by Pamela Clare
The northern sky glowed orange. A wall of flames as high as the forest and perhaps a mile wide raced toward the cabin. It was a good half mile away, but it was moving fast, driven by the wind.
Mattootuk! The bastard must be on the brink of death to attack them like this.
They had only minutes—if it wasn’t too late already.
Nicholas dashed for the stables, shouted as loudly as he could. “Bethie, wake up! Fire!”
Roused either by his shouts or because they sensed the fire, the geese began to shriek.
He kicked their pen open as he passed, leaving them to scatter in a flurry of feathers. But he knew it would not save them.
Inside the cabin, Bethie sat up, heart pounding.
The geese!
Nicholas!
She leapt to her feet, grabbed the rifle, ran to the barred door, listened, expecting to hear the sound of fighting.
A horse’s frightened whinny. The cries of birds. The lowing of cattle.
A fist pounded on the door, startled a shriek from her throat.
“Bethie, get up! Fire!”
She threw open the door, smelled smoke, found Nicholas standing on her doorstep, his horse saddled, the reins in his hands. Behind him Dorcas and her calf ran in panicked circles.
“Get Isabelle! Now! Hurry!”
“But I’m no’ dress—”
“There’s no time for that! Come!”
She tossed the rifle to him, ran to Isabelle’s cradle, snatched her baby up, ran back to the open door. She had just managed to grab her shawl from its hook, when Nicholas scooped her up, swung her out the door, lifted her onto his stallion’s back.
The animal pranced and whinnied, but Nicholas kept a firm grip on its bridle.
“There isn’t time to adjust the stirrups, so hold on tight! Keep one hand in his mane, and hold on to Belle with all your strength. Bend low over his back!”
“But the animals—”
In her arms, Belle began to wail.
“There isn’t time! Ride south! Stop for nothing! Go!” He released his hold, slapped the horse hard on the rump.
Bethie screamed, clutched Belle to her breast, as the stallion surged forward, a thousand pounds of muscle and sinew exploding into motion beneath her.
And then, in a moment so full of horror that it seemed to last forever, she saw.
The night sky glowing orange. A stampede of flames. The tiny cabin in its path.
Tongues of fire drifted through the air, settled on the cabin’s roof.
“Nicholas!” She shouted for him over the roar of the blaze, caught only a glimpse of him as he ran back toward the stable before the stallion plunged headlong into the forest away from the inferno.
Nicholas!
Had he made it? Had he gotten away? Was he riding one of the mares?
Already she could feel the fire’s heat.
Smoke caught in her throat, stung her eyes.
Gripped by terror, she fisted her hand in the stallion’s coarse mane, clenched its flank with her thighs, bent over Isabelle, squeezed her eyes shut, prayed.
Nicholas!
The jarring thud of hooves against loam. The scrape of branches against bare skin. The gust of breath from the stallion’s nostrils as it plunged through the trees. The roar of the fire.
Bethie lifted her head, forced her stinging eyes open.
The forest in front of them glowed as if in the light of an unnatural dawn. Deer fled before the stallion’s churning hooves, their dun hides glowing red. Streamers of flame flew from treetop to treetop overhead, dropped to the ground around them like burning raindrops.
The fire was overtaking them. And if it was overtaking them . . .
A sob caught in her throat.
Nicholas!
The heat grew almost unbearable, and she held Belle closer, determined to shield her baby from the blistering wind.
She felt the stallion pick up its pace, saw the flare of its nostrils as it fought for breath.
Then above the roar and crash of the fire she heard screams—the high-pitched screams of women, of children. They came from all around her, piteous, keening cries.
She lifted her head, looked to her left, to her right, saw only flames.
A shiver ran down her spine.
The screams were not coming from women and children, but from the trees.
A flaming branch fell from above, landed a few feet in front of the stallion.
The animal swerved.
A tree to the right exploded into flames. Bits of burning wood whistled through the air. One hit her on the cheek, its bite sharp and searing.
She might have screamed, but the smoke was so thick and the air so hot that she could not draw breath without choking.
A cougar dashed out from the underbrush, almost beneath the stallion’s hooves.
Zeus shied, swerved, stumbled, and Bethie feared for one terrible moment that the stallion would fall, pitching them into the blaze. But Zeus knew the forest and quickly regained his footing.
The fire was ahead of them now, falling in graceful streams from the forest canopy, rising up from the ground in great sheets.
The heat was excruciating, and Bethie began to feel dizzy.
But then the smoke began to clear, the fire to thin.
Had they outrun it?
Suddenly before them stretched what seemed to be a gaping chasm, its darkness lit by small glowing fires.
We are going to die.
The stallion was crazed with fear, and Bethie knew it would not stop. But she did not want it to stop. She would rather that she and Belle meet their deaths quickly at the bottom of a precipice than suffer the torment of flames.
Her last thought as the stallion’s muscles tensed for the leap was of Nicholas.
Then the stallion stretched out its legs and leapt out above the brink.
They fell.
Bethie screamed, held Belle closer.
But then . . .
Water!
It was not a cliff, but the dark waters of a wide river. The Ohio.
Icy cold, it rose above Bethie’s head as stallion and rider plunged as one into the current.
Bethie felt herself float from the stallion’s back, kicked with all her strength, desperate to get Isabelle’s head above water.
She broke the surface, sucked sweet, cool air into her lungs, lifted her baby above water.
Belle coughed, gave a weak cry that soon became a wail.
She was alive.
But she wouldn’t be for long if Bethie couldn’t make it to the other side. The current was strong and swept her along, and although she was a good swimmer, she knew the Ohio River was perilous, with falls and hidden rocks that mangled both boats and bodies. She knew she needed to reach the other side if she wanted to survive.
Embers from the fire above fell around her, hissed as they hit the water.
She peered through the darkness for the stallion, heard it snort a short distance downstream, spotted it in the fire’s eerie glow. It was almost ten feet away from her and swimming hard for the other side. If only she could grab hold of its mane.
She reached for it, sank beneath the surface.
Belle coughed and cried harder.
Bethie took her baby under her left arm, rolled onto her back, reached with her right arm, kicking through the water with all of her strength.
Strands of coarse hair.
The stallion’s tail.
She grabbed hold, pulled until she was near enough to reach the saddle. Exhausted, she sagged against the powerful animal, gasping for breath as it carried them to safety.
Behind them, the fire was an impassable wall of flame that seemed to stretch the length of the riverbank.
* * *
It was sometime after dawn when Bethie awoke, nudged from sleep by the velvet of Zeus’s inquisitive muzzle.
The big stallion stood protectively over her, still burdened with the saddle she hadn’t had the strength to remove last night. Z
eus nickered, nudged her again.
Exhausted, every muscle aching, she sat up, patted the stallion’s forehead, reached for Belle, who had begun to fuss, still wrapped snugly in the shawl. Though the shawl had been singed in places and was as damp as everything else, it was the only shelter Bethie could offer her baby.
“Come, little one.” Bethie’s voice was rough from smoke, which still wafted through the air from across the river.
She leaned against a rock, began to nurse.
And in the light of day, the terrible truth finally hit her.
Nicholas was dead.
There was no way he could have been behind her and survived. She squeezed her eyes shut against the images that rose up unbidden in her imagination. Nicholas racing behind her on one of her mares. The fire closing in on them, overtaking them, claiming them. Unbearable heat. Choking smoke. An agonizing, terrible end.
He had chosen to save her and Isabelle, to give them the swiftest horse, to send them on their way before him, and now he was gone, burned to death.
Tears filled her eyes, blurred her vision, ran hot down her cheeks.
She could not bear to think of his suffering, could not bear the grief that filled her at the thought that he, who had once been tortured by fire, should have died in flames. No one deserved to die that way.
Nicholas!
Even through her tears she could see the immensity of the destruction. The forest on the other side of the river was gone, reduced to blackened trunks, smoldering logs, and scorched earth. Smoke hovered above the charred landscape, now in great columns, now in spiraling tendrils that drifted on the breeze like unquiet spirits.
All of it was gone. The cabin. The barn. The chickens in their coop. Dorcas and her wee calf. Her loom and spinning wheel. Isabelle’s cradle. The moccasins Nicholas had made for them. Her quill. The book.
“Nicholas!” She whispered his name, felt her heart shatter.
He had done so much for her and for Isabelle. He had treated her with a kindness no man had ever shown her, save perhaps her real father. He had awakened something inside her—feelings she didn’t understand. And his kisses . . .
But now he was dead.
As the sun poured its golden rays across the landscape from the east, she wept.
* * *
Some hours later, Bethie stood on a rock, rubbed the horse’s chestnut coat with a makeshift currycomb of dried reeds, while it nibbled at the soft green grass. She had lifted the heavy saddle and blanket from the stallion’s back and hung them over a tree branch to dry. She didn’t want the wet wool or leather to chafe and cause sores on the big animal’s back or belly. They had many miles to cover, and the stallion would have to carry them nearly every foot of the way.
Their survival depended upon him.
It was nearing midday, and panic had begun to build in her belly. She kept her gaze off the dark wall of forest beyond, but still the weight of the wilderness pressed in on her. She was utterly alone. No food. No shelter. No weapons. No clothing. Even if she’d had all those things, she’d have faced a struggle to survive. Good heavens, how would she be able to keep both herself and Belle alive without them?
And yet she had no choice but to try.
Fighting despair, she found a small outcropping of rocks and set up a little camp on the leeward side. She knew she should move on. She needed to find food and shelter. Although there was grass and water aplenty here for the stallion, it was too early for wild berries, and she had no means to kill or capture game and no way to cook it. Until she found a trading post or a family that would take her in, there would be little more than wild greens and roots for her to eat, barely enough to keep up her milk for Isabelle. Besides, the nights were still cold, the forest alive with wild animals and even wilder men. Alone in the forest wearing little more than her skin, she was naked and defenseless.
But where could she go? She had no clear idea where she was. Oh, aye, she knew she was on the opposite bank of the Ohio River, but the Ohio was long and winding. That the stallion had covered so much ground so quickly still astonished her. The mares could never have run so swiftly.
Nicholas must have known that. He must have chosen—
Nay! She could not do this. Nicholas had died giving her and her baby a chance at life. And so she must pull herself together. She must survive.
She swallowed her tears, forced her grief-weary mind to think. She supposed she should follow the river until she came to Fort Pitt, but how long would that take? Weeks? A month?
She could not expect help. In this country, there were few women, and the men would be more inclined to take advantage of her plight than to help her. Those who weren’t the sort to rape or kill her outright would likely expect something in return for aiding her.
And when she reached Fort Pitt . . .
Surely the officers would not let their men prey upon a woman with a baby, a widow, no matter how she was dressed.
She jumped down off the rock, walked over to check on Isabelle, found her sound asleep in the shawl, which Bethie had hung between two branches to make a sort of hanging cradle. Then she reached for the saddle blanket to see whether sunlight and fresh air had dried it; she found it still damp.
Her gaze drifted to the opposite shore for what must have been the thousandth time.
He was not there. He would never be there.
She forced herself to look away, fought to keep her mind on the task at hand, off the regret and sorrow she knew would overwhelm her if she let them.
Water. Food. Shelter. A way to protect herself.
She needed some kind of weapon. She picked up a few stones, placed them beside the tree that sheltered Belle. Then an idea came to her.
She sought among the piles of driftwood, gathered a handful of sturdy sticks, took up a sharp stone, began to hone one of the sticks to a point. It would not be the same as a blade of steel, to be sure, but it might be enough to save her life and Isabelle’s.
She had just completed her first improvised dagger, when Zeus whickered. Ears up, the stallion stomped impatiently, whinnied.
From nearby came an answering whinny. Then another.
Her heart slamming in her breast, Bethie jumped to her feet, sharpened stick in one hand, a rock in the other. Whoever they were, they knew she was here. The stallion had given her away. She fought the urge to run and hide, forced herself to stand on watery legs and face them. She wouldn’t let them hurt her baby.
The moment stretched into eternity. She heard the roar of her pulse in her ears. The distant cry of a hawk. The dull thud of horses galloping over sand and stone.
Nicholas!
From around the bend he appeared, riding bareback on one of the mares, the other following obediently behind bearing his gear. Clad only in his leggings, soot smeared across his chest, his dark hair blowing in the breeze behind him, he was the most welcome sight she had ever seen.
Dizzy with relief, she gaped at him, unable to believe her eyes.
He is alive.
She dropped her makeshift weapons and ran to him. “Nicholas!”
He slid off the mare’s back, crushed her to him, pressed his lips against her hair. He smelled of smoke and forest and sunshine. “Bethie, love! Thank God, you’re safe! Where’s Belle? Is she—”
“She’s fine. She’s asleep over—”
But before she could finish, his fingers had fisted in her hair, and he captured her mouth with his. This was not like the restrained kisses he’d given her in the cabin. This kiss was scorching, desperate, almost savage—a kiss of release, a kiss of death defeated, a kiss of life renewed.
Her heart soaring, she welcomed the sweet invasion of his tongue, arched against him, frantic to feel him, to be closer to him.
Then he cupped her bottom, pulled her hard against him, and she felt the heat of his arousal against her belly. An answering heat flared inside her.
She whimpered, whispered his name.
And then, without warning, the crest of her emot
ions broke. Tears pricked her eyes, and she began to tremble, as the terror and the grief of the past three days crashed in on her.
He wiped the tears from her cheeks. “Are those tears for me?”
She sniffed, nodded, rested her hand against the reassuring rhythm of his heartbeat. “I thought you . . . Oh, God, I thought . . .”
His gaze drifted to the burn on her cheek, and he touched it lightly with his fingers.
“I’m fine, love. A few scratches and bruises. But let me take care of that burn.”
She brushed the back of her hand over the wound, turning her face away from him. “It’s no’ bad.”
He ran his thumb across the curve of her lower lip, mimicked her brogue and the words she’d spoken to him only yesterday. “I’ll be the one decidin’ that. Go sit in the shade, or the sun will burn that pretty pale skin of yours.”
She watched as he quickly tended the mares, unable to take her eyes off him for fear this was only a dream and she would wake to find herself alone in her grief. From the lines on his face, she could tell he was exhausted. He must have ridden all night to find her, pushing both himself and the mares to their limit.
But he was alive.
Once the mares were settled and his saddlebags safely stowed, he sat beside her.
“Let me wash your burn. Then I’ll put some of my salve on it.” He dipped a cloth in the cool water, squeezed it, gently cleaned her cheek. “It’s not bad. It ought to heal well. Flying cinders?”
She nodded, met his gaze. “I thought you were dead.”
He dabbed salve gently onto the small burn mark. “I planned to follow you, but in the time it took to fetch my saddlebags, I’d been cut off. I was forced farther to the west and took shelter in a lake until the fire passed. Then I followed a creek until it came to the Ohio.”
“If you had been behind me, you’d have been killed. The fire caught up with us.” She shuddered at the memory. “The trees—they seemed to scream.”
He set aside the salve, pulled her against his chest, held her. “It’s over now. We’re alive, and that’s what matters.”
She allowed herself to sink against him, savored the feel of him, his scent, his strength. Suddenly she was so very tired. “What are we goin’ to do now?”