A Find Through Time Read online

  “A well-told saga where love prevails even across time”

  - Janelle Taylor, New York Times bestselling author

  “A powerful depiction of Native American culture,… a lush, romantic, moving book!”

  -Sylvia Halliday, author of Gold As the Morning Sun

  Connected by love… destined by fate

  Struggling with severed family ties and a love life gone sour, forensic artist Gabrielle Camden immerses herself in sculpting the face of a young Native American woman whose parallel life takes her on an incredible journey back in time to Custer’s Last Stand. The path leads her deep into the heart of the Sioux nation and into the arms of a Lakota warrior named Two Moons.

  Gabrielle must reconcile her life on the plains with the one she left behind and the man who awaits her return. But before she can give her love to one man, she must lose the love of another.

  News reporter Roy Prescott knows there’s a story just itching to be told surrounding Ms. Camden’s latest project. But before he can soothe her skeptical heart and unveil her secret, she disappears without a trace, leaving him to search for her in the most unlikely place… his past.

  A Find Through Time

  Marianne Petit

  Copyright 2011 Marianne Petit

  All rights reserved. With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the author.

  Originally published by New Leaf Books, 2000 in paper back

  Cover Copyright 2000 by Teresa Basile

  This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  This book also available in print

  Discover other titles by Ms. Petit at http://mariannepetitbooks.com

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  The old ones say “Dreams are visions into other worlds...”

  Prologue

  May 11, l876 - Dakota Territory

  The whip bit down upon his back, flicking layer upon layer of swollen flesh from his body, yet the Sioux warrior held himself erect. To show his weakness would be more unforgiving than the white man's piece of rawhide that seared his skin like white-hot lightning.

  Sweat pooled on the bridge of his nose and upper lip. He dug his fingernails into his palms. Curse the blue clad soldiers who stood around waiting, watching. Pressed up against the pole, splinters worked their way into his chest. The rope around his wrists cut deeply. It mattered not. He had withstood the pain of many a dance to the sun, had gone many days without food or water on his vision quests. He must fight, stand tall.

  Again the whip unfurled its teeth upon him. Soon his strength would give out and his enemies would have the satisfaction of seeing him fall, but until then he was going to make Wakan Tanka, the Great Spirit, proud.

  “Tell them! Where is Sitting Bull?” The words spoken in his Lakota tongue by the Crow scout seemed many moons away.

  “Traitor! White man's dog!” He glared with hatred at the enemy before him. “One day this Sioux warrior will have his revenge and your scalp will hang high before my lodging.”

  His gaze shifted to the one with the hair of the sun. “Hanging beside his.” He spat the words this time in the white man's tongue so that Yellow Hair Custer would understand.

  “Hey-ay-hee-ee, hear my call. This is my promise.”

  “Hit him again,” he heard the white general order.

  “Fool,” the Crow scout whispered near the warrior’s face. “I gave you a chance, a chance to end this pain, but you refused.”

  “You my enemy, enemy of my people, answerable to the white man, it would please you to see me shame myself by taking my own life.” The warrior spat. “That is what I think of you and your offer.”

  Furious the Crow scout swiped his face, raised the whip in his hand and stepped around the pole.

  Pain shot across the warrior’s back. “My sister’s injustice will be...” His jaw tightened in anticipation of yet another jolt of pain. Again the whip unfurled its biting tongue. “... revenged.” His eyelids drooped and he struggled to open them. His vision blurred. The light of day seemed to fade. The fiery blaze on his back spread rapidly, devouring him in its jaws.

  Then just before he felt himself journey into that dark place in his mind, where the shadowed path led to light, he raised his gaze to the sky. Slowly the clouds began to shift and change form. The ghostly image of a white wolf with pale blue eyes stared back at him, hauntingly.

  His lids dropped shut. And in his mind’s eye, from the darkness that surrounded him there came a song, and a woman journeyed down from the land above...

  Chapter One

  Present day Montana

  The skull sat on the table challenging her to put all the pieces of the puzzle together.

  Clay in hand, Gabrielle Camden began the long, exciting procedure of reconstructing the face. To actually bring a find to life, to be able to look into that image and unlock a part of the past, made being a forensic artist all worthwhile.

  Starting at the forehead, she carefully placed a piece of tan clay from the tissue marker on the left temple, to the parallel white peg on the right temple. With nimble fingers she smoothed and shaped the clay to fit perfectly, cutting off the extra pieces that weren't necessary to the contour of the skull. She continued in this manner until she had the entire facial line in place, then sat back and studied her work.

  Tiny goose bumps pricked her arm. Just as before when she first discovered the skull. Nothing had prepared them-or her-for the likes of N-A-F, the acronym they gave their Native American Find. Or should she say her find?

  There was something mysterious about that skull. Not that it looked any different from all the rest she had examined over the years. Yet, how else could she explain the way, it had seemed to call out to her from its grave beneath the ground?

  On a whim, she had decided to stop by the dig site to see if anything new had been found. She’d come to the top of the hill overlooking the winding river, when the feeling had slammed into her like a giant wave. The pull so strong and intense, she'd known without a doubt if she followed her feet to the spot beside the river and dug beneath the entwined roots of the big cottonwood tree, NAF would be there waiting.

  When they’d finally found it, seven feet below, she couldn't believe she was seeing correctly. When she’d managed to stop her hands from shaking and held the skull in her open palms, she had felt a connection to that skull the likes of which, she'd never known before.

  A strange familiarity. Which, of course, was absurd.

  Disturbed by her thoughts, Gabrielle picked up her caliper and measured the gum line for the depth of the teeth and size, then laid the fork-shaped instrument back down on the table.

  She glanced up as George Stevens pushed aside the tent flap. Thirty-five years of age, her boss’ nephew, he had the IQ of a twelve-year-old, which made some of her coworkers uncomfortable. She wasn't one of them. A kind and considerate man, George followed the digs from site to site, doing odd jobs. He was a hard worker, and she liked having him around.

  “George, hand me that long piece of clay.” She po
inted to the end of the table.

  He handed her a tan strip. She placed the narrow piece across and under the skull’s mouth, then used her fingers to mold and shape the area until satisfied with the lips she had created. A large square chunk and the front, left side, was smoothed down into place from the cheekbone marker to the marker on the jaw bone.

  “There's someone outside waiting for you,” George announced.

  “Could you just tell whoever it is that I’m not here?” She'd been interrupted four times and it wasn't even eleven o'clock. Why couldn’t she ever finish a project in peace? Working in a tent at the site was like being in the middle of a parade with a headache.

  George hurried over to the tent flap and peeked through a slit in the opening. “It's that reporter, Roy Prescott,” he whispered loud enough to wake the dead.

  “Oh, no. Not now.” Last time Prescott paid her a visit, it felt as though he was photographing her with his eyes, instead of the camera in his hand.

  George leaned over her workbench and gave her a silly smirk. “He brings flowers.”

  “You know that's just a bribe. You'd think he'd get the message that he's not wanted here,” Her brow furrowed. “Reporters aren't allowed near the site.” She had to admire his driving persistence though.

  “He likes you,” George teased.

  “You remember what happened last time, don't you?”

  “Yeah.” He frowned. “You want me to get rid of him?”

  Anticipation and aggravation churned in her stomach. “Yes.”

  As George turned to leave, the phone rang. Exasperated, she flung up her hands, reached down and picked up the line. What she wouldn't give to be left alone.

  “Hello? Mother? Hi. I can barely hear you. This cellular isn't working well.”

  “Did you get the blouse I sent over to you?” her mother repeated.

  “Yes, Mother. I got it. Thanks. It's beautiful.” Gabrielle glanced down at the fancy blue silk blouse she'd unwrapped earlier. Another birthday present never to be worn. She flicked the tissue paper over the shirt. They were never going to think alike. With both of them being in the same field of work you'd think they'd agree on something.

  “What?” She drew her attention back to her mother's voice at the end of the line.

  “I said, the color goes well with your eyes, doesn't it?”

  “Yes, it matches perfectly.” She drummed her fingers on the table. Her neck and chest tensed.

  “Are you coming to dinner Saturday? I'm inviting a few people over.

  “Gee. No. Sorry, I can't.” Liar. Gabrielle sniffed with haughty denial. Somehow she never measured up to Mother's expectations. Willimina, the university's prized archeologist. Head of the department, top notch, best of the bunch, she’d always been too busy for the likes of her.

  Gabrielle snapped open the book about the Battle of Little Big Horn that lay on the table. Not a single soldier had survived that day in 1876, including Jackson Wilfred, her great-great grandfather. A sadness overcame her. She would have liked to have met the strong looking man whose picture lay nestled between the pages of the family photo album.

  “You didn't come last time either,” Willimina said.

  Gabrielle exhaled. “Yes, mother, I know I missed the last dinner party.”

  “So cancel your plans and come.”

  “I can't. I've got way too much work.”

  Scanning down the page she noticed the list of Native Americans killed was far shorter than the hundreds of cavalrymen killed that day. Approximately thirty-two Indian casualties. It seemed the Indians had fared better, but it could hardly be called a victory.

  Her mother's voice still rang in her ear. “You really need to get out more. Date. Meet a nice guy.”

  Gabrielle’s stomach contracted into a tight ball. “Mother, I’m not interested in dating.”

  “Look, I’m not getting any younger.”

  Here it comes. She rolled her gaze to the ceiling and mouthed her mother’s next words.

  “I’d like to have a grandchild before I die.”

  “Yes, I know.” A thousand times over. The paper beneath her fingertips crimped as she flicked to the next page. A picture of a Native American camp spanned the two pages. Life had to have been a lot less complicated then.

  “So find a nice guy and settle down.” Her mother’s nasal voice pounded her brain.

  Gabrielle pinched the bridge of her nose. Her temples began to throb. “How many times do we have to go over this?” She struggled to control her voice from quavering.

  “Look. You’re not the first woman to be left at the altar. Granted the guy was a jerk, but, get on with your life. You’re not a little girl anymore.” Willimina’s patronizing tone brought a lump to her throat.

  The pain of the day three years ago still hurt more than she cared to admit, and now, thanks to her mother, all the hurtful memories came pouring back. Gripping the phone with a tight fist, she swallowed dryly and took a deep calming breath. “Mother. I’ve got-”

  “To get on with your life. I agree. So get a date and come over.”

  Disappointment, resentment, burned her chest. The walls of her small tent seemed to close in, suffocating her. “I've got to hang up now. I have a lot of work still ahead of me.”

  Dead silence.

  “Well.” Her mother sighed. “I understand. Perhaps next time?”

  “Next time.”

  “Take care dear.”

  “Bye.”

  Funny, how retirement changed a person. With a twinge of guilt, Gabrielle hit the shut off button on her cellular. Now Mother had plenty of time.

  Only thing was-she didn't.

  What she wouldn't have given as a child just to have spent some time with her mother, play games, listen to stories like other children. Thank God for Jeffery. He’d been more than her tutor. He’d been her only friend; had filled a void in a lonely child's life. He’d made living from one site to another almost fun.

  At the age of thirteen, when her father had left, had her mother taken the time to comfort her? No. And her wedding day, she had suffered alone in a brittle silence that had hardened her heart against men; all men, whose reaction when it came to their feelings was to run away.

  An acute sense of loss weighted her shoulders. She straightened. Willimina wasn't going to make her feel-

  George swung open the tent flap interrupting her thoughts. “Sorry.” He raised his hands in defeat. “No go. He won't leave until he talks to you. Go talk to him. He's nice.”

  She sighed. “Doesn’t that guy ever give up?” Maybe it was her imagination, but he seemed to be hanging around a little more than usual.

  George shrugged and held out his hand.

  “Oh, all right.” She grabbed the flowers and marched outside.

  Blond-haired, brown-eyed Roy Prescott possessed a ruggedness and vital power that seemed to reach out and grab her. His chiseled face, bronzed by the sun, held a certain sensuality. Immaculately dressed in tight new blue jeans and a crisp black shirt, he held his slender but strong physique tall with confidence.

  She cast her eyes to the ground before her, keenly aware of her own dusty boots and soiled, creased shorts. Her stomach lurched. What was it about him that constantly made her feel like an adolescent schoolgirl with a crush? Damn. She glanced back up. Why did he have to be so good looking? And since when did his hair get long enough to tie back?

  The sun glistened off a long silver feather hanging from his ear. Though the earring didn't quite fit her old image of him, it couldn’t detract from his overwhelming masculinity. And that smile. Her heart pounded foolishly. What the hell was the matter with her? Had she completely lost it? She wasn't interested in dating. Not him, not anyone. She pushed a strand of dark hair from her eye, squared her shoulders and handed him the bouquet.

  “Here. I can't accept these. Thanks anyway.”

  His stance solid, he crossed his arms in front of his chest, refusing the flowers. The set of his chin suggested a s
tubborn streak. He wasn’t going to give in too easily.

  “Please. Take them.”

  “Now Gabby, it's a peace offering. Surely you can't turn that down?” His attitude of self-command unnerved her.

  “Mr. Prescott-”

  Reluctantly, he grabbed the bouquet. “Don't you think we should be on a first name basis by now? After all, it's not like we just met. What is it, six months now that I’ve been hounding you?” He frowned. “Hell, I know more about you than I know about myself.” He lowered the flowers knee length. “You live alone with your cat. You love to read, know all the librarians by name, and you don’t cook.”

  “See. That’s exactly the point. You hang around too much. I…” God. Six months. Has he really been around that long? Suddenly his words sank in. “You’ve been spying on me? That’s-” A claustrophobic sensation seemed to choke her. “That’s an invasion of privacy.”

  His jaw clenched and he shifted his weight as though her words had disturbed him. “Don’t be offended. I’m a reporter. I make it my business to know my assignments.”

  “And I do, too, like to cook.” She jerked her hands to her hips.

  “That remains to be seen.” The smug grin and arched brow lit up his eyes.

  Hard defined muscles under his black short sleeve shirt quickened her pulse, sent a flutter to her stomach-a disturbing emotion. Why hadn’t she ever noticed how muscular his arms were?

  “You’re Frank Prescott’s son, aren’t you?”

  “Yeah, well don’t spread it around.” He clasped then unclasped his hand. “We all can’t choose our parents now, can we?”

  His tone was light, but there was no doubt in her mind that he meant it.

  “Didn’t I see an article in the paper last week about him?”