When Passion Calls

Prologue

Spring 1827

The sun was low in the sky, casting orange reflections upon two fifty-foot keelboats making their way up the Mississippi River. They were filled with settlers bound for the untamed territory of Minnesota. The two-week journey from Saint Louis had been tedious and uncomfortable for the men, women, and children on board, yet it now looked as though the journey were nearing an end. The Land of Many Lakes had finally been reached.

Four-year-old Shane Brennan sat on his mother's lap in the second boat, straining his neck to see the lead boat as it disappeared round a sharp bend in the river. He wanted to get another glimpse of his father, Jared, and his twin brother, Josh, before the boat was lost from his sight. It had

been his father's decision to separate the family into two different boats, hoping that in the event of an Indian attack, at least some of the family would complete the journey safely.

No longer able to see the boat, Shane looked up at his mother, Amy, who was cloaked in a dark, hooded cape. "Are all Indians bad, Mama?" he asked. "If they come, will they take our hair?"

"Hush, Shane," Amy scolded. "You've heard too many of the bigger boys telling tall tales. They only tell you such things to frighten you."

"Then if I see an Indian, I don't have to be afraid?" Shane asked, his blue eyes wide.

"I believe there is some good in everyone," Amy said. "Even Indians."

Shane fell silent, satisfied with his mother's answer. He snuggled more comfortably against her, but was thrown from her lap when the boat jolted suddenly. As his mother lifted him back up, he looked over the side of the boat and saw that the craft had run aground on a sand bar.

Amid shouts and confusion, the men began helping everyone from the boat onto the sand. The weight of the vessel had to be lessened so that it could be freed from the sandbar.

Shane looked over his shoulder at his mother as a man carried him from the boat. Amy followed. When Shane was set down on the sand, his mother took his hand and moved with the others to more solid ground.

"Will we see Indians, Mama?" Shane asked, looking trustingly up at his mother. "Will we?"

"Oh, Shane," Amy said, sighing heavily. "Why

are you so full of questions today? I'm so weary of traveling. So weary!''

Shane hung his head, sad, then raised his eyes and began to look around while the men struggled to free the boat. The air was fresh and cool, smelling of the Norway pines that lined the sandy shore of the river. Chipmunks scolded and bluejays squawked from somewhere close by.

Shane's attention was drawn to a covey of partridges that were just within the darker shadows of the forest. They were feeding on the bright red clusters of pigeon berries that were thrusting through the carpet of brown pine needles beneath the trees. Shane slipped his hand free of his mother's and moved slowly toward the birds.

There was a great whirring of wings as the partridges took off, fast and low, disappearing into the lengthening shadows of the tall pines. Then everything around Shane became strangely quiet. The chipmunks were silent. The bluejays no longer squawked.

Suddenly, terrifying screams and shouts of pain filled the silence. Instinctively, Shane crouched down in the thick underbrush. Terror gripping him, he watched men, women and children dropping to the ground as arrows hissed through the air, piercing the bodies of those who were still alive.

Then it was all over. Frozen to the spot with fear, Shane looked at the carnage. His pulse racing, he saw his mother among the dead. He wanted to run to her, but instinct told him to stay hidden. As far as he could tell, he was the only survivor.

Trembling, sobbing quietly, Shane watched as several w

hite men dressed in fringed buckskin emerged from the forest carrying bows and arrows. He bit his lower lip in frustration as he watched some of them begin to steal from the dead while others carried their victims' belongings from the boat.

Shane covered his mouth to stifle a gasp of despair. A large, burly man was bending over his mother. He was removing her wedding band and slipping it into his pocket.

When the man straightened to his full height and looked suddenly in Shane's direction, the boy thought discovery was certain. The man stared for a moment, yet did not seem to see Shane. Frozen with fear, Shane felt a tremor go through him as he looked into the man's gaze. Why, the man had one blue and one brown eye! Never had Shane seen anything like that.

And he would never forget. All of his life he would remember those eyesthe eyes of the man who had killed his mother, the eyes of the man who stole her wedding band!

Shane huddled low behind the bush until the men left. When he felt it was safe enough, he went to his mother and looked solemnly down at her. The evening air was becoming damp and cold. It seemed to be grasping at Shane with icy, groping fingers. Kneeling down beside his mother, he touched her face, then her hand. Some warmth remained. He snuggled down on the ground beside her and began to cry.

"Papa, Papa," he sobbed. "Where are you, Papa?"

A shadow fell over Shane. He looked slowly up into the dark, fathomless eyes of an Indian. But Shane was not afraid. Only a short while ago, his mother had taught him not to be afraid of Indians.

Chapter One

The Territory of Minnesota 1852

Melanie Stanton stood beside her horse, a white-faced bay gelding with white hind legs, smoothing on her butter-soft leather gloves one finger at a time. With defiance, she looked from her brother, Terrance, to Terrance's best friend, Josh Brennan, as they mounted their horses.

"Terrance, no matter how much you fuss at me, I am accompanying you into St. Paul," she said firmly. The soft morning breeze blew down the front of her white cotton blouse, billowing it away from her breasts. "I want to learn the cattle business. I want to have a say in our choice of cattle. Why shouldn't I? It's my right. The farm is partly mine."

Terrance's spine stiffened as he glowered at Melanie. He circled his reins so tightly around his

fingers that the leather cut painfully into his flesh. He could not help but resent his sister. She was eighteen, still a mere girl. He was twenty-five. Yet she had been given an equal share in the inheritance when their father died. Terrance had felt his manhood stripped away at the reading of the will. It was a man's place to run things; a man ought to have full control of his destiny.

"Melanie, must you remind me of your rights again?" Terrance asked, sliding his wide-brimmed hat back from his brow, revealing dark, wiry hair. He toyed nervously with his narrow mustache. "Pop's been dead a year and since then you've been nothing but a nuisance."