Native Gold

Book 1: California Legends Trilogy

by Glynnis Campbell

Genres: Historical Romance; Multicultural & Interracial Romance; Western Romance; American Romance; Native American; California Gold Rush; 1800s; mail order bride; Old West; shotgun wedding; artist; strong heroines

Synopsis

A unique love letter from the author to her Gold Rush home town of Paradise, California -- the town lost in the devastating Camp Fire of 2018...

From USA Today bestselling author Glynnis Campbell...A rebellious artist becomes a Gold Rush mail-order bride, but when fate makes her a widow, she's tempted by a fierce native in whose arms she discovers a forbidden love.

Mathilda Hardwicke, a rebellious artist rejected by her family and New York society, heads west to Gold Rush California to make a new life for herself as a mail-order bride. When fate leaves her at the altar in Paradise Bar–a ramshackle gold camp full of ragtag miners–she's sure she's leaped out of the frying pan and into the fire.

But unbeknownst to Mattie, she has a protector. Sakote, a fierce Konkow warrior, is bound by honor to watch over the white woman. And though his tribe is threatened by the encroaching miners, he's strangely drawn to Mattie, who delights in making pictures of him and whose destiny seems entwined with his.

When a tragedy at the camp forces Sakote to steal Mattie away, she finds herself in an unfamiliar Paradise of savage wonder, and she soon discovers a forbidden love more precious than gold.

NATIVE GOLD
Book 1 of California Legends
These are chronicles of the Old West–of the native people who lived on the land for generations and the pioneers who came from all over the world in search of riches...the struggle to survive in a land without laws...the strange bedfellows that resulted from the clash of cultures...and the common language of the heart that spoke of a love more precious than gold.

Length: 106,000 words = 325 pages
Rating: R-rated for passionate passages

In This Series

California Legends
1850 – NATIVE GOLD
1875 – NATIVE WOLF
1875 – NATIVE HAWK

Key Themes: Native American historical romance, adventure stories, strong women, multicultural romance, Westerns, female artist, California Gold Rush, 1800s, mail order bride, shotgun wedding, the Old West, Konkow tribe, stories with humor

More Historical Romances by Glynnis Campbell

The Warrior Maids of Rivenloch
THE SHIPWRECK (a novella)
A YULETIDE KISS (a short story)
LADY DANGER
CAPTIVE HEART
KNIGHT'S PRIZE

The Knights of de Ware
THE HANDFASTING (a novella)
MY CHAMPION
MY WARRIOR
MY HERO

Medieval Outlaws
THE REIVER (a novella)
DANGER'S KISS
PASSION'S EXILE
DESIRE'S RANSOM

Scottish Lasses
THE OUTCAST (a novella)
MacFARLAND'S LASS
MacADAM'S LASS
MacKENZIE'S LASS

California Legends
NATIVE GOLD
NATIVE WOLF
NATIVE HAWK

Release date: April 23, 2013

Publisher: Glynnis Campbell

Print pages: 325

Sample

Sakote had planned to snare a few squirrels today for the evening stew, but he’d left his hunting pouch at the waterfall.  He frowned.  He’d hoped to avoid places that would remind him of the white woman.  But he had to retrieve it.  The deerskin pouch was a gift from his father, and the tools in it—the snares, the knives, the mountain hemp line—would take days to replace.

So with a parcel of dried deer meat and a promise to his mother that he’d bring back some woodpecker feathers for her husband’s wahiete—his ceremonial crown, Sakote set off for the waterfall.

The pouch was where he’d left it, beside the great boulder.  But he couldn’t help searching the wet banks of the pool, looking for some sign of the woman who’d come here with him.  There was nothing.  She’d left behind no scrap of cloth, no scent, not even a footprint.

Of course, that didn’t mean her spirit was gone.  She lingered here still—in the gurgle of water over the stones, so much like her laughter, in the verdant depths of the pool, like her eyes, and in the heat of the sun upon his shoulder, reminding him of the warmth of her arms around him.

"Damn!"  There were no words of anger or frustration in Sakote’s language, so he borrowed the curse from the white man.

It didn’t matter what the elders said, what the dream tried to tell him, how tempting Mati was.  He must follow the old ways, the ways of the Konkow, or they would be lost.  The white woman showed him another path, a dangerous path, a path he must not take.

The sun continued to blaze upon his back, and he knew a quick swim in the pond would cool his blood.  He took off his moccasins, freed his hair, and loosened the thong around his breechcloth, letting it fall to the ground.  Climbing to the crest of the boulder, he took a full breath and dove into the shimmering midst of the pool.

The bracing water sizzled over his skin as he plunged deep through the waves.  The chill current swept past his body, swirling his hair like the long underwater moss, washing away his thoughts.

He broke the surface and shook his hair back, then swam for the waterfall.  It pounded the rock like a kilemi, a log drum, and made a mist that hid the small cave behind the fall.  He climbed out onto the slippery ledge and stood up, easing forward into the path of the fall, where it pummeled him with punishing force, driving white spears into his bent back and shoulders.  The pounding awakened his body and challenged him.  He slowly raised his head, braced his feet, reached toward the sky with outstretched arms, and withstood the heavy fall of water with a triumphant smile.

Unfortunately, the loud thunder of the fall prevented him from hearing that he was no longer alone at the pool.

 

###

 

Mattie’s jaw dropped.  Her breath caught.

After sketching miners all morning, she’d decided to make a few drawings of the waterfall.  She remembered the way there, and though she might have hoped the Indian would return, she didn’t really expect him.  The fact that he had indeed come back, and in such bold display, couldn’t have amazed her more.

What in God’s name was he doing?  He stood at the foot of the waterfall, as bare as the day he was born, letting the water beat him within an inch of his life and grinning all the while.

She thought to yell out to him, to reprimand him for such indecent behavior, such outrageous liberties, such flagrant...but then the artist came out in her.  She realized that what she beheld was beautiful, that he was beautiful.  Watching him in all his naked glory was like witnessing the birth of a god.

She perched on a rock wedged between two trees, hoping the lush foliage and her drab plaid dress would conceal her.  She found an empty page and set to work sketching.

He couldn’t remain there long, she knew, or else he’d be pounded into the rock.  She had to work quickly, penciling in the bare bones and trusting the rest to memory.

Sure enough, just as she finished the roughest of renderings, he brought his arms down through the fall like great white wings and dove into the middle of the pool.

His naked body slicing through the water sent a rush of delicious fire through her.  Her pencil hovered over the page.  It was wrong, what she did, spying on him and sketching him in his altogether without his knowledge.  And yet, she thought, patting a cheek grown hot with impropriety, it felt so right.

He bobbed up and flung his hair back, spraying droplets of water across the rippling surface.

Mattie pressed her pencil against her lower lip.

He swam forward, gliding through the waves as smoothly as a trout.  Then he wheeled over onto his back and floated on the surface, boldly facing the midday sun like some pagan sacrifice.

Mattie’s teeth sank into the pencil.

She could see everything—the naked sprawl of his limbs, the corona of his long ebony hair, the dark patch at the juncture of his thighs, and its manly treasure, set like a jewel on black velvet.

He was Adam.  Or Adonis.  He was Icarus fallen from the sky.  Hera cast into the sea.  As innocent as an angel.  As darkly beautiful as Lucifer.

Mattie blushed to the tips of her toes.  She most definitely should not be witness to this...this...she had no word for his wanton display, but she was sure it was completely indecent.  Still she couldn’t tear her eyes away.  He was utterly, irrefutably perfect.  And looking at him left her faint with a mixture of emotions as dizzying as whiskey and as unstable as gunpowder.

She slid the pencil from between her lips, flipped to a new page, and began to draw.  Despite her rattled nerves, her hand was steady, for she captured every nuance of shade, every subtle contour, each flash of translucence, as if the water lived and moved upon the paper.  And the man...  He was so true to life that she half expected the figure to lazily pitch over and swim off the page.

A fern tickled her nose, and she brushed it back, and then leaned forward to put the finishing touches on the portrait—a few more branches dabbling in the waves, a leaf floating by his head.  She decided on the title, scribbling it at the bottom beside her signature.

Just in time.  The Indian knifed under, a flash of sculpted buttocks and long legs, disappearing beneath the surface and into the emerald depths.

Sakote saw the movement of branches from the corner of his eye, but gave no indication.  If it was a deer, he didn’t want to frighten it from its drinking place.  If it was a bear, his splashing would scare it soon enough.  If it was a willa, he’d have to be clever.  He floated a moment more, letting the waves carry him gently toward the deepest part of the pool, watching for sudden movements through the dark lashes of his eyes.  Then he gulped in a great breath and dove to the bottom, where the water was cold and shadowy.

He came up silently on the concealed side of the big granite boulder and eased his way out of the water and around the rock until he could see what hid in the brush.

Mati.

She wore another ugly brown dress with lines of other colors running through it like mistakes, and her hair was captured into a tight knot at the back of her head.  She bit at her lower lip and leaned out dangerously far between two dogwood saplings, shielding her eyes with one hand, searching the pool for him.

Sakote didn’t know what he felt.  Joy.  Or anger.  Relief.  Dread.  Or desire.

Worry wrinkled her brow, and she leaned forward even farther, bending the saplings almost to the breaking point.

"Oh, no," she murmured.

Her words were only a breath of a whisper on the breeze, but they carried to his ears like sad music.  Mati edged between the two trees and took three slippery steps down the slope.  Meanwhile, Sakote moved in the opposite direction, up the rise.  While she scanned the water, he crept behind her, stopping when he found the sketchbook on the ground, frowning when he saw the figure floating on the page.

Now he knew what he felt.  Fury.  He glanced down at his naked body, at his man’s pride, shrunken with cold to the size of an acorn, then at its perfect duplicate drawn on the paper.  And he felt as if he would explode with rage.

He must have made a sound, some strangled snarl of anger, for Mati turned.  And screamed.