Forbidden Love. Cheyenne Dog Soldier Falls In Love With His Captive.

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Present Day

Montana

Ethan Gray rose from his dingy cot for the tenth time and paced the small area of his jail cell. He'd survived another night. The thin, hard mattress didn't faze him, nor did the cold, sterile white walls and matching sink and stool. The metal bars were another matter. He hated being penned; needed to feel the warmth of the sun on his face, breathe fresh air. The onslaught of a hard-driven rain chilling him to the bone would be preferable to caging him like an animal.

Next year he'd spend his vacation in a friendlier city, and one closer to home -- Washington, D.C. He thought about his job as Assistant Curator at one of the finest museums in the country. The position provided him with the opportunity to see and touch everything he cherished, artifacts of the Cheyenne people.

He'd have a lot of explaining to do if his superiors found out he spent two nights in jail again. Hell, by now a copy of the police report from that minor scuffle in Deadwood last year would be in the Judge's hands. One road-bump at a time, he told himself while limping about his cell.

Despite the current report, he'd try to convince the Judge he didn't go looking for the fight. The judge would ask him what brought him to Montana. Easily explained. He never missed the yearly powwows or a chance to shake hands with old friends, watch the ceremonial dances, and smoke the pipe.

A fickle breeze snuck through the barred window in his cell. Jesus, he could barely tolerate his own stench. What he wouldn't give for a change of clothing and a bar of soap before he appeared before the Judge. A transient moving from shelter to shelter put him to shame.

His only visitor had been a geriatric doctor scrounged up from God knew where. Arthritic fingers had poked around his torso and head before he delivered his assessment to the sheriff. "He'll live."

Damn, he shouldn't have stopped in this flea-bitten town for a cold beer, and he should have kept minding his own business when the platinum blonde with the big breasts sidled up to him at the bar. She'd asked for a light before three men surrounded them-blathering idiots well into their liquor and itching for trouble. A flicker of fire sparked in the man's pupils, so fleeting most wouldn't have noticed. Ethan's life, however, depended on his ability to recognize danger.

The woman knew the cowboy, had called him by name before warning the bowlegged saddle-jumper to stay out of her life. The feral beast awoke in Ethan when the man lunged and wrapped his hands around her throat.

Cowboy shouldn't have done that.

Chairs flew through the air, and next bodies. By the time the fisticuffs ended, it looked more like a firestorm had blown through than a bar fight. Ethan had dusted himself off and strolled to the bar to finish his drink. The next thing he knew, a freight train roared in his head and white lights exploded behind his lids. He'd awakened in this damn jail cell with the cold-fingered doctor poking around his bruised body.

Ethan stopped his pacing long enough to cock his ear toward the hallway. Yep, as suspected, the soft padding of footsteps echoed against the floor, moccasins to be exact.

Moments later, the sheriff stood before the iron bars, unable to hide his smart-ass smirk. "You got company. You also got ten minutes before you appear in front of the Judge. Make it quick."

Ethan knew about his visitor the moment the woman stepped through the sheriff's front door. Stands-In-Light, the ancient medicine woman of the Cheyenne, wrapped her spiny hands around the bars when the man walked away. "You heard me arrive?"