whirled down from the White Mountains and overtook the tribal lands in winter. If he could have a chance to ride that horse, then the trip to Mississippi would be well worth his time.

  The second thing he noticed was the woman. Tall and lithe, with autumn sunlight streaking her honey-colored hair, she rode like an Apache.

  “Last one home is a rotten egg,” she called.

  The wind caught her laughter and flung it carelessly toward Bolton as if it were something ordinary instead of a rich, husky sound.

  He shaded his eyes to see her better. She was a striking woman, made even more so by the white stallion she rode. The Arabian was a strong-willed, powerful horse, but even at a distance there was no doubt who was in charge.

  Over the ridge behind her galloped another Arabian, a perfect match to the one now in a full stretch just beyond the barn where Bolton waited. The rider was female, as blond as the first but not quite as tall and definitely not as sure in the saddle.

  Could they be twins? He’d been told that Virginia Haven had only one daughter, but the resemblance was so strong these two had to be sisters.

  The second horse raced to catch the first, but both horse and rider were outmatched. In a whirlwind of dust the first Arabian wheeled to a stop a few feet from Bolton, and the rider dismounted, her hair flying and her face flushed.

  “That’s no fair.” The second rider came to a stop a few feet away. “You always win, Mother.”

  Mother! Bolton prided himself on judging a thing right the first time around. He studied Virginia Haven to see what he had missed. Suddenly she wheeled toward the shadows where he was standing.

  “Strangers have been shot for less than that,” she said.

  Virginia Haven strode toward him, leading with her chin in the defiant way of a woman not accustomed to making idle threats. Bolton had been told she hated being interviewed; he hadn’t been told she would be openly hostile.

  He stepped into the sunlight. “I can assure you I’m not dangerous,” he said.

  Virginia gave him a frank appraisal that would have made lesser men cringe.

  “That remains to be seen,” she said.

  “Mother!”

  Virginia turned to her daughter. “Go on to the house, Candace. I’ll handle this.”

  “Oh, brother.” Candace tossed her reins toward her mother, looked as if she might say something else, then changed her mind and headed toward the house.

  Nobody in his right mind would call such an imposing layout a mere house. It sat atop a hill in a grove of pecan and oak trees, its wings and gables and porches sprawling in every direction. A garage big enough for at least six cars was attached to the west wing, and a courtyard that might have belonged in Versailles overlooked a six-acre lake.

  Bolton was neither intimidated nor impressed. Son of the ever-practical Jo Beth McGill, who preferred canyons to castles, and Colter Gray Wolf, whose taproot was deeply embedded in his Apache homeland, Bolton was a child of nature. For him beauty was the morning sun breaking through the mists of the White Mountains, a fawn wading through a clear brook, an eagle soaring into the vast expanse of Arizona sky. Nature in its untamed state had more appeal to him than fancy houses enclosed with wrought iron fences and protected by security guards.

  “I’m Bolton Gray Wolf.”

  “I know who you are. In the first place, I asked for you, and in the second, you would never have gotten past the front gate without credentials.”

  Holding on to the reins of the two powerful Arabians as if they were nothing more than Shetland ponies, Virginia started into the stables. “You can wait at the house,” she told Bolton as she wheeled past him. “Candace will make you comfortable.”

  His blood thundered through him like waterfalls after a spring thaw. It wouldn’t do to let this woman get her bluff in.

  “I prefer the stables.”

  Bolton stepped in close and took the reins of the Arabians.

  “My horses don’t like to be handled by anybody except me.”

  Ignoring her, Bolton rubbed the horses and spoke in the ancient mystical cadences of his people. The Arabians proved her wrong by responding to Bolton like children heeding the Pied Piper.

  No one had ever dared be so bold with her. Virginia would have put any other man in his place within five seconds flat, but Bolton Gray Wolf was not just any man. Besides looking like something she’d love to eat every morning for breakfast, he had an intriguing aura about him, an aura of mystery and power.

  Virginia didn’t want to be intrigued. Especially by a photojournalist.

  “If you’re planning to tame me with your virile good looks, don’t even try.”

  “It’s not you I hope to tame, but the horses.”

  Bolton continued to gentle the horses with touch and sound. He’d never done an interview with a hostile subject, and he didn’t plan to start now.

  Just as he’d suspected, Virginia’s curiosity got the best of her.

  “Where did you learn how to do that?”

  “I was conceived on a horse.”

  “What is that language?”

  “Athabascan.”

  Some of the aggressiveness went out of her stance, and she tilted her head to one side as she listened.

  “It’s beautiful. I’d like to learn it.”

  “I’ll teach you.”

  He turned the full radiance of his smile on her. Virginia felt as if her insides were melting. His voice was deep and rich and seductive.

  Oh, he was dangerous all right, dangerous and gorgeous and delicious... and far, far too young.

  Virginia shut herself down. Bolton Gray Wolf was off-limits.

  “There’s nothing you can possibly teach me that I haven’t already learned.” As she strode toward the house, she flung over her shoulder, “If you want an interview with me, you’d better come on. If not, you can hit the road.”

  She was halfway across the barn lot when he called her name.

  “Virginia...” Slowly she turned around. “You forgot about the horses.”

  It was the first time she’d ever forgotten about her horses. At that moment, she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that Bolton Gray Wolf would surely break her heart.

  TWO

  If she had a lick of sense she’d send Bolton Gray Wolf back to Arizona and forget about the interview. That’s what she told herself as she walked back toward the stables where he waited with her horses.

  His eyes were incredible, as vivid as the wings of a bluebird, and he never took them off her. There was more than professional interest in his stare: There was the hot, bright look of a man aroused. It wasn’t something she imagined; it was something she knew.

  Her insides quaked like a teenager’s.

  “What am I getting myself into?” she whispered.

  “Did you say something, Virginia?”

  “Just talking to myself. Everybody knows writers do that.”

  “It must be a hazard of the profession, sitting alone in front of a computer.”

  “Yes, it’s a hazard of the profession.” She reached for Starfire’s bridle, and her hand grazed his. Shock waves that would have felled earthquake-proof buildings went through her.

  Another hazard of the profession, she told herself. Constant isolation caused her to go slightly berserk at the touch of a handsome stranger.

  Her hands shook as she tried to remove the bridle.

  “Here.” Bolton covered her hands with his. “Let me help with that.”

  She should have told him
she didn’t need help, that she hadn’t needed help since Roger had walked out on her fifteen years earlier leaving her with a mountain of debt, a car that wouldn’t run in cold weather, and a five year old daughter to raise.

  But she didn’t. It felt so good to have somebody take charge. She’d have to be careful, or she’d get to liking it too much.

  “In fact, why don’t you sit over there and let me take care of the horses?” Bolton nodded in the direction of a bale of hay.

  “Is this part of your technique?”

  “Technique?”

  A hot flush came into her cheeks. She turned her back on him and fanned herself before she sank onto the bale of hay.

  “Interviewing technique,” she clarified.

  His laughter was rich and deep. “No. It’s actually a selfish ploy on my part. I’ve been wanting to get my hands on these Arabians since I first laid eyes on them.”

  “I see.” Virginia plucked a strand of hay and broke it into four even pieces. It gave her something to do with her hands. Otherwise she might have had to sit on them in order to keep them to herself.

  “I don’t want you to misunderstand why I requested you,” she said.

  He cocked an eyebrow in her direction, but his hands never ceased their efficient movements. There was no sound in the stable except the soft scraping of the curry comb and the cooing of pigeons in the loft.

  “It’s not because of the way you look. I’m sure women have told you, you’re gorgeous.”

  “Not lately.” His smile was guileless. “In fact, not ever.”

  “They should have. By the droves.”

  “Do droves of men tell you how beautiful you are?”

  “No. Not even one, unless you count Eldon Prescott at the post office.”

  “He must be a man of good taste.”

  Virginia cupped her knees and drew them up to her chest. The sun enhanced the bronze tones of Bolton’s skin and gave his black hair the sheen of a raven’s wing. Except for his blue eyes, he looked every inch the savage, as if he might leap onto the stallion’s back at any moment and ride off with her captive. And she wouldn’t even give a yelp of protest, not a single one.