by Nora Roberts
She’d heard stories, horrible, barbaric stories, about what was done to captive white women. Once she’d thought them all foolishness, like the stories of bogeymen conjured up to frighten small children. Now she feared that the stories were pale reflections of reality. They climbed higher, to where the air cooled and the mountains burst to life with pine and fast-running streams. When the horses slowed, she slumped forward, her thighs screaming from the effort of the ride. They talked among themselves in words that meant nothing to her. Time had lost all meaning, as well. It had been hours. She was only sure of that because the sun was low and just beginning to turn the western sky red. Blood red.
They stopped, and for one wild moment she thought about kicking the horse and trying to ride free. Then she was being dragged to the ground. With the breath knocked from her, she tried to get her bearings. Three of the men were filling water skins at the stream. One seemed hardly more than a boy, but she doubted age mattered. They watered their mounts and paid no attention to her.
Pushing herself up on her elbows, she saw the scar-faced Indian arguing with one she now took to be the leader. He had a starkly beautiful face, lean and chiseled and cold. There was an eagle feather in his hair, and around his neck was a string of what looked like small bleached bones. He studied her dispassionately, then signaled to the other man.
She began to pray again, silently, desperately, as the scarfaced brave advanced on her. He dragged her to her feet and began to toy with her hair. The leader barked out an order that the brave just snarled at. He reached for her throat. Sarah held her breath as he ripped the cameo from her shirtwaist. Apparently satisfied for the moment, he pushed her toward the stream and let her drink.
She did, greedily. Perhaps death wasn’t as close as she’d feared. Perhaps somehow, somehow, she could evade it. She wouldn’t despair, she told herself as she soothed her burning skin with the icy water. Someone would come after her. Someone.
Jake.
She nearly cried out his name when she was dragged to her feet again. Her captor had fastened her brooch to his buckskin vest. Like a trophy, she thought. Her mother’s cameo wouldn’t be a trophy for a savage. Furious, she reached for it, and was slapped to the ground. She felt the shirtwaist rip away from her shoulder as she was pulled up by it. Instinctively she began to fight, using teeth and nails. She heard a cry of pain, then rolling masculine laughter. As she kicked and squirmed, her hands were bound together with a leather strap. She was sobbing now, but with rage. Tossed astride the pony again, she felt her ankles bound tight under its belly.
There was the taste of blood in her mouth, and tears in her eyes. They continued to climb.
She dozed somehow. When the pain in her arms and legs grew unbearable, it seemed the best escape. The height was dizzying. They rode along the edge of a narrow canyon that seemed to drop forever. Into hell, she thought as her eyes drooped again. Straight into hell.
Wherever they were taking her, it was a different world, one of forests and rivers and sheer cliffs. It didn’t matter. She would die or she would escape. There was nothing else.
Survival. That’s all there is.
She hadn’t understood what Jake had meant when he’d said that to her. Now she did. There were times when there was nothing but life or death. If she could escape, and had to kill to do so, then she would kill. If she could not escape, and they were planning what she feared they were, she would find a way to kill herself.
They climbed. Endlessly, it seemed to Sarah, they rode up a winding trail and into the twilight. Around her she could hear the call of night birds, high and musical, accented by the hollow hooting of an owl. The trees glowed gold and red, and as the wind rose it sounded through them. The air chilled, working through the torn shirtwaist. Only her pride remained as she shivered in silence.
Exhaustion had her dreaming. She was riding through the forest with Lucilla, chatting about the new bonnet they had seen that morning. They were laughing and talking about the men they would fall in love with and marry. They would be tall and strong and devastatingly handsome.
She dreamed of Jake-of a dream kiss, and a real one. She dreamed of him riding to her, sweeping her up on his big gray mount and taking her away. Holding her, warming her, keeping her safe.
Then the horses stopped.
Her heart was too weary even for prayer as her ankle bonds were cut. She was pulled unresisting from the horse, then sprawled on the ground when her legs buckled under her. There was no energy left in her for weeping, so she lay still, counting each breath. She must have slept, because when she came to again she heard the crackling of a fire and the quiet murmuring of men at a meal.
Biting back a moan, she tried to push herself up. Before she could, a hand was on her shoulder, rolling her onto her back.
Her captor leaned over her, his dark eyes gleaming in the firelight. He spoke, but the words meant nothing to her. She would fight him, she promised herself. Even knowing she would lose, she would fight. He touched her hair, running his fingers through it, lifting it and letting it fall. It must have pleased him, for he grinned at her before he took out his knife.
She thought, almost hoped, that he would slit her throat and be done with it. Instead, he began to cut her skirt away. She kicked, as viciously as she could, but he only parried the blows, then locked her legs with his own. Hearing her skirt rip, she struck out blindly with her bound hands. As he raised his own to strike her, there was a call from the campfire. Her kidnappers rose, bows and rifles at the ready.
She saw the rider come out of the gloom and into the flickering light. Another dream, she thought with a little sob. Then he looked at her. Strength poured back into her body, and she scrambled to her feet “Jake!”
She would have run to him, but she was yanked ruthlessly back. He gave no sign, barely glanced her way as he walked his horse toward the group of Apaches. He spoke, but the words were strange, incomprehensible to her.
“Much time has passed, Little Bear.”
“I felt breath on my back today.” Little Bear lowered his rifle and waited. “I thought never to see you again, Gray Eyes.”
Slowly, ignoring the rage bubbling inside him, Jake dismounted. “Our paths have run apart. Now they come together again.” He looked steadily into eyes he knew as well as he knew his own. There was between them a love few men would have understood. “I remember a promise made between boys. We swore in blood that one would never lift a hand against the other.”
“The promise sworn in blood has not been forgotten.” Little Bear held out his hand. They gripped firm, hand to elbow. “Will you eat?”
With a nod, Jake sat by the fire to share the venison. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sarah huddled on the ground, watching. Her face was pale with fear and exhaustion. He could see bruises of fatigue under eyes that were glazed with it. Her clothes were torn, and he knew, as he ate and drank, that she must be cold. But if he wanted her alive, there were traditions to be observed.
“Where is the rest of our tribe?”
“Dead. Lost. Running.” Little Bear stared broodingly into the fire. “The long swords have cut us down like deer. Those who are left are few and hide in the mountains. Still they come.”
“Crooked Arm? Straw Basket?”
“They live. North, where the winters are long and the game is scarce.” He turned his head again, and Jake saw a cold, depthless anger-one he understood. “The children do not laugh, Gray Eyes, nor do the women sing.”
They talked, as the fire blazed, of shared memories, of people both had loved. Their bond was as strong as it had been when Jake had lived and learned and felt like an Apache. But they both knew that time had passed.
When the meal was over, Jake rose from the fire. “You have taken my woman, Little Bear. I have come to take her back.”
Little Bear held up a hand before the scarred man beside him could speak. “She is not my prisoner, but Black Hawk’s. It is not for me to return her to you.” “Then the promise can be k
ept between us.” He turned to Black Hawk. “You have taken my woman.” “I have not finished with her.” He put a hand on the hilt of his knife. “I will keep her.”
He could have bargained with him. A rifle was worth more than a woman. But bargaining would have cost him face. He had claimed Sarah as his, and there was only one way to take her back.
“The one who lives will keep her.” He unstrapped his guns, handing them to Little Bear. There were few men he would have trusted with his weapons. “I will speak with her.” He moved to Sarah as Black Hawk began to chant in preparation for the fight.
“I hope you enjoyed your meal,” she said, sniffing. “I actually thought you might have come to rescue me.”
“I’m working on it.”
“Yes, I could see that. Sitting by the fire, eating, telling stories. My hero.”
His grin flashed as he hauled her against him for a long, hard kiss. “You’re a hell of a woman, Sarah. Just sit tight and let me see what I can do.”
“Take me home.” Pride abandoned, she gripped the front of his shirt. “Please, just take me home.” “I will.” He squeezed her hands as he removed them from his shirt. Then he rose, and he, too, began to chant. If there was magic, he wanted his share. They stood side by side in the glow of the fire as the youngest warrior bound their left wrists together. The glitter of knives had Sarah pushing herself to her feet. Little Bear closed a hand over her arm.
“You cannot stop it,” he said in calm, precise English.
“No!” She struggled as she watched the blades rise.
“Oh, God, no!” They came down, whistling.
“I will spill your white blood, Gray Eyes,” Black Hawk murmured as their blades scraped, edge to edge. Locked wrist to wrist, they hacked, dodged, advanced. Jake fought in grim silence. If he lost, even as his blood poured out, Black Hawk would celebrate his victory by raping Sarah. The thought of it, the fury of it, broke his concentration, and Black Hawk pushed past his guard and sliced down his shoulder. Blood ran warm down his arm. Concentrating on the scent of it, he blocked Sarah from his mind and fought to survive.
In the frigid night air, their faces gleamed with sweat. The birds had flown away at the sound of blades and the smell of blood. The only sound now was the harsh breathing of the two men locked in combat, intent on the kill. The other men formed a loose circle around them, watching, the inevitability of death accepted.
Sarah stood with her bound hands at her mouth, holding back the need to scream and scream until she had no air left. At the first sight of Jake’s blood she had closed her eyes tight. But fear had had them wide again in an instant.
Little Bear still held her arm, his grip light but inescapable. She already understood that she was to be a kind of prize for the survivor. As Jake narrowly deflected Black Hawk’s blade, she turned to the man beside her.
“Please, if you stop it, let him live, I’ll go with you willingly. I won’t fight or try to escape.”
For a moment, Little Bear took his eyes away from the combat. Gray Eyes had chosen his woman well. “Only death stops it now.”
As she watched, both men tumbled to the ground. She saw Black Hawk’s knife plunge into the dirt an inch from Jake’s face. Even as he drew it out, Jake’s knife was ripping into his flesh. They rolled toward the fire.
Jake didn’t feel the heat, only an ice-cold rage. The fire seared the skin on his arm before he yanked free. The hilt of his knife was slick with his own sweat but the blade dripped red with his opponent’s blood. The horses whinnied and shied when the men rolled too close. Then they were in the shadows. Sarah could see only a dark blur and the sporadic gleam of a knife.
But she could hear desperate grunts and the scrape of metal. Then she heard nothing but the sound of a man breathing hard. One man. With her heart in her throat, she waited to see who would come back into the light. Bruised, bloodied, Jake walked to her. Saying nothing, he cut through her bonds with the blade of the stained knife. Still silent, he pushed it into his boot and took his guns back from Little Bear.
“He was a brave warrior,” Little Bear said.
With pain and triumph singing through him, Jake strapped on his gunbelt. “He died a warrior’s death.” He offered his hand again. “May the spirits ride with you, brother.”
“And with you, Gray Eyes.”
Jake held out a hand for Sarah. When he saw that she was swaying on her feet, he picked her up and carried her to his horse. “Hold on,” he told her, swinging up into the saddle behind her. He rode out of camp without looking back, knowing he would never see Little Bear again.
She didn’t want to cry, but she couldn’t stop. Her only comfort was that her tears were silent and he couldn’t hear them. Or so she thought. They’d ridden no more than ten minutes at a slow walk when he turned her around in the saddle to cradle her against him.
“You’ve had a bad time, Duchess. Go on and cry for a while.”
So she wept shamelessly, her cheeks pressed against his chest, the movement of the horse lulling her. “I was so afraid.” Her voice hitching, she clung to him.
“He was going to-”
“I know. You don’t want to think about it.” He didn’t. If he did, he’d lose the already-slippery grip he had on his control. “It’s all over now.”
“Will they come after us?”
“No.”
“How can you be sure?” As the tears passed, the fear doubled back.
“It wouldn’t be honorable.”
“Honorable?” She lifted her head to look at him. In the moonlight his face looked hard as rock. “But they’re Indians.”
“That’s right. They’ll stand by their honor a lot longer than any white man.”
“But-” She had forgotten for a moment the Apache in him. “You seemed to know them.”
“I lived with them five years. Little Bear, the one with the eagle feather, is my cousin.” He stopped and dismounted. “You’re cold. I’ll build a fire and you can rest a while.” He pulled a blanket out of his saddlebag and tossed it over her shoulders. Too tired to argue, Sarah wrapped it tight around herself and sat on the ground.
He had a fire burning quickly and started making coffee. Without hesitation, Sarah bit into the jerky he gave her and warmed her hands over the flames.
“The one you…fought with. Did you know him?”
“Yeah.”
He’d killed for her, she thought, and had to struggle not to weep again. Perhaps it had been a member of his own family, an old friend. “I’m sorry,” she managed.
“For what?” He poured coffee into a cup, then pushed it into her trembling hands.
“For all of it They were just there, all at once. There was nothing I could do.” She drank, needing the warmth badly. “When I was in school, we would read the papers, hear stories. I never really believed it. I was certain that the army had everything under control.” “You read about massacres,” he said with a dull fury in his voice that had her looking up again. “About settlers slaughtered and wagon trains attacked. You read about savages scalping children. It’s true enough. But did you read any about soldiers riding into camps and butchering, raping women, putting bullets in babies long after treaties were signed and promises made? Did you hear stories about poisoned food and contaminated blankets sent to the reservations?” “But that can’t be.”
“The white man wants the land, and the land isn’t his-or wasn’t.” He took out his knife and cleaned it in the dirt. “He’ll take it, one way or the other.” She didn’t want to believe it, but she could see the truth in his eyes. “I never knew.”
“It won’t go on much longer. Little Bear and men like him are nearly done.”
“How did you choose? Between one life and the other?”
He moved his shoulders. “There wasn’t much choice. There’s not enough Apache in me to have been accepted as a warrior. And I was raised white, mostly. Red man. That’s what they called my father when he was coming up outside an army post down around Tu
cson. He kept it. Maybe it was pride, maybe it wasn’t.”
He stopped, annoyed with himself. He’d never told anyone so much.
“You up to riding?”
She wanted him to go on, to tell her everything there was to tell about himself. Instinct held her back. If she pushed, she might never learn. “I can try.” Smiling, she reached out to touch his arm. “I want to-Oh, you’re bleeding.”
He glanced down. “Here and there.”
“Let me see. I should have tended these already.” She was up on her knees, pulling away the rent material of his sleeve.
“Nothing a man likes better than to have his clothes ripped off by a pretty woman.”
“I’ll thank you to behave yourself,” she told him, but she couldn’t muffle a chuckle.
It was good to hear her laugh, even if only a little. Most of the horror had faded from her eyes. But he wanted it gone, all of it. “Heard you made Lucius strip down to the skin. He claimed you threatened him.” This time her laughter was warmer. “The man needed to be threatened. I wish you’d seen his face when I told him to take off his pants.”
“I don’t suppose you’d like me to do the same.” “Just the shirt should do. This arm certainly needs to be bandaged.” She rose and, modesty prevailing, turned her back before she lifted the hem of her skirt to rip her petticoat.
“I’m obliged.” He eased painfully out of his shirt. “I’ve been wondering, Duchess, just how many of those petticoats do you wear?”
“That’s certainly not a subject for discussion. But it’s fortunate that I…” She turned back to him, and the words slipped quietly down her throat. She’d never seen a man’s chest before, had certainly never thought a man could be so beautiful. But he was firm and lean, with the dark skin taut over his rib cage and gleaming in the firelight. She felt the heat flash inside her, pressing and throbbing in her center and then spreading through her like a drug.