by Beth Trissel
The Lady and the Warrior
By
Beth Trissel
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
The Lady and the Warrior
COPYRIGHT © 2012 by Beth Trissel
All rights reserved. This is an “unedited” as is title. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author.
Contact Information: [email protected]
Cover Art by Elise Trissel
Published in the United States of America
Kindle Edition Copyright © 2012 by Beth Trissel
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Amazon.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Dedication: To all those who have gone before me. May I honor their memory.
Praise for the author:
“Ms. Trissel’s alluring style of writing invites the reader into a world of fantasy and makes it so believable it is spellbinding.”
~Camellia, Long and Short Reviews
May, 1783, the Virginia Frontier, the Allegheny Mountains
A woman? Stopping along the foggy trail, Zane Cameron fingered the long strands of light brown hair fluttering from a patch of briers.
Nearby, he spotted a bit of crimson cloth, likely torn from her cloak. In the sodden earth were indentations left by leather shoes, not moccasins. Small, too, and light. Definitely a woman of slender build. Some greenhorn must have brought her into the frontier.
Idiot. What in blazes was a female doing out here alone?
Not long ago a newcomer had been killed and his bride taken captive by Shawnee. Didn’t these land grabbers realize the war had never ended in the frontier?
This wild country was dangerous enough for a cagey man. Even a toughened Indian woman would be hard-pressed to survive unaided in these mountains. And this was no Indian judging by the color of her hair and clothes, unless she was a half-breed who took after the English side of the family. A sharp pain darted through him at the reminder.
“Reuben!”
A woman’s voice reached him through the mist-shrouded trees. She might be two or three miles ahead of him. Difficult to be sure. Sound carried quite a distance in these ridges. Especially in the wet.
“Reuben!” Again she shouted the man’s name. And again.
Whoever this Reuben was, he’d left her, either intentionally or not. If Zane had a woman, he wouldn’t treat her so carelessly. And he’d better find this one soon. Her cries would attract every predator, animal or human, in these woods.
Abandoning his hunt, Zane headed in her direction—hoping he reached her first.
****
Hoarse from shouting, weak with hunger, Abby Hastings stumbled over a root in the trail. Down she went on one knee. Mud squelched beneath her sodden skirts. Panting hard, she forced herself back up on quivering legs that threatened to give out any minute.
The raw, moisture-filled breeze whipped her striped petticoat about her ankles, its hem saturated from puddles. Her shoes and stockings were wet through—for hours now. Damp cold seeped into her very bones.
What on earth had become of Reuben? He’d never been away hunting this many days before. Not that they’d been wed long. Still, one week gone…
Realization crept over her, and with it a deepening dread. Searching this far from the cabin had been a mistake. But she was alone and her empty belly gnawed at her with the ferocity of a trapped fox. Now…she scanned the smoky whiteness, uncertain how to find her way back, and had the unsettling suspicion that she might even be going in circles.
Shivering, she hugged her wool cloak around her. Heavy clouds enveloped the ridges with the promise of more rain. This was only a brief reprieve before the next deluge swept the trees and her with it unless she found shelter. But where?
She had scant strength left to search. No flint and steel to strike a spark even if she could build a fire without dry kindling. She could scarcely see through all this fog. And it was thickening.
Misery her constant companion, she slogged on over the veiled path. Twisted trunks, knotted limbs, and Lord only knew what, took ghoulish shape in the mist. But fear of what sinister beings might dwell in this forest paled beside her present circumstances. She only prayed whoever, or whatever, haunted these harsh woodlands might pity—was that a growl?
She staggered faster.
Kree-eee-ar! The piercing cry of a hawk shrilled from overhead.
Glancing up, Abby saw a blur of russet tail feathers. The muted canopy spun in circles. Her head throbbed. Chills ran down her aching spine to her weak knees. The woven basket in her numb fingers slipped to the earth, spilling green poke shoots over the moss, all the nourishment she’d gleaned from these unyielding ridges. Winter food stores were depleted. The fair spring she’d longed for was the starving time.
A genteel girl from Eastern Virginia never should have wed Captain Reuben Hastings and journeyed this far west into the Alleghenies. And Abby’s father wouldn’t have let her if only he’d survived the bloody revolution and not left her penniless. Reuben’s knowledge of this Godless place wasn’t a great deal better than hers, but the lure of the land given to him for service in the war had overpowered him. If this was freedom, maybe they’d have been better off under King George.
Abby’s conscience pricked her. Scores of good men fell in that drawn out conflict and she shouldn’t criticize her husband off, heaven knows where, maybe suffering from injury or illness. He wasn’t charitable, more like a gruff he-bear, but at least he’d fed her enough to survive. Until now.
Her shaky legs gave way and she sank onto the forest floor alongside her basket. Indistinct branches revolved above her, the damp forest scent filling her nose. She had no idea how far she was from their log home or the nearest neighbor. Probably miles and miles.
She’d die out here. Lost and alone. Eaten by wild animals and none would ever know her fate.
Not that easily! Wasn’t she her father’s daughter, with his fighting spirit?
Get up! an inner voice commanded.
God help her. Groaning, each breath raspy in her throat, she pushed up on ice-cold hands and bruised knees. She’d crawl.
No. Walk.
Using all her strength, she struggled to her feet. Head swimming, she staggered back the way she’d come. At least she thought it was.
How to be certain? The trail swirled with mist. Was she even on one anymore?
Tumbling water rushed nearby. The stream. Far closer than she’d remembered. Either it had shifted course or—
Loose ground gave way underfoot. Shrieking, she scrabbled for a toehold on the muddy bank.
Futile!
Down , down, down, she slid. The icy flow swallowed her like a fierce beast with great cold jaws. Its teeth needled every inch of her body. Gasping, she flailed both arms to keep her head above water as the current swept her away.
Instinct told her to grab an overhanging limb and cling.
She couldn’t hold on long. “Help me! Somebody—please!” She choked out the plea.
Likely her last.
****
That terrified cry came from the stream. Zane didn’t have much time to reach her. And he was so close!
He slid the musket strap from his shoulder. Grasping the long firearm, he raced over the misty path. Like a buck taking flight, he dodged stones and sprang over fallen limbs. He skirted an enormous downed trunk capped with toadstools. Shouldering the musket again, he pushed through the underbrush.
Branches snagged his brown hunting shirt. Briars snatched at his leather breeches and wool leggings. He tore free. A tangle of vines lay between him and the woman. Taking the tomahawk slung at his side, he chopped his way through. Chest pounding, he arrived at the engorged stream.
With eyes honed to detect the barest hint of man or beast, he scanned the swift current. Woodland debris bobbed in the brown flood. No woman. She must be farther downstream.
He sprinted along the edge of the bank. Whoever this unfortunate female was, she was about to drown. Even without knowing her, it goaded him. And the urge to save her swelled inside like the muddy water overflowing its banks.
There! Zane spotted the young woman clinging to a branch as the torrent did its damnedest to rip her away. “Hold on! I’m coming!”
Her head swiveled toward him, face white with fear and fatigue.
“Hold on!”
She managed the barest nod.
He laid his musket on the ground. Wedging his moccasins against the stones and roots, he sidestepped down the slick earth. Then reached out and grasped the branch she held to—testing its strength. The wood was firm beneath his hand.
So far, so good.
He leaned over the swirling water. Careful. One misstep and they’d both be swept away to a watery grave.
Desperate eyes met his, the hue of summer leaves and marbled with brown like the forest. Her fingers slipped.
Quick! He snagged her shoulder, digging in his fingers so her cloak wouldn’t come away in his hand. “I’ve got you!”
She clutched at him.
“Don’t! You’ll pull us both in!”
A look of misgiving flitted through her panicked gaze.
“Trust me. I’ll not you let go.”
The fear in her face lessened. Surrender took its place. Then her arms went slack. In that moment of trust, he pulled her back up onto the bank.
Even soaked through, she wasn’t as heavy as he’d have expected for a grown woman. Undernourished, no doubt.
Eyes shut, a cascade of hair tumbling over her, she sagged onto the moss. Water ran from her in rivulets. She trembled, her face pale beneath streaks of mud. Still, she possessed an unmistakable appeal. With proper care, she’d be a beauty, rare in this wild land.
Bluish-black bruises marred her cheeks—from tree branches or the back of a man’s hand?
Anger flashed through Zane. He suspected the latter. And her fragile cheekbone bore the clear mark from a weighty ring.
Why hadn’t the lout sold it and bought more provisions?
Cruel and stupid.
No time for wrath against her unknown assailant, he reminded himself. “I must get you warm.”
Her eyes fluttered open and she gazed dazedly at him. The faintest, “I thank you, kind sir,” escaped her bluish lips.
Such polite speech. He had a real lady on his hands.
Then her eyes closed and her head lolled to one side.
No! Not after pulling her from the water.
Was she senseless or dead? He pressed urgent fingers to the side of her neck. Relief flooded him as he detected a pulse.
But she’d rapidly perish if he didn’t move fast.
His cabin stood a few miles farther west, tucked into a hollow between the ridges. Warmth and food awaited her in that snug shelter. He’d waste precious time building a fire in this wet, and more rain was on the way. There was nothing else to do but carry her.
When her man turned up—if he ever did—Zane would deal with the brute. For now, she barely clung to life. The water had brought him a gift, and he didn’t intend to lose her.
****
Had Abby died and gone to heaven? She couldn’t say what she’d expected paradise to be like. Nor had she any memory of her arrival through the pearly gates she’d heard about from the Reverend Brown, but supposed she wouldn’t. She only knew sweet warmth flowed through her and soft fur cushioned her from head to toe. A cheery wood fire crackled in her ears, while the tantalizing aroma of roasting game wafted round her nostrils.
Surely they didn’t serve venison in heaven?
A strong arm slipped beneath her shoulders.
An angel?
Near enough. He gently lifted her head and held a fragrant bowl to her lips.
“Drink this slowly.”
His voice was strangely familiar, but she wasn’t acquainted with any angels. God must have sent him.
As if in a dream, she sipped the steaming broth. The savory meat laced with herbs and spring onions tasted better than the finest dinner she’d ever been served in her grander days. Sighing with more contentment than she’d known in months, she snuggled further down into her fur-lined nest.
Heaven was good.
She roused again—no notion how many hours later—at the welcome feel of the man’s arm. This time she summoned the energy to look at him.
His tender gaze met hers with eyes colored like a brooding sky. How long it had been since she’d seen kindness in a man’s face. His features were carved in rugged lines. His nose was slightly bent, likely from a fight, and a thin scar ran down one cheek. Whiskers darkened his chin, just enough to outline his strong profile. But it was his eyes that drew her...she could dissolve in those pools…like the shadowed spring beneath the sycamore tree, banked by fern, where she drew buckets of clear water.
The spicy aroma of sassafras rose from the cup he held to her lips. She drank the tea sweetened with, was it possible? Yes. Honey. Divine.
Further strengthened, she roused from her stupor and skimmed her eyes past his to the beams overhead. Bunches of fragrant herbs and dried roots hung from the blackened wood. Others filled white oak baskets.
She swept her gaze over the sturdy cabin. The furnishings were simple but clearly made by a skilled craftsman. Carved stools and two chairs, benches lined a sturdy trestle table. An oak cupboard held mugs, trenchers and stoneware. She noted kegs of spirits and barrels likely filled with cornmeal. An inviting bed built along one log wall was neatly covered with a woolen blanket and furs.
Before her, an orange fire glowed in the massive stone hearth. The meaty scent of stew rose from the black iron kettle. She sensed the thick fur of a bearskin beneath her and realized she lay naked beneath the covers as near to the hearth as he’d dared place her. He must have stripped off her wet clothes before wrapping her. She saw no one else present. No woman. Though a feminine touch was evident in the cabin.
Her cheeks warmed and she returned her eyes to the man from whom she had few secrets left. “How can I thank you?” she whispered.
He set the cup on a low stool. “Live, fair one.”
Had he truly called her fair? Reuben had declared her plain. To live here with this man would be wondrous. “I don’t even know your name.”
“Or I, yours.”
“Abby Hastings.”
He arched one dark eyebrow at her. “Miss?”
“Mrs.” A wrenching admission.
He was silent for a moment. “I am Zane Cameron to some. Others call me Nighthawk.”
She looked closely at her rescuer and took in his raven-black hair and high cheekbones. Then she knew. “You are part Indian.”
His brow furrowed and he inclined his head. “Shawnee.”
“But you speak English and seem so…” Her words trailed off. She bit her lip before she said white.
“I do not live with the tribe. I am a free spirit.”
If only Abby were. “I am a trapped bird.” It was blasphemy, she supposed, but she couldn’t be helped.
The edges of his mouth tightened. “Do not fear. I will free you when you have the strength to fly.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I did not mean you were trapping me
.”
A faint smile tugged at his lips. “No?”
God help her. “No, Mr. Cameron.”
“Zane or Nighthawk.”
Which half was which, she wondered.
“My father was Shawnee,” he answered, as if reading her mind. “And my mother a captive. She loved him but was returned to her white family after the treaty. Her Scot’s husband was none too pleased at being presented with a half-breed son and resented me the rest of his days, but gave me his name. Taught me many skills. I suppose I should be grateful.”
“Zane, then.”
“I am equally content with Nighthawk. And have two full-blooded half -brothers.”
She stared at him. “You still see them?”
“From time to time. I visit my people.”
Realization dawned on her. “So, you’re a warrior?”
A wry smile creased his face, making him appear even more handsome. He gave a nod. “And quite weary of war.”
She sighed. “Aren’t we all. What of your mother?”
Sadness touched his eyes. “Fever took her.”
“I’m sorry.”
He said nothing, but didn’t need to. She must have lived here until her death. Likely cared for by this remarkable son.
Black despair stood between her and the man whose arm still encircled her as though she belonged to him. How she wished she did. “I have no family left. Only Captain Hastings, and he won’t ever let me go.”
Zane frowned. Lifting one hand, he trailed it lightly over her bruised cheek, and lingered at the cut from his ring. “Your husband did this?”
“Yes.” How she savored his gentleness.
He dipped his fingers into a brown crock and lightly dabbed the salve onto her sore face. “The Shawnee do not beat their women or children. They are precious.”
Tiny shivers tingled through her at his touch. “I didn’t know that.”
“There is much you do not know.”
Beginning with the salve. “What is that?”