"He's sure making himself at home on property that does not belong to him," Melanie muttered to herself. "Who does he think he is? Anyone who knows anything about cattle would know that it makes folks nervous to have a stranger so close. What if he plans to steal a few in the night? Whose would he choose? Ours or the Brennans'?"
Not wanting to be noticed, Melanie drew her horse to a halt and secured the reins to a tree. Taking her rifle from the gun boot, she made her way stealthily through the forest. Up just ahead, a small campfire cast flickering shadows against the dark trees.
Her heart pounding, Melanie stopped to take a deep, quivering breath. Then she moved onward. She was now close enough to see the man sitting by the fire, eating. But his back was to her. All that she could see was long golden hair, his fringed buckskin outfit, and moccasins. If not for his golden hair, she would think that he was Indian because of the way he was dressed.
She had to see more. She had to see his face!
Just as Melanie started to move behind some flowering bushes to get a look at the stranger's face, he sprang to his feet, as lithe as a panther. His knife was drawn and poised in the air.
Melanie's breath was stolen away by his quickness and by the threat of his knife. Yet she calmed herself, knowing that she had the true advantage. She was pointing a loaded rifle directly at his chest!
Then she had another shock. The light of the fire flickered on the man's face, revealing all of his features to Melanie. He looked so much like Josh Brennan he could have been his double! He had the same sky-blue eyes, the same golden hair the color of summer wheat, the sculped jawline and lips.
The only differences were in the length of the hair and the man's build. The stranger was a tall, lean man like Josh, but his shoulders were much broader and his muscles rippled beneath his skintight buckskin clothes. Melanie was so taken aback by the resemblance, that she was at a loss for words. She stared openly at Shane, and he at her. Neither lowered their weapons.
"Who are you?" Shane finally asked, his eyes flashing dangerously. Yet though this woman was a threat to him, he could not help but admire her bravery. And her ravishing loveliness. Her hair was the color of the sunset; her eyes were dark brown, wide, and daring. She was slim and exquisite and had perfect, soft features. In many ways she reminded him of Cedar Maid, except that this woman's skin was white.
"It is I who should be doing the asking," Melanie said, finally overcoming her astonishment at his resemblance to Josh. She looked down at his knife, then back up into his eyes. "You are trespassing. I'm sure you know the dangers. I could shoot you right here on the spot and be within my rights."
"Why don't you?" Shane dared. "I am an easy target."
His gaze raked over her again. He was puzzled by her attire. She wore a fringed buckskin skirt and knee-high moccasins. Why did she prefer Indian clothes over those of the white people? Was there some wildness flowing through her veins? Did she prefer the outdoors to the white woman's fancy house? Did that not give him even more reason to admire her? Was she from the house that adjoined his father's? Or was she from his father's house, perhaps married to Shane's brother?
"I won't have to shoot you because you are
going to agree to move on, away from my land," Melanie said, swallowing hard when she realized that he was studying her far too closely. It unnerved her.
"Your land?" Shane said, slowly lowering his knife to his side. "And how is that you lay claim to land that once belonged to only the Indian and wild animals?"
Melanie shuffled her feet nervously. This man was not only dressed like a savage, he thought like one! Who was he? Where had he come from? What did he want?
"Are you saying that I have no right to claim this land that my father paid for and nurtured as though it were a child until he died?" Melanie asked, her voice tense. She slowly lowered the rifle to her side.
Shane's eyes wavered. He still didn't know which house she lived in. What if Shane's father had remarried and a daughter had been born to him? What if this woman was the daughter? What if she was Shane's sister? She had just said that her father was dead. Could that mean that his father was dead?
The thought caused him a deep inner turmoil, bringing the realization that he did want a chance to see his true father again. The pain he felt now was the pain of loss. He had felt the same long ago when he had lost his mother, and again recently when the old chief died. He knew the feeling well.
In his mind's eye he could see his father again as he had looked to an adoring little boybig, strong, his eyes filled with love for his son. If his
father was dead he would never know that love again.
Even if he were alive, Shane might not find love in his father's eyes.
Shane was no longer an innocent boy of four. He was a mana man who had been raised by the Chippewa. His feelings about life were Chippewa. Could a father with white skin and the ideals of a white man ever accept the fact that his son thought differently, behaved differently?
''Your father is dead?" Shane asked finally.
Melanie saw sudden alarm in the depths of his magnetic blue eyes and wondered at it. Why would this stranger care about her father? Had he known her father? If so, when? "My father died a short while ago," she murmured. "Why do you ask?"
"His name," Shane asked, gazing raptly down at her. "What was your father's name?" He could not remember his own last name no matter how hard he tried. But he recalled his father's first name. He had heard his mother address him as Jared too many times ever to forget it!
Melanie was shaken by the stranger's resemblance to Josh now that a similar cold determination had entered his eyes. How could it be? Melanie had met all of Josh's close relatives and none had resembled him, and none had been this man, for she would never have forgotten him!
This man. Why, he looked enough like Josh to be . . . his brother!
Melanie's hands went to her throat and she grew pale. Sudden remembrances of Jared Brennan talking about a son who had been abducted by Indians twenty-five years ago came to her mind. He had been four. Today he would be twenty-nine. This man who was awaiting her reply could be that age.
Could it possibly be . . . ?