Madeline Baker

Love’s Serenade is a compilation of two books both written by Madeline Baker. The first book is Loving Sarah followed by Loving Devlin. These poignant stories were so connected it was fun to read them. These emotionally charged characters were so fully developed that I actually felt as if I had been there as the actions took place.

In New Mexico, in 1869, Sarah and her family were attacked by Indians. Her husband sent her to hide but, before he and their six-year-old son Danny could get there, he was killed. The little boy was kidnapped. There was one Indian who was supposed to find and kill Sarah. However, when Toklanni saw her, he knew in his heart he couldn’t kill her. Devlin, known by his Indian name Toklanni, was a half-breed. His father was an Indian who had taken a white woman as wife. He was raised partially in each world. Therefore, he could speak English and his native language. Problems arose when he started leaving food and clothing in baskets on her porch and fell in love with Sarah.

Baker presented us with two characters that were so different from each other but they were so compatible. These strong people were a study in survival. Both had lived through struggles and trials. They slowly fell in love with each other. The conflicts they endured were so realistic. When the books transitioned from Loving Sarah to Loving Devlin, the hardships escalated.

This book was uniquely different from most that I read. It was one that I will not forget. The myriad circumstances faced and the additional characters were interestingly captivating. I recommend that anyone who enjoys historical romance especially back in the age of Indians fighting whites and each other. You will definitely not be disappointed.
Reviewer: Brenda Talley

LOVING SARAH
Chapter 1

New Mexico
1869


It was there again, a large oak basket filled with fresh meat and wild vegetables. Sarah Andrews stared at the basket for a long moment, as if it might tell her where it had come from. There were no other white people in the immediate area and she was certain the Indians were not in the habit of providing for their enemies. It seemed to be a riddle without an answer.

Her heart filled with gratitude, Sarah carried the basket into the kitchen, quietly blessing the unknown giver who had put fresh food on her table once again.

As she sliced the venison, Sarah wondered anew who it was that brought her food several times each week. Without her unknown provider, she would have died of starvation long ago, for there weren't enough vegetables left in the garden behind the cabin to sustain life, and she'd long ago eaten all of the dried and tinned food Vern had brought from town. The only thing left was a sack of dried apples.

In the beginning, she'd considered trying to walk to Pepper Tree Creek, but the thought of crossing over fifty miles of the desert alone and on foot, defenseless against snakes and predators, frightened her almost as much as the very real possibility of encountering Indians along the way and she always changed her mind.

Sarah quietly cursed the savages who had killed her husband and kidnapped her son. The Indians had burned the barn, stolen their horses and cattle, taken Vern's rifle and all their supplies. To this day, Sarah didn't know why her life had been spared.

She'd been in the root cellar when the attack had occurred. She had heard gunshots, a bloodcurdling war whoop. And then she'd heard Danny's terrified scream, the same scream that haunted her dreams. "Mommy! Mommy, help me!" Filled with dread, she'd hurried toward the stairs only to find an Indian blocking her path, a war club adorned with feathers and what looked suspiciously like a scalp clutched in his hand.

Terror had frozen her in mid-stride. She had stared at the Indian, repulsed by the weapon in his hand, by the hideous war paint that covered every inch of his face, distorting his features so that he looked like a demon from hell. In that instant, she'd known she was looking death in the face.

But nothing had happened. The Indian had looked at her as if he were seeing a ghost and then, to her surprise, he had scrambled up the ladder and disappeared.

By the time Sarah made her way outside, the attack was over, the Indians were gone. She had found her husband's body sprawled face down in the dirt, a single arrow protruding from his back. Her six year old son, Danny, was nowhere to be found. She had searched for him for over an hour, refusing to believe what she knew to be true. The Indians had taken her child, her only child.

Resolutely, she had set out after them, but a late summer shower washed out the tracks, forcing her to give up the chase, and she'd returned to the cabin to bury her husband along with her dreams...

Sarah fried the venison and boiled the vegetables, grateful to have something to do. Sitting at the small raw plank table in the narrow kitchen, she ate without tasting the food, automatically lifting the fork to her mouth until her plate was empty.

Occasionally, she thought of not eating, of just curling up in bed, closing her eyes and waiting for death, but she didn't have the willpower to starve herself when food was available, and she didn't have the courage to slit her wrists. She'd never had any courage at all. And now all she had to sustain her was hope. Hope that the cavalry would find her next time they made a sweep through the area. Hope that they'd find the savages who had taken Danny.

After dinner, she put the basket outside the front door, knowing that tomorrow or the next day it would be gone and the following morning it would be there again, filled with food.

She hadn't expected it to be refilled the first time she set it out on the porch. She'd emptied the basket and put it outside simply to get it out of the way. It had been gone the next day. For a little while, the mystery of the basket had helped take her mind off her troubles. She'd wondered who had left it in the first place, and who had taken it. Two days later, it had appeared on her doorstep again, filled with food.

For a time, Sarah stood at the front window, staring at the charred ruins that had once been the barn. It was a blackened shell now, cold and empty, like her life. She lifted her gaze toward the sky, watching the late summer sun set in a riotous blaze of crimson that reminded her of blood...Vern's blood.

Turning away from the window, she went to the homemade calendar that hung beside the fireplace and crossed off another day. Three months, she thought. Three months without Vern, without Danny. Three months of no one to talk to, no one to care for. Three months of solitary. How long would it take before she went mad? How long before the Indians came back?
Going into her bedroom, she gazed at the small tintype of her son that stood on the narrow table beside her bed. Danny, her baby, at the mercy of godless savages. How frightened he must be! Did anyone comfort him when he cried? Was he getting enough to eat?

Thoughts of her only child being ridiculed and abused brought quick tears to her eyes. He had never known anything but kindness and love in his short life, never been away from her for more than a few hours. If only she could see him for a moment, assure herself that he was alright, that he was still alive. She'd heard stories of children being raised by Indians. It sickened her to think that her son might be forced to become a warrior, to ride against his own people, to commit the terrible atrocities she'd read about in the newspapers back home. She thought of her son, her own flesh and blood, taking a scalp....

"No!" She shook the horrible thought from her mind, refusing to dwell on it any further. Surely a merciful God would not allow such a thing to happen.

Later, kneeling at her bedside, she prayed for the soul of her husband, comforted by her belief in an afterlife and her conviction that Vern had been a good man who would be welcomed into heaven. Poor Vern. Theirs had been a marriage of convenience. He had wanted a wife and she had wanted a way out of her father's house. When Vern had proposed, she had accepted, so eager to get away from home she'd never stopped to think what it would be like to be married to a man almost old enough to be her father, a man she didn't love.

During the eight years of their marriage, she had developed a genuine fondness for her husband. Vern had been a kind and gentle man, thoughtful of her needs, her likes and dislikes. When she took a liking to a high-backed sofa she saw in a mail-order catalog, he had ordered it for her, even though they couldn't really afford it at the time. In the good times, he had surprised her with gifts: a fancy blue bonnet she had no occasion to wear, a pretty apron, a hand-painted fan. In the bad times, he had promised her that things would get better. And he had given her a son...

She was sorry now that she had never loved Vern. He had deserved so much more than she had given him. She had tried to love him, but she'd never been able to give him the heartfelt devotion and affection a man deserved from his wife. The fact that he'd never complained only made her feel more guilty.

Blinking back tears or sorrow and regret, she prayed fervently for a miracle that would return Danny to her arms. And then, as she had every night since the attack, she asked God to forgive her for hating the heathen savages who had ridden out of the foothills early one summer morning and taken away everything she'd ever loved.

LOVING DEVLIN

          Chapter 1

 New Mexico, 1873

 

Devlin Dennehy rested his arms along the top rail of the corral, his gaze roaming over the wild horses penned inside the four-rail fence.  He'd made a good catch this year, he mused.  When he sold this bunch of broomtails to the Army, Sarah would be able to buy that new stove she'd been pestering him for.

He felt a sense of pride as he gazed around the ranch.         

 

They'd done well in the last four years.  They'd added on to the house, built new corrals, put up a new barn to replace the one that his people had burned down.

A slight grin tugged at his features as he recalled the first time he had seen Sarah.  He had been living with the Apache back then, raiding with his father's people.  To his regret, it had been his half-brother who had killed Sarah's first husband and kidnapped her six-year old son.  Devlin had been sent to the house to kill Sarah, but one look at her face, so much like his mother's, had stayed his hand. 

 

Instead of killing her, Devlin had become her protector, keeping watch over her, always from a distance, of course.  He had provided her with food and firewood.  He had saved her life, and she had saved his, and in the process, they had fallen deeply, hopelessly, in love.  And because he had loved her so much, he had fought his own brother in order to return Danny to Sarah.

 

Devlin's marriage to Sarah had caused quite a scandal in town, what with him being a half-breed and all. But, in time, people had gotten used to the idea.  He was accepted by most of the townsfolk now.  He had traded his clout and leggings for sturdy denim and cotton, exchanged his hard-soled moccasins for boots.  Now, only the color of his skin and the length of his hair proclaimed his Apache heritage.  He couldn't change the first, he refused to cut the second. 

 

Four years, he mused.  Where had the time gone?  Four years since he had seen his father's people or his brother, Noche.  Four years, and Sarah was with child, again. 

His gaze lifted to the graveyard located on the crest of the hill where he used to sit to keep watch over Sarah.  Two small, white-washed crosses stood out in stark relief against the bright blue sky, marking the graves of two infants who hadn't survived.  A third cross marked the final resting place of Sarah's first husband, Vern.

 

Devlin's heartbeat quickened when Sarah stepped out onto the porch.  She was a remarkably pretty woman, with hair as yellow as freshly-churned butter and eyes as blue as cornflowers.  It still amazed him that she had agreed to marry him, that she had willingly endured the scorn and derision of her friends to be his wife. 

 

He smiled as their gazes met, and then she was walking toward him, her calico skirt swaying provocatively.  And he wanted her.  Just like that.  Always like that.  He had thought that, in time, his ardor would cool, but he had only to look at her to want her.

 

And she knew it.

 

He saw it in the seductive smile that curved her sweet red lips, in the sudden light that danced in her eyes.

 

"Dinner is ready," Sarah said, coming to stand beside him. "Are you hungry?"

 

His dark eyes moved over her face like a caress. "Very hungry."

 

Sarah felt her heart skip a beat.  It was incredible that the fire between them still burned so strong, so bright.  When he looked at her like that, it made her heart sing and her soul ache for his touch. 

 

Devlin's arm curled around her shoulders.  "Where's Danny?"

 

"Fishing with the Loomis boys.  He won't be back for hours."

 

His smile was so bright, it put the desert sun to shame.  Effortlessly, he swung her into his arms and carried her into the house.

 

In their bedroom, he stood her on her feet and began to undress her, his hands caressing the clothing from her body, his eyes burning with desire as he openly admired the womanly curves now swollen with his child.  His heart soared with happiness as he placed his hands on her rounded belly, felt his child's lusty kick.

 

Sarah stared down at Devlin's hands, so big and brown where they rested on her belly.  "I'm getting as fat as old Bessie," she muttered.

 

"You're not fat."  Bending, he kissed her shoulder, her breasts.  "You're pregnant with our child, and you've never been more beautiful."

 

When he looked at her like that, his eyes filled with adoration, how could she doubt him? 

 

Head tilted slightly to one side, Sarah removed the pins from her hair so that it fell in a riotous mass of waves over her shoulders and down her back.

 

Her heart raced as Devlin buried his hands in her hair, his lips trailing fire as he kissed her cheek, the curve of her neck, the hollow of her throat.

 

Little tremors of pleasure stirred within her as she undressed him, her hands gliding over his hard-muscled flesh.  They were so different, she thought.  Her hair was light where

 

his was dark, he was tall and broad-shouldered where she was short and slight.  And yet they fit together so perfectly.

 

 Heart filled with tenderness, Sarah traced the awful scar that marred an otherwise beautiful body.  Souvenir of an old knife wound, the scar cut across Devlin's left cheek, angled down his neck, then continued across his chest and belly to the point of his right thigh.

 

She looked at her hand, resting on his thigh.  Her skin, despite long hours in the sun, remained the color of ivory, his was the color of burnished copper, smooth and beautiful.  She never tired of touching him, of looking at him.

 

Devlin closed his eyes. As always, her touch made him weak.  She was the only woman he had ever known who had every right to hate him, the only one who hadn't been repelled by his scars, who hadn't cared that he was a half-breed. 

Miraculously, she had never held him responsible for the raid against her

 

home or for the death of her husband. 

 

Opening his eyes, he watched her fingertips trace the scar across his chest.  She had touched his scars the first time they had made love, too.  It was a memory he had never forgotten.

 

"Don't."  He had caught her hand in his before she could touch him.

 

"I want to."

 

"Why?"

 

"To prove to you that it doesn't matter."

 

"Doesn't it?" he asked, knowing she could hear the bitterness in his voice, his fear of being rejected.

 

"I love you, Devlin," she said quietly.  "The scars don't matter."

 

"I'm not Devlin.  I'm Toklanni.  I'm not a white man, I'm a half-breed.  Can you accept that?"

 

Can you accept that?  He had been afraid to believe they could have  a life together, but Sarah had refused to allow his fears to come between them.  She loved him wholly, completely, asking for nothing but his love in return.

 

Whispering her name, he carried her to their bed. Stretching out beside her, he reveled in her softness, her sweetness, in hearing his Indian name on her lips.

 

"Toklanni."  She murmured his name again and again as they soared toward the heights of ecstasy, and as his life spilled into her, he prayed that this time Usen would bless them with a strong, healthy child.