by Pamela Clare
One walked inside the cabin, knife drawn, rifle in hand.
The other strode toward the shade, toward little Isabelle.
Chapter 11
The slick taste of terror filled Bethie’s mouth.
Belle! Dear God, not Belle!
Silenced by the man’s big hand, her scream died before it could leave her throat. She watched in horror as Isabelle was lifted none too gently out of her basket, her gown lifted, her diaper cloth probed to see what sex she was.
Infuriated and desperate to save her daughter, Bethie began to fight. She twisted, kicked, scratched her attacker. Her elbow connected with his belly, and she heard him grunt. But he was much stronger than she, and she could not break free.
But then his hand slipped from her mouth, and she screamed.
A cry for help. A warning.
Where is Nicholas?
Something exploded against the back of her skull.
Shattering pain. Flashes of white.
She felt herself swirl to the edges of consciousness, felt her body go limp.
Nicholas watched from behind the barn, bit back a growl of fury as the warrior struck Bethie a second time. He crept closer, watched for a moment.
One misstep on his part and both Bethie and Belle would die.
There were two of them. Two to one—good odds. Then the man who held Bethie’s limp body turned toward his companion and Nicholas got a clear look at his face.
Mattootuk.
Something twisted in Nicholas’s gut.
The rules of the game had just changed.
“Mattootuk wishes to die today. That is why he mistreats my woman and child.” Nicholas spoke in Wyandot, then stepped out from behind the barn, his pistol fully cocked and pointed at Mattootuk’s head.
Mattootuk’s eyes grew wide and he gaped at Nicholas as one who has seen a ghost, his face suddenly ashen. Then he released Bethie.
Nicholas kept all trace of emotion from his face as Bethie fell unconscious to the ground. Then movement at the door of the cabin caught his eye as a third warrior emerged from the cabin, rifle in hand.
Nicholas wasted no time. He fired, hitting the warrior squarely in the chest. The man fell dead.
Frightened by the gunfire, Isabelle began to cry. The young warrior who had handled her so roughly gently lowered her back into the basket, his wide gaze fixed on Nicholas.
Nicholas pulled his second pistol from his waistband, cocked it. “Tell me why I shouldn’t kill both of you where you stand?”
Mattootuk smiled, apparently recovered from his shock. “Ha-en-ye-ha, brother, it is good to see you.”
* * *
Bethie’s head ached as she struggled to wake up from her nightmare. She had dreamt three Indians had come out of the forest, had attacked her and Isabelle while Nicholas had been off checking his traps. She’d tried to free herself, had been struck on the head. And then . . .
Then she had heard Nicholas’s voice, but he hadn’t spoken words she recognized. There’d been a gunshot, and Belle had begun to cry.
It had been a terrifying dream.
From outside came the sound of voices, men’s voices. She could not understand what they said. Their words were strange, guttural. Somewhere nearby, Isabelle fussed.
A bolt of alarm surged through her.
She fought to open her eyes, heard herself moan. “Isabelle!”
“Easy, Bethie. Drink this. Isabelle is fine, though I think she’s getting hungry.”
’Twas Nicholas.
She felt his hand slip behind her head to lift her, felt the tin cup against her lips. She took a sip, pulled away.
“I know it’s bitter, but it will take away some of your pain without making you sleepy. Come, love. Drink.”
She did as he asked, opened her eyes to see his face hovering inches above hers, his eyes filled with concern. “I-it wasn’t a dream?”
“No, Bethie, it wasn’t a dream. There are two Wyandot warriors sitting outside roasting a goose over the fire pit. I’m afraid we have uninvited guests.”
“Two? But there were—”
“I killed the third.” He said it without emotion.
“I dinnae want them here!”
“Nor do I, but it is far safer to have them here where I can keep my eye on them than to drive them off only to have them return to attack in stealth.”
“I’m afraid.”
“They will not touch you again. I’ve told them you’re my wife and Isabelle is my daughter. Do nothing to make them think otherwise.”
“But—”
“It is more complicated than I can explain, Bethie. Just trust me.” He glanced toward Belle’s cradle. “Are you up to feeding the baby?”
Bethie’s breasts ached, heavy with milk. She nodded, tried to sit, gasped as pain seemed to shatter her skull.
“Easy, love. Just lie on your side, like you do at night.”
She rolled onto her side and began to unbutton her gown, wondering vaguely how he knew that she nursed Isabelle on her side at night.
Nicholas lifted Belle, who was now wailing, from her cradle, and laid her by Bethie’s bared breast.
Bethie guided her nipple to Isabelle’s little mouth, felt her baby latch on and begin to suck hungrily. Her breasts tingled as her milk began to flow. She felt drowsiness overtake her again.
Nicholas’s lips were warm on her cheek. “Just rest, Bethie. I’ll watch over both of you.”
* * *
By the time Belle had finished nursing, Bethie was fully awake. The potion Nicholas had given her had taken away most of her headache.
She checked Belle’s diaper cloth, found it soaking wet. Carefully, she rose, took up a clean, dry cloth, and changed her daughter, who gazed about with bright blue eyes, as if nothing terrible had happened.
And nothing terrible had happened. Thanks to Nicholas.
Bethie had no doubt that both she and Belle would be lying dead outside the cabin now if not for him.
She felt suddenly sick to her stomach, and trembling, lifted Belle into her arms.
* * *
Nicholas tore off another bite of roast goose, chewed, oblivious to the taste of the succulent meat. His thoughts were focused on the two Wyandot men who sat across the fire from him. They ate with abandon, having already consumed all of Bethie’s corn cakes and the potatoes she’d boiled.
It was all part of the game. Mattootuk wanted to show Nicholas that he wasn’t afraid, wanted to put Nicholas at ease. It would make it easier for Mattootuk and Youreh, his companion, to carry out whatever scheme they had in mind.
Mattootuk might call him brother, but Nicholas was not fooled. The Wyandot warrior hated him, had hated him from the moment Lyda had claimed him. Mattootuk wanted nothing more than to see him dead.
Mattootuk drew out his knife, cut off another sliver of meat, held it to his mouth with greasy fingers, spoke in Wyandot. “The years have been good to you. A wife. A daughter. The years have not been so good for the Wyandot.”
Nicholas cut another strip of meat for himself, aware that Bethie watched from the shadowed doorway with Belle in her arms. He answered in Wyandot. “The Wyandot should not have made war on the Big Knives. They are now neighbors to the Wyandot and will not be driven away. It would be better to make peace.”
Mattootuk smiled, bared his teeth. “We shall see, brother. All of the People now make league together. We follow Obwandiyag, whose cousin you killed today. If we join together, who can stop us?”
Nicholas chewed, pretended to mull over the question, swallowed. “Today I stopped you.”
For a moment Mattootuk’s face twisted into a scowl. Youreh, who’d been but a boy when Nicholas was taken prisoner, gaped in astonishment at Nicholas’s insult.
Then Mattootuk laughed and nodded at Nicholas, but hatred gleamed in his brown eyes. “Let no one say you are not a man of courage. Did we not witness your bravery in the face of fire and torment? How I wanted to partake of your heart! It would have been sweeter meat than this old
goose.”
Now it was Nicholas’s turn to laugh. “Ah, Mattootuk, but I have no heart.”
The warrior glanced over at Bethie, his gaze raking her in appraisal.
She withdrew deeper into the shadows.
“I’ve seen how you look at your woman. You protect her like a sow bear protects her cubs. You have a heart, brother, and she has the keeping of it.”
Nicholas fought to keep his reaction from his face. Was Mattootuk implying that he was in love with Bethie? “She is my wife. It is my duty to protect her and our child.”
A look of triumph came into Mattootuk’s eyes. “Just as Lyda was your wife.”
Nicholas had known the moment the words left his mouth what Mattootuk would say. He had walked into a trap. “I did not wish her death.”
“You did not wish the child’s death. For Lyda you cared nothing.” Mattootuk’s face was a scowl, his gaze daggers of ice.
All pretenses had fallen. No more games.
Nicholas preferred it this way. He smiled. “If you wish to challenge me, Mattootuk, do it. I would gladly kill you with my bare hands.”
Bethie could not understand what was being said, but she could tell Nicholas knew these men, or at least the older one. She could also tell that words had brought them to the edge of bloodshed. The glint in Nicholas’s eyes, as cold and sharp as the tip of a blade, told her that.
The forest seemed to wait.
Then the older Indian laughed, said something that made the younger one smile, and the tension was dispelled. Except in Nicholas’s eyes.
“She good wife?” The older man spoke in broken English pointing at Bethie and startling her. “Strong, brave wife?”
“Aye.” Nicholas’s gaze touched her for the briefest moment. “Bethie, go back inside. Shut the door.”
Something was happening here she didn’t understand. She was about to do as Nicholas had asked when the older Indian spoke in English again.
“You tell her? You tell her you kill your wife, my sister?”
Bethie stopped still, met the older Indian’s gaze and saw there a dark, seething hatred.
“He kill my sister and her baby—his baby.”
Stunned, Bethie sought for the truth in Nicholas’s eyes.
What she saw there froze her blood.
* * *
It couldn’t be true. It couldn’t.
He kill my sister and her baby—his baby.
Bethie treadled her spinning wheel, watched the wool slip from between her fingers without really seeing it, her mind in turmoil, her nerves on edge.
The men were still outdoors, though the sun had set. They were still talking, their voices a deep murmur beyond the closed door. Every time one of them raised his voice or laughed, she jumped. She was terrified they would kill Nicholas and then come for her and Belle.
Nicholas. Nicholas.
She hadn’t known he’d once had an Indian wife, hadn’t known he’d fathered a child.
He’d told her he’d been held captive by Indians, not that he had married into the tribe. That was something different, wasn’t it?
She felt the faint stirrings of jealousy, brushed them off.
Had he lied to her? Did he have reason to cover up his wife’s existence and, with it, her death? Or was there more to the story?
She prayed it was the latter.
Apart from that first day, when he’d ridden out of the forest on the brink of death, he’d been good to both her and Isabelle. He’d seen her through her travail with a gentleness that almost stopped her heart whenever she looked back upon it. He had saved Isabelle’s life. He’d saved her from being burned. He’d put meat on the table, taken care of the heavy chores. He’d done so many thoughtful things Bethie had lost count. He couldn’t possibly be a cold-blooded killer, the sort of man who used his strength to prey upon the weak.
Why, then, had the look in his eyes told her that he was?
Belle began to fuss again. She couldn’t possibly be hungry already, could she? Perhaps she was on edge, just like her mother.
Bethie set her spinning aside, lifted her daughter from the cradle.
The door to the cabin swung open, and she nearly jumped out of her skin.
She clutched Belle to her breast, turned to see Nicholas step inside, the two Indian men behind him.
“Are you and the baby ready for bed?” Nicholas said something to the two Indians in their own language, pulled his gear out of the corner, and motioned to the space where he usually slept.
Bethie watched in stunned surprise as the two Indians unrolled furs and laid them on the floor. “Wh-what—”
Nicholas carried his gear across the cabin and dropped it on the floor behind her spinning wheel, lowered his voice. “It would be an affront to their notions of hospitality to make them sleep outdoors or in the barn. You’ve no choice but to go along wi—”
“Them? Sleep inside? With us?” She tried to keep her voice at a whisper, but she was so upset her words came out as a squeak. “Next time you want to have your relatives visit—”
He took her shoulders. “Aye, with us.”
She looked at his gear behind the spinning wheel. There was hardly room for a child to sleep back there, let alone a man of Nicholas’s size. Worse, if he were all the way across the room, it would mean she would be closest to the Indians. And then she understood.
She gasped, stared up at him. “And you will sleep—”
He bent close, as if to kiss her cheek. “In your bed. Beside you. As your husband, remember?”
She stared up at him, shook her head. “But Nicholas—”
He took her jaw firmly in his fingers, tilted her face until she had no choice but to look him in the eyes. “If you wish to survive this night, you will do exactly what I tell you to do, Bethie.”
“And who am I to fear most—you or your former brother-by-marriage?”
His gaze hardened. “Get into bed, Bethie. And keep Belle with you.”
Bethie quickly changed Isabelle’s diaper cloth, then washed her hands and face.
The two Indian men sat on their furs near the foot of the bed, spoke softly to each other. The older one watched her every move. Then his gaze collided with hers, and he spoke in English, pointing to Nicholas. “He take Wyandot women, many in one day, every day, where all can watch him. Not with you, I think. We not watch him take you.”
Bethie gasped at the vileness of these words. Nicholas had lain with Indian women openly as others watched? Many each day? It could not be true! But if it weren’t true, why didn’t Nicholas say something?
Holding Belle close, her skin crawling, she turned down the covers of her bed, climbed in, wishing she could grow wings and fly away.
She lay on her side facing the fireplace, watched as Nicholas pulled in the door string, shed his shirt, yawned.
How could he possibly be sleepy with two armed Indians inside the cabin? How could he behave so calmly when one of them clearly hated him? Had he forgotten he had killed a man today on the doorstep of this very cabin?
With one last glance about the cabin, Nicholas blew out the lamp.
Apart from the glow of the fire, the cabin fell into darkness.
Bethie began to pray, but her prayer scattered into fragments when she felt the mattress sag beneath his weight as he crawled over her to the other side of the bed.
The ropes creaked as if in protest of his intrusion.
“Excuse me, love.” His voice was inches from her ear as he lay down beside her.
His scent was all around her.
And then he reached out and pulled her against him. She felt the hilt of his hunting knife and the outline of his two pistols inside the waistband of his breeches. How had he sneaked them into bed without her seeing?
His lips touched her cheek. He whispered. “Turn toward me. Put Belle between us.”
Unable to hide her trembling, she did as he asked, found herself staring into his eyes. She mouthed the question that was burning within her. �
��Is it true?”
He stroked her cheek with his thumb. “I would never hurt you, Bethie, or your baby. I gave my word.”
It wasn’t an answer. She asked again. “Is it true?”
“Is what true? That I killed my wife and baby? Or that I tupped women in the open where everyone could watch, including my Wyandot wife?”
She said nothing, waited for his answer.
“Aye, Bethie. It’s true.” A look of anguish filled his eyes, then he closed them. “Go to sleep.”
* * *
Nicholas watched Bethie sleep, listened to the deep, slow breathing of their unwanted guests. He’d bet his life that neither Mattootuk nor Youreh was truly sleeping, despite the occasional snore. They were feigning sleep, just as he was. They were waiting until they felt certain he was asleep before making their move.
It wasn’t hard to stay awake. Regret was a knife in his gut, cutting him, shredding him. Today his past had caught up with him, and the price was almost more than he could bear.
He would never forget the look in Bethie’s eyes—the shock, the fear, the revulsion, as if he’d broken a promise, betrayed her, shattered her world. She now thought him the worst sort of murderer, not to mention an adulterer. And wasn’t he?
He had brought about Lyda’s death, and that of the child she carried, as surely as if he’d pointed a gun at her head and fired. But he was not an adulterer. He had never agreed to marry Lyda, never agreed to live under her roof, never agreed to plant a child inside her. And when she’d left him no choice, he had merely bested her at her own game. With terrible consequences.
But would Bethie understand?
Nicholas didn’t think so. She was afraid of men, had trouble trusting them. This wouldn’t be the sort of thing she would ignore or forget.
Perhaps Lyda had gained her revenge after all, obtained at the hands of her brother.
Why should Nicholas care? As soon as he had delivered Bethie safely to her family, he would leave her behind, head back into the wilderness, forget her.
No. No matter how far west he traveled, he would never forget her.
God, she was beautiful, so young and innocent. He wanted to touch her, to run his fingers over the curve of her cheek, the swell of her lips. He wanted to kiss her again, to watch her come alive with passion in his arms, to feel her heart pound in her breast just because he had touched her.