Dinah McCall - The Warrior

“Veteran author Sala crafts two exciting leads bound by their love of animals and reluctance to trust people.”

—Publishers Weekly on The Healer

“Sharon Sala is not only a top romance novelist, she is an inspiration for people everywhere who wish to live their dreams. Her work has a higher purpose and she takes readers with her on an incredible journey of overcoming adversity and increased self-awareness in every book.”

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“Sala’s characters are vivid and engaging.”

—Publishers Weekly on Cut Throat

Sharon Sala has a “rare ability to bring powerful and emotionally wrenching stories to life.”

—Romantic Times BOOKreviews

“A compelling page-turner and a reading experience I won’t soon forget!”

—Reader to Reader on Sweet Baby

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The older I get, the more I have begun to understand

the words of my elders.

When my grandfather died, my grandmother was

devastated. I remember hearing her say in a tiny,

broken voice, “I thought I would go first. I didn’t

want to be left behind.”

When my father, then my sister, died within two months

of each other, our whole family was broken. Grocery lists

they’d written the week before were still there, but they

were not. I remember my mother’s shattered words.

“No parent should outlive their child.”

Long before my fiancé, Bobby, ever began to get sick,

he told me out of the blue one day, “If anything ever

happens to me, you will be all right.”

Then, when he died, I wailed in a lost, hopeless cry,

“I wish I could go with him.”

In the ensuing weeks after his death, I remembered his

prophetic words and I was certain that he was wrong.

I know he laughs now, because time has proved

that he was right.

Despite the tragedies and sorrows life hands us,

there is always one undeniable truth.

As long as we draw breath, we owe it to the ones

we loved and lost to live out our lives without

wasting them on regrets.

So…just to set the record straight, you were right,

my love.

In honor of those we’ve loved and lost,

I am dedicating this book to the ones

who get left behind.

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Epilogue

North American Continent—early 1500s

Night Walker, second chief of the Turtle Clan of the Ah-ni-yv-wi-ya, stood on a promontory overlooking the bay of great water near his village. He was a warrior of twenty-nine summers, with a face that was a study in planes and angles. He was also something of an oddity in the tribe, standing head and shoulders above every other warrior. His shoulders were broad, his muscles as hard as the line of his jaw, which, today, was clenched against the angry slap of the wind blowing against his skin. With each fierce gust, his hair—thick, black and straight as the arrows in his quiver—would lift from his shoulders to billow out behind him like the wings of a soaring eagle. As he stood, wearing nothing but a piece of tanned deer hide tied at his waist and hanging to just above his knees, his nostrils flared, savoring the scent of oncoming rain mixing with the ever-present tang of salty air.

For days he’d been having visions that troubled his sleep—bloody visions always ending with death. Troubled by what he believed to be a dark omen of things to come, he’d taken to standing guard on the highest point above the village. Today, when the storm had come in without warning, churning the great water into massive waves higher than Night Walker’s head, he’d felt a foreboding similar to that in his dreams.

Now he stood with his feet apart, his body braced against the storm front as he looked out across the bay, watching the dark underbelly of the angry clouds covering the face of the sun. As he watched, a long spear of fire shot out of the clouds and into the water with a loud, angry hiss, sending water flying into the air. Night Walker flinched, and the skin on his face began to tighten. Every instinct signaled that danger was upon them.

A second shaft of fire pierced the clouds, stabbing into the heart of the great water and yanking his gaze from the sky to the horizon. As he watched, a shape began to emerge from the far side of the rocky finger of land pointing out into the water. It was floating on the water like the canoes of his people, but much, much larger, and with big white wings filled with the angry wind. It was unlike anything he’d ever seen, and the sight left him stunned. The unsettled waters were rolling the big canoe from side to side, and he could see men running about on its floor, scrambling like tiny insects trying to outrun a flood as waves washed over the sides. His heart jumped; then his gut knotted as his sense of foreboding grew.

He turned and looked down at the village. His people were as yet unaware of anything more than the oncoming storm. As he watched, he saw his woman, White Fawn, come out of their tepee and go to the woodpile just beyond. She staggered once from a hard buffeting wind, then regained her footing and went about her task. He knew what she was doing—gathering dry wood before the storm got it wet, which made it difficult to burn. She was a good woman, always thinking of his comfort. The mere sight of her always made his pulse quicken. She was his heart, the other half of his soul, and even though the Great Spirit had not blessed them with children, he loved her no less. It wasn’t until she went back inside their dwelling that he turned back to the water. When he did, a jolt of fear shot through him. The great canoe was now inside the bay, and three smaller canoes filled with strange-looking men were in the water and coming toward shore.

Their presence was a threat to the Ah-ni-yv-wi-ya, even though he had no words to explain how he knew that. He turned and began scrambling down the steep slope of the bluff, desperate to get back to the village and warn his people.

Antonio Vargas was a pirate with an eye always on the prize just out of his reach. For months he’d heard rumors from Spain that a man named Colombo had found a new route to the West Indies and, in the process, found a land rich in wealth guarded only by a race of savages. In other words, a treasure ripe for the taking.

Before he could act on the notion, an unexpected raid in the night by an English privateer had decimated his crew. They’d managed to escape by sailing into a fog bank. A week later, he’d put into the nearest port and taken on more crew, and for more than a month now, they’d roamed the seas without encountering another vessel or coming within sight of any kind of land. Desperate to recoup his losses as well as his self-esteem, he’d decided to follow Colombo’s path and claim some of those easy riches for himself. Only it hadn’t been as easy as he’d hoped.

They’d been on the water for more than two months, and Vargas had been beginning to fear his decision had been a bad one when land was finally sighted. It was none too soon. His men were weak, some suffering dysentery. He needed fresh water and fresh food. Sighting land was a godsend, but the upcoming squall at their backs was pushing them in toward shore far faster than he would have liked. As he prayed that they would not founder on a hidden reef, they’d done the best that they could to navigate into the bay. Between the swiftly approaching storm and the sheet of rain that they could see coming across the ocean, he was relieved to drop anchor. Giving orders as fast as he could shout them, Vargas watched as his crew scrambled to obey.