Endings,
Christine Dorsey
Read on for an excerpt from My Savage
Heart , Book 1 in the MacQuaid Brothers Trilogy.
My Savage
Heart
Prologue
“Y ou sent for
me.”
The figure slumped in the winged chair by the
fireplace straightened, his head jerking around. Fear sparked to
life in light green eyes as they scanned the room’s shadows. When
his gaze snagged on the man standing tall, filling the doorway, his
frown deepened. His voice, rusty with sleep, nonetheless carried
the sting of accusation. “Nearly a fortnight ago, aye. Where in the
hell have you been?”
Wolf stepped into the small pool of light
radiating from the single candle sputtering in its brass holder.
Shifting the long rifle he held to the crook of his arm, he
regarded the older man with narrowed jet black eyes. “I was on the
summer hunt... with my people.”
Robert MacQuaid’s fingers clutched the
checked cotton chair’s arms, but his attempt to rise was thwarted
by the leg, splinted and tightly wrapped, stretched out on the
bench in front of him. “Hell and damnation,” he cursed, fisting his
hand and striking at his thigh before settling back, red-faced,
among the cushions.
Seeing such frustration might have moved
Wa’ya, had it been any other who showed it. But Wolf’s expression
remained unreadable; the chiseled features of his handsome, bronzed
face, unsympathetic. He knew of his father’s leg. The injury was
the only reason he’d come—that and the gnawing worry it was Mary
who needed him. “You should be more careful,” was all he said.
“A hell of a lot you care, coming here
dressed like a savage!”
“My clothes suit me.” Wa’ya watched as
Robert’s contemptuous gaze traveled downward from the long black
hair that hung past his shoulders. The belted hunting shirt was
homespun, the leggings doeskin. “Besides,” Wolf continued before
further disapproval could be voiced. “I never implied I cared.”
“Why you ungrateful pup! I never should
have—” Robert’s face raged purple with anger as Wolf’s large hand
clamped over his shoulder, preventing him from standing more than
the broken leg ever could.
“I did not come to renew old conflicts.” Wolf
turned, his moccasined feet silent on the rug as he headed for the
door and the forest beyond.
“Wait. Raff. There is something you must do
for me.”
At the sound of his English name, Wolf
glanced over his shoulder. He raised a raven brow, and waited,
annoyed with himself that he paused... even more annoyed that he’d
even come to this place.
“You must go to Charles Town for me.”
The words were no sooner out than Wolf lifted
the latch.
“Hell and damnation Raff.” Robert heaved
himself forward on the chair, reaching for the crude crutch one of
his servants had fashioned. “You owe me. Christ a’mighty you’re my
son.”
“Your bastard son,” Wolf amended as the door
swung open. But Robert seemed to ignore Wolf’s words as easily as
he’d ignored Alkini, Wolf’s mother.
“I can’t go myself or I wouldn’t ask.”
Wolf’s snort was derisive. “I’ve no doubt of
that.” No one ever accused Robert MacQuaid of not doing what needed
done himself, whether it was working his plantation, cheating the
Cherokee, or defiling innocent women. At the thought of his mother,
Wolf took a deep breath of pine-scented air. He didn’t look back
when he heard the clomp, clomp of the crutch coming toward him.
“Send someone else to fetch your supplies.”
“I would, but there is no one else.”
That, too, Wolf believed. Since the day Wolf
left this house, Robert had ignored his son’s presence in the Lower
Towns of the Cherokee nation. If there was anyone else Robert could
prevail upon, the message would never have reached Wolf that his
father wanted him.
“Logan is north fighting the damn heathens,
and I can’t trust anyone else to bring her here.”
“My brother should well consider his wife’s
safety before he searches for other
Christine Dorsey
Read on for an excerpt from My Savage
Heart , Book 1 in the MacQuaid Brothers Trilogy.
My Savage
Heart
Prologue
“Y ou sent for
me.”
The figure slumped in the winged chair by the
fireplace straightened, his head jerking around. Fear sparked to
life in light green eyes as they scanned the room’s shadows. When
his gaze snagged on the man standing tall, filling the doorway, his
frown deepened. His voice, rusty with sleep, nonetheless carried
the sting of accusation. “Nearly a fortnight ago, aye. Where in the
hell have you been?”
Wolf stepped into the small pool of light
radiating from the single candle sputtering in its brass holder.
Shifting the long rifle he held to the crook of his arm, he
regarded the older man with narrowed jet black eyes. “I was on the
summer hunt... with my people.”
Robert MacQuaid’s fingers clutched the
checked cotton chair’s arms, but his attempt to rise was thwarted
by the leg, splinted and tightly wrapped, stretched out on the
bench in front of him. “Hell and damnation,” he cursed, fisting his
hand and striking at his thigh before settling back, red-faced,
among the cushions.
Seeing such frustration might have moved
Wa’ya, had it been any other who showed it. But Wolf’s expression
remained unreadable; the chiseled features of his handsome, bronzed
face, unsympathetic. He knew of his father’s leg. The injury was
the only reason he’d come—that and the gnawing worry it was Mary
who needed him. “You should be more careful,” was all he said.
“A hell of a lot you care, coming here
dressed like a savage!”
“My clothes suit me.” Wa’ya watched as
Robert’s contemptuous gaze traveled downward from the long black
hair that hung past his shoulders. The belted hunting shirt was
homespun, the leggings doeskin. “Besides,” Wolf continued before
further disapproval could be voiced. “I never implied I cared.”
“Why you ungrateful pup! I never should
have—” Robert’s face raged purple with anger as Wolf’s large hand
clamped over his shoulder, preventing him from standing more than
the broken leg ever could.
“I did not come to renew old conflicts.” Wolf
turned, his moccasined feet silent on the rug as he headed for the
door and the forest beyond.
“Wait. Raff. There is something you must do
for me.”
At the sound of his English name, Wolf
glanced over his shoulder. He raised a raven brow, and waited,
annoyed with himself that he paused... even more annoyed that he’d
even come to this place.
“You must go to Charles Town for me.”
The words were no sooner out than Wolf lifted
the latch.
“Hell and damnation Raff.” Robert heaved
himself forward on the chair, reaching for the crude crutch one of
his servants had fashioned. “You owe me. Christ a’mighty you’re my
son.”
“Your bastard son,” Wolf amended as the door
swung open. But Robert seemed to ignore Wolf’s words as easily as
he’d ignored Alkini, Wolf’s mother.
“I can’t go myself or I wouldn’t ask.”
Wolf’s snort was derisive. “I’ve no doubt of
that.” No one ever accused Robert MacQuaid of not doing what needed
done himself, whether it was working his plantation, cheating the
Cherokee, or defiling innocent women. At the thought of his mother,
Wolf took a deep breath of pine-scented air. He didn’t look back
when he heard the clomp, clomp of the crutch coming toward him.
“Send someone else to fetch your supplies.”
“I would, but there is no one else.”
That, too, Wolf believed. Since the day Wolf
left this house, Robert had ignored his son’s presence in the Lower
Towns of the Cherokee nation. If there was anyone else Robert could
prevail upon, the message would never have reached Wolf that his
father wanted him.
“Logan is north fighting the damn heathens,
and I can’t trust anyone else to bring her here.”
“My brother should well consider his wife’s
safety before he searches for other
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