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Chieftain
By Nan Ryan Harlequin Enterprises, Ltd.
Copyright © 2004 Harlequin Enterprises, Ltd.
All right reserved. ISBN: 0-7783-2013-8
Chapter One
On a chilly October evening in 1875, Shanaco, a mixed-blood Kwahadi Comanche, was playing poker in a private upstairs room of a plush Santa Fe, New Mexico, saloon. Shanaco was dressed in dark evening attire, as were the other four well-heeled white gentlemen seated at the table.
On either side of the handsome half-breed, perched on velvet stools, was an eager female. A beautiful blonde sat on Shanaco's right, a voluptuous brunette on his left. The blonde's slender arm was draped on the Kwahadi Comanche's shoulder. The brunette's red-nailed fingertips rested lightly on his trousered thigh.
Shanaco took no notice of either woman. His focus was fixed on the five cards he held closely in the palm of his right hand. He liked what he saw, but he gave no indication of his satisfaction. No one was better at presenting the classic 'poker face' than the steelyeyed Shanaco.
He was a skilled player who knew the odds and wasn't timid about betting. He easily read his opponents and was a master at bluffing. Shanaco consistently did well at cards. Some called him lucky.
Over the years Shanaco had won enough to buy a small tract of unclaimed federal land in a lush valley south of Glorieta Pass. There - doggedly working alone - he had built a modest cabin and split-rail corral on the New Mexico property. Within the next year he planned to stock his ranch and make a real home of it.
He had, from the minute he took possession of the land, ignored the angry stares and veiled threats of the nearest white settlers. He kept a loaded rifle at the ready to defend his homestead.
The isolation and solitude of the place suited him, soothed his soul. When he needed company, he'd ride down into Santa Fe for a couple of nights. Whiskey and cards and women, his three major weaknesses, were here to be had. Separately or all together. On this brisk autumn evening, Shanaco preferred to have all three at once.
Cupped in his hand were five cards that every seasoned poker player dreamed of drawing. Before him sat a shot glass and a bottle of bonded Kentucky bourbon. On either side of him was a pretty woman, each one eager to become more intimate.
Respectable white men were less than gracious and cordial to Shanaco. They allowed the mixed-blood Comanche to play cards with them, but away from the poker table they avoided him. Wanted nothing to do with him. It was the opposite with respectable white women. He had no trouble attracting the fairer sex.
At twenty-six years old Shanaco stood six foot two and weighed one hundred and eighty pounds - all lean, hard muscle. His thick shoulder-length hair, tied back with a slender ebony leather cord, was as black as the darkest night. His heavily lashed eyes were a striking silver-gray. Those arresting eyes could be as cold as pale frozen ice - or flash white hot with unmasked hatred. Or smoulder with sexual fire.
Shanaco was a highly intelligent man. He was well aware that it was more than his good looks that made him so appealing to women. His mixed-blood was, perversely, a strong magnet for females. Long ago, when he was little more than a boy, he had become accustomed to having beautiful white women make overtures to him. They were drawn to the danger he represented, thrilled by the prospect of making love to a renegade Comanche chieftain - to a warrior credited with leading murderous raids against the whites since he'd turned sixteen.
Shanaco was both mildly amused and quietly insulted by their desire to be sexually defiled by him. Each time he took a willing white beauty in his arms, he saw - written clearly in their flashing eyes - an unmistakable fear mixed with burning lust. They were afraid of him and that excited them to a fever pitch. They did not expect, nor did they want, a gentle, caring lover.
Shanaco gave them what they wanted: a hot, fierce, crude coupling that pleased them and meant nothing to him, other than meaningless physical release. The tempestuous loving involved only his lean, powerful body, never his heart or mind.
The game of cards did engage his keen mind and was, quite often, every bit as satisfying as giving a naked white woman what she desired.
Now, as he quietly studied his cards, Shanaco glanced up.
The sixty-two-year-old president of the Santa Fe State Bank shook his silver head and said with a loud sigh, "I'm out."
"Same here," said a wealthy young rancher, frowning as he tossed his cards onto the green baize.
"Too steep for me," echoed a third, dropping his cards, facedown, and pushing his chair back to rise, stretch and roll his tired shoulders.
"Well, well," said a middle-aged man who had recently inherited a sizable mining fortune from his late father. "Looks like it's just you and me, Chief." He looked pointedly at Shanaco as he shoved five glittering gold jettons toward the table's green baize center. "Going to cost you this time around, Comanche. I see your five hundred -" he licked his loose, fleshy lips "- and raise you five." He dropped five additional jettons atop the sizable stack at the table's center and goaded, "Want to hold a little powwow with them there two white squaws before you decide?" He laughed raucously then. The others politely chuckled.
The man's needling did not cause so much as the flicker of a dark eyelash from the motionless, silent Shanaco. His expression never changed. He continued to quietly study his cards without emotion, revealing nothing. When at last he spoke, his voice was low and well modulated.
"Guess I should drop out," he said, as if seriously considering such a move. His grinning opponent was already nodding happily and starting to reach for the stack of chips. "However," Shanaco spoke again, gathering up several of his own jettons and tossing them onto the stack, "I believe I'll just have a look at what you've got, sir. See your five hundred and raise you a thousand." He looked up then and smiled ever so slightly.
The other man scowled. He rubbed his chin. "You're bluffing again, aren't you, Chief?" Shanaco said nothing. The man cleared his throat nervously. He looked around at the others, as if expecting advice or assistance. No one said a word. He took a deep breath and stated, "I won't let you get away with bluffing me this time! I'm on to you, half-breed. Yes, I am. I call!" He tossed in ten golden jettons.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Chieftain by Nan Ryan Copyright © 2004 by Harlequin Enterprises, Ltd.. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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