Sarah

Book 3 in The Merry Widows trilogy
On sale June 1999.
ISBN: 0-373-29069-1
(click the ISBN to order online from Amazon.com)

Here is what The Literary Times says about Sarah

        A lonely but independent widow and a man hellbent on revenge.  In the third book of The Merry Widows trilogy, Theresa Michaels brings readers a heartwarming, bittersweet tale of love.

        Sarah Ann Westfall and Rio Santee have nothing in common except a fierce need to be cared for and loved.  Sarah is terrified when Rio first arrives at her house in the dead of night.  He uses his half-Apache heritage to scare her, but Sarah is not so easily frightened.  Although she would gladly shoot Rio, she can’t turn her back on his two young sons.  So she opens her house and loses her heart to a man who has nothing to offer her.

        Rio has lost his wife, his home and his livelihood.  He will not lose his sons again.  Hunted because of his Apache blood, he is determined to seek revenge on the men who destroyed his life.  He never counted on caring for the beautiful, headstrong Sarah.  Whatever his feelings for her, he knows there can be no future for them.
        Sarah finishes The Merry Widows trilogy in a most satisfying way.  Sarah and Rio’s story will touch the hearts of readers and linger in your memory.  Theresa Michaels is one of a handful of historical authors who consistently delivers a satisfying read, time after time.  
        “A sweet and sensual love story.  Theresa Michaels once again proves herself to be a masterful storyteller!”
        “Sarah will stay with you long after you finish reading it!  A heartwarming conclusion to a very special trilogy!”
        “Theresa Michaels’ writing shines in her newest book!  Fans will be delighted, new readers will want to find more of this author’s wonderful work.”
        -Kristina Wright, The Literary Times

Excerpt:

Sarah Ann Westfall awoke with a start in the hours past midnight on the seventh night of a raging storm that swept Hillsboro and the surrounding New Mexico hills with an icy ferocity. Constantly battling the force of the wind and the flooding to get to the barn to feed her horses had left her with bone-deep aches. Was it truly a noise she heard above the rolling thunder?

Or was this more of the vague unaccountable restlessness that had marked the past week?

She released a breath she did not realize she held and listened again. With one hand she clutched the quilt, but the other already gripped the loaded rifle she kept near her bed since Catherine had left on her marriage trip months ago.

The lurid hashes of lightning illuminated her sparsely furnished bedroom for a few seconds. Were she a weak-minded woman, she would indulge in a bout of pity for her lonely state.

But long ago, she had vowed to never be weak again. She had kept that vow. Still she caught herself wishing for either her cousin Mary's comforting presence, full of practical reason and the warmth that was the very essence of the woman herself. Or if not Mary, then friend Catherine's unfailing good humor to laugh away the feeling that something was wrong.

The two widows who had shared the house with her were gone, both remarried with Sarah's good wishes for the love each woman had found.

There were no regrets for herself. Once again she lived alone. She just wanted a reason for the panic that was holding her still and frightened in her single bed.

"It's just the storm winds wreaking havoc again," she whispered. She remembered that two days ago a deadfall limb had been ripped from the cottonwood tree close by the house and smashed the side parlor window.

But that had happened during the daytime, gray and gloomy as the hours since the storm began. Night had a way of making every creak of wood in the old frame of the house into a flight of wild imaginings.

She lay there for long minutes, blaming the storm for the ragged nerves that set her mind on fire. The only cure, she knew, was to get up and go downstairs to reassure herself that she was indeed alone in the house.

Lightning danced beyond the windows as she untangled her nightgown and pushed aside the quilt. She did not light her lamp. She wanted both hands free for the rifle. The floor, despite the bedside rag rug, was chill and damp to her bare feet. She hefted the rifle and walked out into the hallway.

The door where once Mary and Catherine had their bedrooms stood open and empty. The stairs were lit with brief, indirect flashes of light, then instantly shrouded in darkness.

Sarah stood at the top of the staircase and listened. She could not identify the noise that woke her, and now it was impossible to hear over the growing howl of the wind and slashing pound of the rain.

By the very act of taking charge, she lost some of her fear. But she remained cautious, too. Keeping her back pressed to the wall, the rifle cocked and ready to fire, she made her way down slowly. Drafts crept beneath her nightgown. She shivered from the chill, but fought against an inner cold, too.

Telling herself she behaved with foolish caution did not lend the courage to step boldly into the parlor.

Here she hugged one side of the wide doorway. From the two front windows came the flickering lights or rapid strikes close by that revealed the room was empty. A few coals still glowed in the fireplace.

When she stepped into the hall again, a stronger draft of cold air swept over her bare feet. The weight of the rifle, the very tension of her grip, seemed to pull her arms downward. She did not understand why she hesitated. But her mind quickly took advantage to supply tales told over the years of women alone who were terrorized by men without conscience.

Her rough head shake sent the long, single braid of straight black hair swinging against her back. This was not the time to be afraid.

She sensed something, someone motionless and most dangerous, beyond the darkened doorway to the kitchen. Alarm gripped her as she sought to steady herself. Her senses all were alerted. She smelled the wet mustiness of rain-soaked cloth. No wild imagining. From where she stood, she could see the lightning Rashes that showed the large round table, the chairs and part of the back door.

The draft was no longer chill, but cold, icy cold. Goose bumps raced over her skin. She forced a swallow, thought about calling out a demand to know who was hiding, but the sudden dryness of her mouth spread to her throat. No amount of swallowing sent moisture to aid her.

A few steps more. Sarah couldn't seem to take them. She thought of Rafe and Mary's visit with the children at Christmas and Rafe's insistence that she get a dog. She had refused, as she refused his offer to hire someone besides young Ramon to help with chores.

She was Sarah Ann Westfall, who had survived a marriage made of rosy bowers that quickly slid into hell. She needed no man. She didn't want one.

She had her precious breeding stock, the horses she loved, and the home she had struggled to gain and keep. No one knew the price she had paid for it. Not her dearest cousin Mary, or friend Catherine. She had made a life for herself, alone, and it was enough. It was peace.

She refused to allow fear to send her scurrying to the safety upstairs. Living the way she did, isolated from neighbors and far from town, with no one but herself to depend on, she could not afford to quake and hide at every noise. She was not about to let someone steal from her.

She pressed against the wall at her back, sliding her bare feet along the floor so not to make a sound.

But she heard her own shallow breathing, felt and listened to the racing beat of her heart.

Inches from the doorway, she stopped again.

There! On the kitchen floor near the back door were wet, dark spots. They were there and gone in the few moments of flickering lightning.

Damp palms and dry throat. Goose bumps and cold sweat. Fear quaked inside her slim, hard-workened body.

Sarah shifted her hold on the rifle, bringing the barrel up and taking a firmer grip. She was not about to walk through the doorway leading with the barrel, only to have it yanked from her hands.

She forced herself to calmly think of the kitchen, with the corner cupboard off to the left, the pantry door to the right, dry sink beneath the windows, wood box and stove against the outside back wall. Then the door. In the middle were the table and chairs. If she were hiding in there, the pantry would be the most logical choice.

There grew within her a fierce need to step inside the room and confront whoever waited. Above the increased drumming in her ears, the storm outside retreated to a muted roar. She reminded herself she came from hearty stock. Her grandmother protected her home from Indians when she had come to the territory as a bride, her mother stood in defense of the town when the marauding bands of soldiers turned loose after the Civil War had raided the Mexican rancheros along the Rio Grande.

Courage. She had inherited it in abundance. Or so she often claimed.

One step. Two. Caution or a bold entrance?

Sarah let caution win. The strength of danger she felt waiting had increased until she breathed its essence.

Her foot slid a little where water had puddled on the floor. She froze. Someone had stood there. Stood in the doorway and looked out into the hall. Watching her? All this time? Her teeth clenched to stop the inner trembling from making an audible sound. She felt him close. But where?

Dear Lord, was there only one?

Please, let there be only one.

Her night-adjusted eyes swept over the once- familiar kitchen. Now, with the eerie flashes of lightning, the room took on a frightening gloom that formed shadows where none should be.

Sarah made a half turn and stared at the partially closed pantry door. She leveled the rifle, her index finger coming to rest on the trigger.

"Come out. Come out or I'll shoot." She surprised herself with the firmly delivered demand. She edged around the table, gently squeezing the trigger.

There was a second when the overpowering sense of someone's presence swept over her. Before she could react, her wrist was manacled by iron-hard fingers that ripped her steading hand from the rifle's barrel. The ceiling beam splintered with the blast of one shot, and then the rifle was jerked from her hand.

A cold steel blade flashed before her eyes, descending toward her throat. She didn't move. Couldn't breathe. A powerful anger tore through her fear. She had vowed never to be helpless again.

Sarah threw herself backward and to the side, away from the wicked blade. She kicked out and heard a grunt of surprise. If there was pain she didn't feel it.

She was no longer thinking, but reacting with an animal need to escape danger. She swirled to yank open the back door, and escaped into the storm.

Instantly soaked, the gusting force of the wind made her stagger. Cold, primitive fear ran through her mind. The water was inches deep in the yard, and beneath it, the ground had churned into a treacherous sea of thick mud.

She could not begin to think of where to run. The road to town was flooded. She had seen no one this past week. The barn offered a hope of safety. But what if there was more than one? She could trap herself.

She slid and fell to one knee. Her hands found no purchase to help her to rise. The sodden weight of her long nightgown dragged her down. If she couldn't run, she'd crawl.

The intense, needlelike rain pierced the thin cloth and beat against her skin. She couldn't see. Her braid hung like a chained weight over her shoulder, but she kept crawling. Whatever hindered her, hindered her attacker. If she could make it to the trees, she could lose him.

Sarah felt nausea roil her stomach and send bile to her throat. She choked it back down. Her hand closed on rock, and she bore the sting of a cut without crying out. Strength flooded her body as she rose. She ran for the trees when lightning showed her how close she was to them.

Underbrush tore at her gown and welted her skin already prickling with fright. A limb slashed across her face. Sarah ignored it all in her panicked flight, seeking only to escape. The entangling long grasses beneath the water told her she was through the first line of trees and into a small clearing.

She could not hear the noise of pursuit over the raging fury of the storm, but that only served to increase her fear. She knew she was being stalked like prey.

Sarah ran blindly on, stumbling then falling over a deadfall tree. Her stomach was driven against her spine. Breath left her in a whomping rush, but she tried to lift herself frantically. Pinpricks of light danced before her eyes as she struggled to her feet, lungs sucking at air she could not find. She tore her nightgown free from the branch and took a staggering step.

She was driven down again by a hard body from behind.

Sarah lay stunned, still out of breath. Her hands and face burned from bleeding welts; She lay on the sodden ground, sobbing now, as she tried to regain her breath, helpless beneath the body of her attacker.

Her body was lifted from the ground and turned over. She lay very still on her back, and tried to see the man looming over her. The lightning denied her need to see his face. If it struck, it was too distant for her to make out anything about him.

"For you escape is impossible. I am Apache."

Words spoken with assurance. Soft and grating on already frayed nerves. Terror seized her. Less than two years ago, the Warm Springs Apache war chief Victorio had led his band of raiders on a bloody rampage throughout the territories in retaliation for the scalp hunters who killed women, children and old men for the hair that the Mexican government paid bounty on. Victorio was killed by the Mexican Rurales, but there were others who had taken his place.

And there were the survivors of acts too brutal to remember. And for Sarah, a woman's worst fear lived in these moments.

Her chest hurt, but air was beginning to creep into it again. Her hands clawed at the muddy earth. She swallowed painfully. Her vision was suddenly clear as his looming, dark mass blocked the rain and he bent closer to her. Darkness. Danger. The words to plead for her life waited to be said.

She filled her hands with mud and slammed her fists against his cheeks, pushing upward as she twisted and rolled away from him.

A yank on the back of her nightgown brought her up short. She gagged as the cloth neckline cut across her throat, choking her. And still she lunged, desperate for freedom. On her knees in the mud, she dug her fingers deep to aid her bid to flee. The sudden release of the pressure at her throat came as the well-washed fabric ripped from her body. Sarah used the last of her strength and rolled free.

But her escape was short-lived. He tackled her again, and this time held her down with her arm painfully shoved up between her shoulder blades.

She opened her mouth to scream, but another hand, callused and muddy, clamped over her mouth. A frantic, guttural sound, like that of a trapped animal escaped her lips.

She was flipped to her back and once more lay still as he knelt over her.

"To move now is to die." And Rio Santee, who had never raised his hand in anger to woman or child, released his hold on his prisoner.

Cold, muddy rain dripped from his shoulder-length hair onto her face. She closed her eyes, fighting to stay calm. She felt his hand brush her cheek, touching the welt there.

"You hurt yourself by running."

"Only a yellow dog attacks a woman."

She stiffened as he leaned closer, his hands spread across the ground on either side of her shoulders. His knees pressed-tight against the sides of her thighs as he bent his head lower. If she moved upward, she would touch him.

"No!" she cried out against the implied threat.

"No," he repeated harshly, shaking his head from side to side, spraying her with rain. He could taste her fear, it was that strong, that real, and he hated himself for intensifying it.

"You will deny me nothing. I hunted and found prey. Just as the whites have hunted my people. So many slain. And none thought to spare our women or children. We are a proud race. But sadly diminished in numbers. Does the living child care if the body that nurtured it was willing or unwilling?"

"They hang white men for rape in this territory. You they would castrate. For a start."

"Only if you lived to tell." With his upper body weight braced on his arms, he shifted so that one knee pressed between her thighs. Naked and trembling, Sarah listened to the voice of reason that warned her not to provoke him.

"Get up." His move was swift and graceful, despite the mud, and he stood tall above her, then jerked her to her feet.

Sarah shivered with a bone-deep chill under the icy sting of the rain on her bare skin. She was glad the lightning wreaked its havoc on the far-off hills. She had no desire to see him gazing at her naked body.

He caught hold of her sodden braid with one hand and threaded his fingers through the loosened plait. She stared at him as he bent down to retrieve her torn nightgown. If only she could grab hold of his knife...

"No more fighting. And you would be wise to obey." Rio handed over the drenched cloth, pushing it into her hands when she made no move to take it.

"Give me no more trouble and you will not be harmed."

She opened her mouth to reply angrily, but no sound came out. Not harmed? What did he think he had done to her, running her to ground like the prey he had called her?

After a moment she jerked her braid free of his hold and turned away, hugging the nightgown to her. She stiffened as his hands came down on her bare shoulders.

Sarah felt the trembling that seized her legs. She realized her flight and struggles had only succeeded in wearing her out. She needed to regain then conserve her strength. He couldn't watch her all the time. She ignored his other threat.

But as she started the long walk back home, she admitted to herself that she was afraid. He could rape her, he could kill her, and no one would know what her fate was until the storm was over and the floodwaters receded.

It was a chilling, sobering thought. She had only herself to depend upon. If she tried...no...when she made her next escape, it would have to be a good one.

Much as it went against her nature to appear docile, she pretended to be just that. She offered no protest or struggle as he guided her back to the house. Several times she staggered, and twice fell to her knees, but each time his strong, callused hand caught hold of her arm and lifted her to her feet.

It was only now that she fully understood how flight had depleted her strength. She needed time to recover and plan.

When she fell a third time, he lifted her into his arms as if she weighed nothing. Sarah used her iron will to stop the scream welling in her throat. She pushed weakly against his firmly muscled chest, distressed to note that he was not breathing hard even after their mad race through the rain.

Beneath soaked cloth, his flesh, as rain beaten as her own, still retained a great deal of heat, which warmed her along one side. She did not want to acknowledge his strength, or the way he curved his upper body over her to take the brunt of the storm. She clutched her ruined nightgown with a fierce grip as he shifted suddenly and opened the door.

The storm winds renewed their fury. The door was ripped from his hold and slammed open. They entered the kitchen in a rush, and he swung around, still holding her to push the door closed.

Sarah expected to be put down. It came as a shock that he started for the hall.

"You'd better let me go. My husband--"

"No lies. There is no man here."

"You can't know that." Her voice rose on a shrill note for he unerringly headed for the stairs.

"I know. I know all about the widow woman who dresses as a man, does the work of two and lives alone."

"Who are you?"

He paused on the stir. And even in the dark, Sarah could feel the penetrating heat of his gaze as he stared down at her.

"Who are you?" she repeated in a softer, and to her horror, weaker voice.

"I told you. I am your worst nightmare, white woman. I am Apache."

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