Fire Dancer

by Colleen French

  Mackenzie made the turn on the wall, and headed back toward her room. She hoped her father and the major didn't notice her.

  She groaned. Where could Fire Dancer be? Had he gone hunting, or fishing, or just wandered off as he often did?

  Then she spotted him and checked to see if the guards were watching her. They weren't. She walked closer to the edge of the jagged wall. "Fire Dancer," she called softly. She glanced away innocently, just in case someone was watching her, then quickly back at him.

  Fire Dancer broke off his conversation with another brave, and stared up at her with those black eyes that haunted her dreams.

  "Mack-en-zie." His voice was so gentle on the wind that she barely heard him.

  "I need to talk to you," she whispered loudly over the side. "Right now."

  He said something in Shawnee to the other brave and the brave walked away.

  Fire Dancer glanced up at the guard that walked on the palisade, his shadow casting a long, dark line on the grass far below. Fire Dancer's brow creased. "Now, Mack-en-zie? It is important?"

  "Now." She stared off into the treetops, trying to appear casual to anyone who watched her. It wouldn't be safe for Fire Dancer to attempt to get inside the fort to her. It made more sense that she go to him. "By the river. I'll be there as soon as I can."

  He nodded and walked away, crossing the soldier's shadow.

  Mackenzie raced to her room and grabbed her water bucket. Still a third full, she poured the water into her chipped washbasin. From the trunk on the floor, she took the silver snuff box wrapped in red cloth, and shoved it through the slit in her petticoats to the pocket she wore tied to her waist.

  Shutting her door quietly behind her, she descended the stairs. Instead of walking out the main door where her father and the major probably still stood, she slipped into the main room where they dined, then out the back door.

  Fortunately, Mackenzie found the back gate of the fort open. It had probably been left that way by the soldiers digging the trench around the fort. Casually, she walked out the back gate, swinging the bucket. Long ago she had learned that the best way to get away with something was to pretend it was perfectly normal.

  "Afternoon, mistress. Afternoon, ma'am," several soldiers called as she passed. She smiled and dipped a curtsy or two. The men appeared so young and homesick. "Afternoon, gentlemen. It is indeed hot, isn't it?"

  " 'Deed is," one replied.

  " 'Deed so," the others echoed.

  She walked along the trench they were digging, stepping in the loose dirt that had yet to be hauled away. She could smell the rich upturned soil and the scent of burning tobacco. Before she reached the Indian's encampment, she cut left diagonally across the forest toward the stream. She didn't look back over her shoulder to see if anyone was watching her.

  Mackenzie was concerned about Mary and the theft. She felt terribly guilty. If Mary hadn't wanted to give her a gift, the Indian woman would never have stolen from Burrow. Mackenzie didn't know what she should have done. Not accepted the snuff box? Should she have understood the Lenape customs well enough to know not to give the earrings to Mary without realizing she would have to return the favor?

  All these things went through her mind as she walked deeper into the forest. But she also thought of Fire Dancer. She felt a trill of excitement. She liked the idea of being alone with him out here in his element rather than in the confines of her quarters. She liked the idea of being alone with him in the bright sunlight with no one but the bees and birds to hear and see them.

  Mackenzie reached the stream. She saw no sign of anyone and immediately became a little uneasy. If Fire Dancer wasn't here, that meant she was alone and vulnerable again. She was disobeying her father's wishes and ignoring her own good sense. She tried not to think of the Huron who had attacked her or what could have happened. At least she had her dagger with her now. If need be, she could defend herself. She rested her hand on its hilt, fighting her uneasiness.

  "Fire Dancer?" Her voice faded away until it was nothing but the breeze and the chirp of a katydid. She climbed up on a flat, brown rock chasing away a spotted lizard. She stared into the swaying trees and watched for any sign of Fire Dancer.

  He'll be here any minute, silly goose , she chided herself. There's nothing to be afraid of .

  It was cooler here by the stream and she discovered that if she turned her head just right, she could catch the breeze. It felt so good on her face that she closed her eyes for just a second.

  "Mack-en-zie? "

  She snapped her eyes open, startled. Of course she knew who it was immediately. "Leaping apes in hell!" She threw her arms up in frustration. "You did it to me again. How do you do that?"

  Fire Dancer stood no more than a pace from her, staring earnestly into her face. His hands rested casually on his hips. He wore nothing but his fringed leather loin cloth, an open vest, and his moccasins. The only weapon he carried was a knife he wore on his hip. "It is easy, my Mack-en-zie. I walk with the forest, not against it." He held his hand out to her and helped her off the rock. "This man could teach you."

  He didn't pull his hand away after she stepped down. Neither did she. Their hands just fell comfortably, their fingers locked as if they always held hands.

  A strange electricity leapt between them. Mackenzie always felt it when he was near, but today it was different. It was stronger. She was more aware of her senses; the smell of the mossy river bed; the sound of not one species of bird, but several. All the colors of the forest appeared brighter, the leaves greener, the water more sparkling. And she was more aware of him and her own reaction to him. He had a woodsy scent that clung to him and made her dizzy. He smelled like the open forest, like rain . . . like a man.

  "You needed this man?"

  Needed him? It sounded so intimate coming from him. "Yes. I . . . I do. I need to tell you something. I . . . I need your help." Reluctantly, she released his warm, firm hand that was the same size as her own. She walked away, putting a little space between them. She couldn't think when he was touching her and she needed to be able to speak coherently.

  Then the words just tumbled out. "Mary's done something terrible, Fire Dancer. But she did it for me." Mackenzie turned to face him, and wiped at the silly tears stinging her eyes, embarrassing her. She rarely cried. "I don't want her to be punished because of me. It was all my fault. I vow it was."

  He put his arm around her and touched her on her bare forearm. It seemed so natural that he would comfort her. And the quiver of pleasure that leapt inside her when he touched her seemed natural, too.

  "Do not have tears, Mack-en-zie." He touched her cheek gently with his thumb, wiping away a tear. "Tell this man, and this man will right the wrong for you, if he can."

  She smiled. She had never felt comfortable being vulnerable or weak of spirit around any man, not even her father. But for once it felt good to lift the burden from her shoulders and place it on another's.

  "Tell this man," Fire Dancer entreated. "And he will listen."

  And Fire Dancer did listen, quietly and without interruption, comment or judgment on Mary or Mackenzie. For that she was grateful. For that, she could have kissed him.

  Finished with her confession, she sat down on the rock and watched him pace. She wondered what he was thinking. Why was it taking him so long to say something? Anything. It always took the man so long to speak.

  "Mack-en-zie?"

  "Yes?"

  "Did you bring the trinket?"

  She nodded and shoved her hand into her pocket. "Here. It's right here." She offered the silver snuff box still wrapped in the red cloth.

  "This man will take it and return it to the lieutenant's possessions." He took the box from her and dropped it into the leather pouch on his belt. "This man will move invisible through the fort. The lieutenant will think his God has returned it."

  "I knew you would make it right. I don't want Mary to be punished. No telling what retribution Burrow might take if he knew she took it.
I know he'd not understand why she did it." She watched Fire Dancer with eyes that were beginning to somehow see him differently. She felt so emotional today. "You understand why she did it, don't you, Fire Dancer?"

  "This man understands." He shifted to stand in front of her. Because he was only an inch or so taller than her, he could look her eye to eye. "But this man is afraid for Mary. She wants to be English so much that she forgets where she comes from. She wants to make a friend in you so much that she would go against the laws of our people."

  He was so close that her breath caught. She had this sudden, strong desire to reach out and touch that smooth, bronze chest. "What's the punishment for theft among your people?"

  "Thieves are banished. Disowned by their families and their people. A thief must strike out on his own. He cannot live among the People with such shame and dishonor on his face."

  "You won't tell will you? Not anyone?" She raised her chin. "Not her brother? He would be so angry with her." Then she did it. She raised her hand and placed it, not on his bare skin—she didn't dare—but on the leather vest.

  "This man will not tell the secret, but I must speak to the one who calls herself Mary now. She is as a sister to this man. Raised in my mother's wigwam along with me and my sister and Okonsa."

  "You were raised as brother"—her voice twitched as his hand found her waist—"and sister?"

  "Ah . Their father was killed in fighting when we were still young. Their mother . . ." He sighed. "This man does not wish to talk of it now."

  Mackenzie nodded. She could hear his easy, steady breathing. His hand felt so good on her waist. Other men had tried to touch her like this before, but she'd never wanted them to. Not like she wanted Fire Dancer to hold her now.

  Fire Dancer's black-eyed gaze searched hers. "This man would kiss you."

  Mackenzie swallowed against her fear and excitement. "This woman would be kissed."

  As he tightened his grip on her waist, she let her eyelids fall shut. Mackenzie knew this was insane but she was dying for it. Just one kiss. One taste of the forbidden fruit , she wagered with God, and I'll never do this again .

  His mouth moved so slowly toward hers that she had what seemed like seconds to think about it, to anticipate. When his mouth finally touched hers, it was a gentle caress, as if he was testing the waters. She felt none of the awkwardness she'd experienced the few times Joshua had attempted to kiss her.

  Without thinking, she pressed her hand to his chest and brushed her fingertips against his bare skin. The heat of his warm skin penetrated her own flesh. His mouth felt so good against hers . . .

  With slow, agonizing pleasure, he touched her lower lip with the tip of his tongue, then her upper lip.

  She sighed. Or, heaven forbid, was it a moan? Her heart pounded. He tasted as nothing she had ever tasted before. Was this lust? Was it for this that men fought and ladies died for? She could believe it . . .

  To her disappointment, he pulled away.

  She opened her eyes. She had thought one kiss would be enough, but it wasn't. It wasn't.

  Before she realized what she was doing, she leaned toward him again. She didn't know what made her so bold, but she had to feel his lips against hers just once more. This was it. Her first chance. Her last. Here. Now.

  This time when their mouths met there was no hesitation—there was more of an urgency in how he touched her. Both knew this was by mutual consent. Instinctively, she parted her lips. She had never kissed a man open-mouthed before, but she wanted to. She wanted desperately to be possessed by this naked savage . . . and, shamefully, to possess him.

  He pushed his tongue into her mouth; she was amazed by the sensation. The taste of him, the feel of his hard chest pressed against her breasts caught her unaware. She had never known it could be like this.

  Suddenly her head was spinning. She touched her tongue to his. With one hand still around her waist, he cupped her chin, forcing his mouth against hers with just the right amount of pressure. Mackenzie strained to deepen the kiss, feeling a passion for this man she'd never known existed. She knew it was wrong, even as she explored the cool cavern of his mouth. But it seemed so right, this kissing. Him touching her.

  The word love popped up in her head and it was as if a bucket of icy water had been splashed in her face. She pulled away, and stumbled backward, suddenly afraid. More afraid then she'd been the day the Indian had attacked her.

  "I . . . I have to go. Someone will realize I'm missing." Mackenzie picked up her skirts and ran toward the fort, ignoring the lilting voice that called her name and tugged at her heartstrings.

  Chapter Eight

  Fire Dancer stood outside the log kitchen and listened to Little Weaver bang her tin pots and dishes. She had cleared away the officers' evening meal, making many trips from the dining room to the kitchen which was a log room separate from the main building. Now she stood inside her hot English kitchen washing the dishes in great wooden tubs. He could see her through the window. He walked in the back door. "Little Weaver." He spoke in their native Shawnee tongue.

  She glanced up, then back at the soapy pewter plate in her wet hands. "Mary. This woman called Mary," she answered in English.

  "For me, little sister," he replied in Shawnee, "you will always be Little Weaver. You are the woman with the sweet voice, the woman with hands that can make the English loom rattle and produce blankets too pretty for human eyes."

  She stared at him with black eyes like Okonsa's. "I am Mary." Stubbornly, she continued to speak in carefully pronounced English. It was obvious she'd been taking speaking lessons from someone and Fire Dancer could guess who.

  "The Shawnee girl you knew is gone. Little Weaver gone." She tapped her chest with her soapy hand. "Mary, Mary of the Fort Belvadere kitchen. John Allen's Mary, soon to be wife, this woman hopes."

  Fire Dancer leaned against the doorjamb and crossed his arms over his chest. It was hot and steamy inside the kitchen as in most other white man's rooms. He could still smell the scent of fried, salty bacon and scouring soap. He switched to English. "This man did not come to argue over this woman's name. I came to speak of a greater matter."

  She dunked the plate into a tub of clear water and set it on a huge tree stump that served as her work table in the dirt-floor kitchen. "Why do you come? My brother sent you to tell me I cannot speak to John Allen?" She spoke with a fierce challenge. "That I cannot choose the man to receive my affections?" She grabbed another dirty plate. "This woman is a widow. Her husband is dead and gone to the heavens." She waved her hand and soap suds flew. "This woman is free to do what she wants."

  "The matter of the Englishman is between you and your brother—perhaps only between you and the soldier. I come to speak of a more serious matter."

  She began to scrub the pewter plate vigorously, keeping her eyes downcast.

  Fire Dancer sighed, switching back to Shawnee. It was easier to express his feelings in his own language. "Sister, I know what you did."

  Fear shone in her eyes.

  "And this man understands why."

  Slowly, she lifted her gaze. Thankfully, he saw shame in her face. So at least she had not completely lost what lessons his mother had taught her.

  "You took the lieutenant's trinket."

  "He had no need of it!" she defended. "He have many shiny boxes, buckles, beads!"

  "That does not matter and you know it," Fire Dancer snapped.

  Mary went on washing her dishes. She wiped at her teary eyes with the sleeve of her new blue and green calico English dress. A gift from the soldier, no doubt.

  "This woman wanted to give her new friend, Mackenzie, a gift," Mary said softly in Shawnee. "And this woman had no gift to give."

  "So you became a thief?"

  Mary twisted her hands in her English skirt. "You do not understand, you Fire Dancer, who have always had whatever you wanted. You who have always been loved."

  He took a step toward her, disturbed by her words. "You are loved, Little Weaver. Yo
u are loved by me and by our mother and our sister. Okonsa loves you more than any who walks this earth."

  "Okonsa!" she spat. "He does not love this woman as sister. He only wishes to control her. To make her one of his cronies' squaws. To keep her in the village and never let her taste the English sugar, or choc-o-late, or see the pretty glass beads."

  "He wants what is best for you, Little Weaver. It's all he's ever wanted. When you came to our village after your mother died, it was Okonsa who carried you on his back. It was Okonsa who got you to eat when our mother could not. It was Okonsa who bathed your face when the white man's small pox came."

  She slapped a plate on top of another with a clang. "If Okonsa loved this woman, he would let her go. He would let her be John Allen's wife. He would let her go to Eng-land and live in a fine English stone house and drink tea from glass."

  "John Allen has offered his heart to yours in marriage?"

  She dried her hands on a ragged linen towel. "Not yet, but he will."

  Fire Dancer rested his hands on his hips. "Little Weaver, we have strayed from our conversation. I came to speak of the theft. If the white soldiers had caught you, you could have been hanged until your death, or had your hand cut off. How will you enter the path of the heavens when you die, if you have no hand?"

  She turned her back to him, still speaking in their native tongue. "I won't do it again."

  "It should not have been done to begin with. You know better. It's not who you are, Little Weaver. You are not a thief."

  "No?" She whipped around, her black braids swinging. "Then who am I? The daughter of murdered ghosts? The sister of a brave who hates men for the color of their skin and nothing more? Who am I, but a woman doomed to grind corn in a cornhusk wigwam? I want more, Fire Dancer of the Thunder Sky. This woman will have more. If the Englishman, John Allen, will not give it to her, another white man will."

  Fire Dancer ran his hand over his face. He didn't want to be here right now. He didn't want to deal with Little Weaver and her confusion of her own identity. All he wanted to do was see the woman with her bright red head. He wanted to hear her speak his name. He wanted to taste her lips again.