Anya's ten- year-old son, Willie-boy, found his father hanging in the barn six months ago. He hasn't spoken a word since. Now the boy is gravely ill and there's only one man who can save him, Sutter Sky, a learned shaman known as Yellow Smoke, a shaman who was deeply in love with Anya at one time.
But fate had other plans—Anya was forced to marry a cruel man by the name of Lewis Fleming. Worse, Anya is convinced the ghost terrorizing them is her late husband.
Will Yellow Smoke put aside his bitterness to save Willie-boy, and how will he dispel the evil, sinister ghost from their lives?
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EXCERPT
I have lived in the redness of the stones that mark a path through my blood. I am a descendant of a forgotten race, but I carry in my hands the remnants of their fire – Blackfoot Shaman
West of Butte, Montana
1881
The ghost came again last night.
What little sleep found Anya left her drained and anxious. She dragged herself from bed, dressed in a dark blue, calico blouse, long brown skirt, and left the cabin to gather fresh eggs for breakfast. They sizzled in the skillet now, reminding of her of the hissing sound the evil spirit often emitted to frighten her. The haunt mimicked other noises too. It rapped its knuckles against the timbered walls of the cabin outside, howled louder than a cyclonic wind, screamed like a banshee and gnashed and growled like a weasel caught in a trap.
She closed her eyes. And other despicable things I can’t bear to think of much less talk about.
Willie-boy shuffled into the kitchen looking drawn and pale, but seemed intent on performing his morning ritual of calling Cobb, their ranch hand, in for breakfast. Even Soot, her son's faithful hound, lacked his usual vigor. His ears lay flat against his head and his long, black tail hung limp between his hind legs.
Anya called out to Willie-boy."Whoa, there, son. Where's my morning kiss?"
Willie-boy pivoted and looked up at her, his adorable, ten-year old face flushed, his dusky-grey eyes dull. He walked toward her, a half-smile lifting the corner of his lips.
Leaning down, she placed a hand against his forehead. Did he have a fever, was her imagination working overtime or had she truly cracked? "Are you feeling poorly?"
He shook his ebony head of hair.
That's all he ever did these days, nod or shake his head. He hadn't spoken a word since his father died six months ago. Not one. Most days she wondered if he'd ever speak again.
One day, pencil in hand, she saw him doodling at the table. When she looked over his shoulder he had drawn the image of a ghost—the specter's face leathery and marked by deep crevices and jagged lines. Underneath the amateur drawing, he had written 'Papa'. At the time, her heart sank. Had he actually seen the spirit? Psychics and mediums said children and animals can see ghosts because they've never been told not to. She knew for certain then he had also heard the ghost. Course, one would have to be deaf not to. Willie-boy wasn't deaf; he was—the bitter word almost choked her—mute. And, after looking at the name under the picture, her son thought Lewis had risen from the grave to haunt them. So did she, although they'd never spoken of it.
"All right, then," she said cupping his cheek, "run along and tell Cobb his coffee is getting cold."
She heard the door slam shut and then spoke to the ceiling. "Isn't it enough you tormented me in life, Lewis? Be gone from here now and leave us in peace."
Lewis had always been a mean-spirited man, especially during the drinking binges, but in the months before his death, he'd gone off the deep end. His binges turned into nightly affairs and paranoia dogged his heels. He would sit at the kitchen table, fingers quaking around the jug, ranting at some unknown entity. The unearthly look in her husband's eyes as he searched every dark corner in the room unnerved her.
Anya treaded softly around him, afraid to ask questions much less suggest he put the jug down. She had seen his wrath, suffered his verbal abuse on many occasions and had no desire to provoke him. He had never raised a hand to her, but in this new, highly inebriated state, the man seemed capable of anything…even murder.
Damn her father for insisting she marry a man ten years her senior 'He will be a good provider, gal. He has promised to buy a small ranch with fifty head of a cattle and a handful of well-bred horses.'
'I don’t give a whit if buys a fancy hacienda and a thousand head of cattle', she had countered. 'I do not like the man much less hold a smidgen of love for Lewis Fleming.'
With tear-filled eyes, her mother had stepped forward. "Anya, our good name will be tarnished forever if you do not marry and marry soon, before the babe….'
'I will go to Aunt Flora in Wyoming. No one has to know.'
Her mother had gasped. "And never come home again? Oh, I cannot bear the thought.'
Her father had banged his fist on the table. 'You will not name the father and Lewis has agreed to take a wife. The good man has asked for your hand and I have accepted.'
Back rigid, she had met her father's angry eyes but remained silent.
Listen carefully, gal. There will be no more talk of Aunt Flora or running away from this shameful mess you've gotten yourself into. I will not allow your good Irish name to fall from everyone's lips with a sneer.'
Head up, her chin came out. 'I do not love Lewis and never will!'
Hands out at her sides, a pleading look crossed her mother's eyes. "Maybe in time you will come to love him, daughter.'
Anya felt the depth of her despair in every bone of her body. She knew she could never love Lewis, not when her heart belonged to another, had always belonged to another. She was trapped, had no choice but to acquiesce to her parents' demands, and she had no one to blame but herself.
A familiar, frantic voice broke into the musings of her past. "Anya, come quick! Anya!"
Cobb's voice. Now what could possibly have happened? Standing at bedlam's door, a breath away from madness, she wondered how much more she could take—Lewis' death, her son's withdrawal from the world and an infernal ghost bent on terrorizing them.
Anya moved the skillet away from the heat, turned on her heels and rushed out the kitchen door. Terror struck her heart when she took in the scene—Cobb rushing forward with Willie-boy in his arms. Her son's face looked whiter than the clouds overhead and his arms hung loose at his sides.
With a hand over her mouth, she sprinted toward them. "What happened? Is he hurt, bleeding? What's going on?"
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