Through the Fire (The Native American Warrior Series)

by Beth Trissel

  Shoka strode to the door and closed it. He slid the bolt and walked across the room to check the back door. Evidently satisfied with his inspection, he slipped his shot pouch and powder horn from his shoulder and laid them on the table. His knife, tomahawk, and her pistol increased the pile. The firelight flickered over his chest and shoulders, scraped from stone and gashed in battle.

  “I will get your wet clothes off.”

  His black hair fell across her as he loosened the sopping cloak ties just beneath her chin. He hung the cloak from a peg on the wall to one side of the hearth. Her frayed gown was thoroughly bedraggled from her journey through muddy water.

  He unfastened the stained panel at her bodice. “Stand.”

  She put her unsteady hand on the back of the chair for balance. He pried the clinging dress from her and spread it beside his shirt. She fell back into the chair.

  “And to think I used to have a maid for this,” she murmured.

  “You need the aid of a good woman. I will find you one.”

  “If we live long enough.”

  “We will.” He towed her up again, tugging at the ties that secured her saturated petticoats. The wringing-wet cloth crumpled to her ankles. He untied her shift and pulled it over her head.

  The room swirled. She toppled forward, bare and shivering. “I’m so giddy.”

  Shoka caught her to him and lifted her. He bore her to one of the beds built against the wall. The mattress he laid her on was stuffed with straw and crude in comparison to the feather mattresses she’d known, but it was heavenly.

  He unbuckled her shoes and peeled off her mud-splattered stockings, then covered her with the woven coverlet. She lay trembling from her damp head to her icy toes. He slipped beneath the cover and drew her close so that they lay face to face, every possible inch of skin in contact. His warmth radiated through her better than the toasty hearth.

  “Nepaywah, meh newah. Sleep, my wife,” he whispered.

  Even though Rebecca’s very bones were numb with fatigue, true sleep evaded her. Troubled images chased each other across her wearied mind as she wrestled with her demons, one too much like Tonkawa.

  “Rebecca,” a man summoned, his low voice somehow familiar.

  She opened her eyes. By the glow of firelight, she saw Uncle Henry seated before the hearth, smoking a pipe. The face she’d seen in the fort yard, still in death, was handsome and alive again. He appeared younger, more like the man she remembered as a child.

  He took the pipe from his lips and smiled at her. “I’m watching over you, little lass.”

  With that assurance, she fell into a deep sleep with no dreams.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Something light and velvety drifted against Rebecca’s face and the beguiling fragrance of roses infused the air. She stirred drowsily, brushing at her cheek. Warm fingers caressed her hand.

  She opened her eyes to find Shoka seated beside her on the bed. Low flames backlit the interplay of muscles along his bronze shoulders. So handsome.

  He held out a cluster of small pink roses, their delicate bunched petals dewed with raindrops.

  She yawned and stretched. “Lovely. But how did you find them in the dark?”

  He smiled. “It is not dark out.”

  Without any windows, she supposed it might be high noon and she wouldn’t know it. The fire crackled as she burrowed farther under the warm blanket, not yet ready to surrender her contented slumber in this snug room. “Is it morning already?”

  He plucked the petals from a second flower and showered the pink sails over the tip of her nose. “You slept hard. The sun journeyed through the sky long ago.”

  She blew the silky parasols from her face and stroked the flowers in his hand. He held the blossoms to her nose and she breathed in their heavenly sweetness. “Have you been up for hours, too?”

  “Long enough to find what is hidden in this place.”

  “What do you mean, hidden?”

  “Wake and see.” He laid the roses by her head and stood, beckoning her to the hearth.

  Curiosity further roused her and she sat up. Her hair spilled over her bare shoulders and breasts. Petals fluttered in the gold-streaked lengths as she gathered the blanket around herself. She looked where he gestured.

  The bearskin had been pushed back from the gray stone fireplace. A square hole yawned in the floor, about five feet across. The floorboards that had covered it were neatly joined together and lying to one side.

  Intrigued, she poked her feet over the side of the bed and stood. Slowly, as if this mystery required caution, she tiptoed to the hole and gazed inside to see.

  The earthen space was as deep as she was tall, but there were no buried bodies or trunks weighted with gold at the bottom. Disappointed, she said, “There’s nothing here.”

  “I took out all I found.”

  As the haze of sleep faded from her eyes, she scrutinized the room. Bowls, cups, pewter spoons, and earthen crocks were crowded atop the rough-hewn table. These hadn’t been there the evening before, or the black kettle suspended over the flames with cornmeal mush bubbling inside it.

  “How did you know to look for a secret place?”

  He slid the joined floorboards back into place over the gap. “Cooking pots, bowls, and food were missing from this cabin. I thought perhaps the settlers took supplies with them to Fort Warden, but this is much to carry.”

  “They could have used a wagon.”

  “Trails are narrow for a wagon to travel there and these people thought to return soon,” he reminded her.

  She remembered the kindling laid in readiness.

  He picked up a bowl and ladled yellow mush to its brim. “First I searched the smokehouse, barn, even the chicken coop. Nothing. I returned here and lifted the bearskin. This space is cleverly made, but I saw marks where the wood didn’t meet.”

  “You have such keen eyes.”

  “It is well I do. I have no musket now for hunting.”

  She sat on a chair and tucked her bare feet under her for extra warmth. “When can you get another?”

  “Do not fret. I will.” He lifted a small crock from the table and drizzled brown-black molasses onto the mush, swiping up the dollop that slid over the side of the bowl. Licking his finger, he handed the bowl and a pewter spoon to her.

  The pungent aroma of sorghum and the pleasing scent of cooked cornmeal awakened her hunger. She dipped the worn spoon into the warm mush, glancing around as she ate. The meal must have come from the barrel pushed against one wall.

  “This mush is perfection. You are a good cook.”

  He smiled. “Did I not say?”

  A second kettle stood beside the barrel, larger than the one over the fire, and an oak keg. “What’s in the cask?”

  He picked up a cup and padded to the keg. He tugged the plug from the base and it came out with a low pop, releasing a stream of amber fluid into the cup.

  He re-corked the stopper then returned to her and held it out. “Taste.”

  She took the cup and sipped, then coughed as it trailed liquid fire down her throat. “Brandy?”

  “Apple brandy. Settlers like it much.”

  Though her eyes still watered from her first taste, she took another swallow. This time it warmed without burning. “Do you?”

  He answered with a smile and lifted a wooden flute from behind one of the crocks.

  Someone had labored long hours to carve the instrument. A delicate vine of leaves wound around its narrow cylinder, weaving in and out between the holes. The mellow grain shone in the firelight.

  “Can you play?”

  Placing the end of the flute to his lips, he blew a few tentative notes. “The sound is good.” Then a hauntingly beautiful melody unlike any she’d ever heard before flowed softly on his breath.

  Lost in the music, she ate as he played, listening in wonder until the final note floated away. “Wonderful. Has your song a name?”

  “No. This is a song of the forest, of all cre
atures.”

  “You play so well. Do you know any English pieces?”

  The familiar strains of Greensleeves filled the room.

  “Wherever did you learn that?”

  “Notha Andrew liked this song. A woman broke his heart. This is why he first came to the mountains.”

  “How odd, sad.” The more she heard of this priest, the more eccentric he sounded.

  She scraped up the last of her mush, sipped the final drop of brandy, and set the empty bowl and cup on the floor by the hearth. “Do you think we could find him, Shoka? I’d feel more wed with a proper service.”

  “To find Notha Andrew you must know where to look. He may find us.”

  “Does he do that?”

  “Sometimes…when he is most needed.”

  She sensed something left unspoken. There was a special bond between these two.

  Shoka laid the flute down and tapped the large washtub beneath the table. “Where are your eyes today?”

  If he intended to distract her, it worked. She clapped her hands. “I could have a warm bath.”

  “Yes.”

  He walked to the oak cupboard and opened the honey-colored double doors. Taking folded cloth from one of the shelves, he shook it out for her to see.

  The firelight revealed a mauve gown with wide cuffed sleeves and a ruffled bodice that laced up over an ivory stomacher. The skirt was closed in the front rather than cut away and sprinkled with tiny flowers. The cloth was quality linen and the hem floor-length, unlike the homespun short-gowns that most frontier women wore over their petticoats. The owner of this gown must have known prosperous times before meeting a harder life.

  “Am I dreaming?”

  He tossed the gown onto the table, along with a petticoat and shift. “All is real.”

  “It’s an amazing find. You are clever.”

  He lifted a man’s hunting shirt, sewn of blue cloth with green fringe and wide caped collars, and laid it on the table. “Now I am clever? Yesterday you said I was cruel. Worse,” he added, a note of hurt in his voice.

  “Yesterday was sheer hell. You know I love you.”

  Stepping behind her chair, he bent low and wrapped his arms around her in a shivering embrace that made her forget how tired she still was.

  “Show me,” he invited.

  She leaned back against him and nuzzled her face against his cheek. “Might I have a bath first?”

  He trailed his lips down her neck and prickles flushed over her skin. “Make haste. I will wait for you like the wolf pacing beneath a tree when game is hung out of reach.”

  “Haste won’t be easy, unless you fill that kettle with water to heat over the fire.”

  He laughed. “You know I will. You are much spoiled.”

  “I can’t help being accustomed to servants. Besides, you surely don’t expect me to work as hard as an Indian woman?”

  “No. You could not, even if you tried.”

  “Are you certain you want such an ill-suited wife?”

  He took her lower lip gently between his teeth then kissed her full on the mouth. “Shall I show you how much?”

  Her heart thudded and she could have melted into him like warm butter, but she was so grimy. “You promised me a bath first.”

  “I also promised you a day for love.”

  “Is this that day?”

  “The rain falls hard. Tonkawa cannot track us now.”

  She hadn’t even noticed the steady drumming on the roof. “If he found the flooded cave, he may think us drowned.”

  “Perhaps. The others will have much fear for us if we delay, but I despise to make you grow chilled so soon again.”

  The prospect of a day alone here with Shoka was like manna from heaven. “So, we wait out the storm here?”

  “We wait.”

  ****

  Rebecca sank down into the steaming tub with a blissful sigh. The heavenly water rose up around her, easing yesterday’s aches and bruises like a balm. The fire in the hearth crackled and hissed as she let her eyes roam over the homey furnishings in the room. Overhead, silvery green bunches of sage, yarrow, and thyme hung from the log beams.

  This cabin was far smaller than any home she’d ever before been in, but it held a quaint charm and had provided a sorely needed reprieve. Lulled and wonderfully relaxed, she closed her eyes and drifted in a dreamy haze.

  Gradually, though not in any way that alarmed her, she became aware that she was being watched. Like knowing her mother kept vigil over her, or an angel, giving her a sense of reassurance. Somehow, she knew that this being was human and spirit, someone familiar. Further soothed, she soaped her hair and rinsed the suds then dozed again.

  She started as the back door banged open.

  Shoka burst inside on a rush of wind, his arms piled high with kindling. Droplets of rain beaded his black hair and streamed down his bare shoulders and chest. Exuding energy, he dropped the kindling by the hearth.

  “The rain falls hard,” he said.

  “I wish it would rain forever.”

  “We would have a great flood. You wish for this?”

  She yawned. “No. Just to stay here.”

  “In the water?”

  “I’m too content to move.”

  He knelt by the tub and slipped his fingers up along her soapy sides and over her breasts. “Still?”

  The tremor that rippled through her roused her to more than wakefulness. He scooped her up from the tub and stood her naked and dripping before the fire. “I could use a towel.”

  “I found none.” Wrapping her in the blanket, he lay down with her tucked beside him on the bearskin.

  His body heat and the fire’s warmth flowed over her as the water had. The finest down-filled tick and canopied bed wouldn’t have been better than the fur beneath her, as long as she lay on it with Shoka.

  He lifted up on one elbow and gazed at her. Concern shadowed his eyes and he caressed her cheek with the back of his fingers. “So bruised you are, fair one. I saw Tonkawa strike you and heard you cry out, also at the fort. Your cries tore at my heart.”

  “I feared you would run into the clearing and get shot.”

  “I tried. Wabete threw me to the ground and held me down. I fought him off. But he made me see this was not the way to gain your release.”

  She could too well imagine the battling brothers and Shoka’s desperation as he saw her hauled away by Tonkawa.

  He touched her other cheek. “What a fight my Peshewa had. Did Tonkawa strike you more?”

  “No. Those bruises are from falling against the wall in Bancroft’s quarters.”

  He slipped the blanket down over her shoulders and brushed her hair aside. His brows slanted together in a sharp vee. “Your neck is marked. Not from injury, I think.”

  “Bancroft’s doing. Before the fire distracted him.”

  Shoka breathed out in a hiss. “There was some good in that blaze. When I find this captain I will kill him.”

  She rested her hand along his rigid jaw. “Renault won’t thank you for killing his prisoner. Besides, I’ve seen enough death. Please don’t make me the cause of any more.”

  Shoka shrugged noncommittally and kissed her palm. “Your hands are injured and your wrists cut. Also Captain Bancroft’s fault.”

  “Not all. I cut myself when I fell along the path.”

  “You left a clever trail for me to follow. The tracks ended with your blood,” he said somberly.

  “You would have found a great deal more and my body as well if Skizenoh had not kept Tonkawa from killing me.”

  Shoka’s eyes glistened and a single tear ran down his cheek. “So many times I came near to losing you.”

  In the past twenty-four hours she’d been a prisoner, Tessa’s deliverer, near victim of an execution, an enraged wildcat, suffocated with fear in the cave, and furious with Shoka on that wretched trail. And now, she’d simply be his. Everything in her yearned to belong to this glorious man, so vital to her being…and not just becau
se he’d kept her alive, but because he was her life.

  She smoothed the tear with her thumb then the bruises on his cheeks and the nick over his left eye. A blue-black stain encircled his right eye. His chin was scraped and a scab had crusted over the wound on his shoulder where the musket ball had ripped a furrow across it. Fresh cuts grazed his arms and the butt of a tomahawk had left an angry purplish-red indentation beside the bloody gouge on his chest. She shuddered to think where they both might be now had he not managed to evade the lethal blade. But he had.

  She stroked his arms and his chest, lightly touching with the tip of her finger every wound, every bruise, pausing to kiss away the pain from the rough, rouged flesh. She cradled his face in her hands, kissing each mark on his strong cheeks, and then slowly covered his mouth. She lingered there, luxuriating in the sultry pressure of his lips. She could go on and on like this, but more awaited…a trove of sensual treasure, heady, beckoning.

  He tugged his breech clout off and enfolded her in his arms. She felt his urgent need as he rolled her over, drawing her down on top of him. Her skin tingled as he kissed a trail up her arm and into the curve of her neck. She arched her back and he pressed his mouth over her breasts, suckling on her nipples, gently at first, then harder. Throbbing want, like a beating drum, reverberated through her.

  With her palms on his shoulders, she straightened her arms and rocked backward and downward. She glanced between her breasts, marveling at the contrast of his bronze skin against her white. Spreading her arms wide, she gripped him as his hardness slid inside her moist flesh.

  Gasping with pleasure, she wrapped her legs around his thighs, nothing in her resisting him, nothing held back. Before, in the cave, she had allowed him to take her because she couldn’t resist him. Now, all that she had to give, she gave, in a rush of sweetest warmth.

  His hands closed around her bottom, rocking her in rhythm anew until she pulsed with exhilaration, moaning softly…like a missing piece had filled a void she never knew she had.

  ****

  Shoka dozed before the fireplace on the bearskin with Rebecca beside him. The blanket draped them. She curled onto her side, fingers cupped at her cheek, her bare back pressing his chest. He circled his arm around her with instinctive protectiveness and tucked her to him. She nestled in his embrace, murmuring in her sleep in the way that she did.