"Pah! You Yankees!" Frenchy spat. "You cannot win a woman’s body without first winning her heart."
That gave the boys food for thought.
"Frenchy’s right," Swede told them. "So if you’re gonna try to win the little lady’s heart, I think we need some rules so’s we don’t have a free-for-all. This ain’t no claim-stakin’, after all."
"I say only one Campbell a day gets to visit her," Billy Cooper stated.
The Campbell boys set up a loud protest at that.
"No one should get to visit her more than a quarter hour at a time," Jasper advised.
"Ye should take turns," Tom agreed, "like gentlemen."
"And not a word about her...condition," Frenchy insisted.
When the rules were pretty well established, the group broke up to hit the hay and dream about all the courting they planned to do. Swede stayed awake a mite longer. The feeling that he’d just set a bunch of wild bulls loose in Miss Mattie’s flowerbed weighed heavy on his mind.
Sakote didn’t know if Mati ever returned to the waterfall. He didn’t go. It was painful enough for him to wait outside Mati’s cabin in the brush, night after night, until the last of her suitors left so he could leave his gift of food on her doorstep. If only he hadn’t promised such a thing to his sister, his wounded heart might find peace. Then he could follow his path and leave Mati to hers.
He glared at the loaf of acorn bread, wrapped in wild grape leaves and tied with hemp. His mother had pressed it into his hands without question, as if she knew where he went every evening and what he did. What would she say now, he wondered, if she could see her brave son crouching in the dark like a field mouse, waiting for the loud miner inside Mati’s cabin to grow weary of his own bragging and go home.
At last the door opened, and a blanket of light spilled out from the cabin. As always, Sakote’s eyes hunted the white woman’s face, looking for signs of weakness or sorrow or remorse. And as always, Mati hid her feelings behind the quiet smile she wore for all her suitors. Every night he told himself that he’d washed his hands of her heart’s blood, that she was no longer a part of him. And every night, his heart betrayed that belief, beating wildly when he caught sight of her.
She was beautiful tonight. Her hair shone in the moonlight like the white man’s gold, and the faint wind blew long strands of it loose across her breast. Her hand, perched lightly on the frame of the door, looked like a pale blossom of dogwood. She said something to the man on the porch, and though Sakote couldn’t hear the words clearly, her murmur made soft music on the air.
Sakote bit the inside of his cheek and forced his eyes away. His heart already throbbed with pain. It would break if he saw Mati make a kiss with the man.
Finally the man tipped his hat and stomped off the porch, carelessly crushing the grass on his way back to camp. Several moments later, Sakote eased forward with his gift, making his way silently toward the cabin.
Candles still lit the inside of the house, and Sakote could clearly see the outline of Mati crossing the room to do some woman’s task. One day, she’d do such tasks for her own husband. If, he thought sourly, she could ever choose from among all the miners.
He bent to leave the gift of food, knowing she’d find it, as she had the others. Then, for a moment, he stood brazenly framed by the door, so close that his breath moved the cloth covering it. Mati wouldn’t be able to see him. The candlelight blinded her to the shadows outside. But he willed her to feel his presence, to know that he, Sakote, the Konkow warrior, stood outside her hubo.
It didn’t work. She didn’t come to the door. And when he turned to go, his spirit defeated, he didn’t even care that he stumbled like a fawn on its first walk as he stepped off the pine planks.
Mattie strained her ears. Something was out there. She’d felt it a moment ago, some presence loitering outside the cabin. The impression had been strong enough to freeze her in her tracks. And yet, despite the fact that she lived in the wilderness where any manner of beast might lurk beyond the door, she felt no fear.
What she felt instead was a tiny tingle of hope.
Every day for the past week, she’d gone to the waterfall, praying she’d find him—the Indian who stared back at her from sketches tucked under her pillow. Yet all she ever saw of him were the gifts of food he left on her doorstep each night—smoked venison, dried salmon, roasted pine nuts.
Why did he torture her like this? There was a connection between them, a mysterious, compelling magnetism as powerful as gravity, a force that made her forget all else but the desire to see him, touch him, kiss him. Surely he could feel it, too.
It was Sakote who lingered beyond the door. She knew it. His presence filled the pregnant air like the heavy scent of rain before a storm.
But he didn’t knock. He never knocked. Night after night, he left his packages on the porch without a word. And as always, he crept away in silence.
For four nights, she’d prayed for that knock. It never came. And for four nights, she’d wept herself to sleep. Well, by God, tonight, she was done with tears. Come hell or high water, she’d make him speak to her, even if she had to follow him all the way home. If he wouldn’t face her in her world, she’d confront him in his.
Her heart raced, recognizing how foolhardy her intentions were. She had no idea, after all, where her recklessness would lead her and what beasts stalked the woods tonight. But she paid no mind to the warnings in her head. Before her prey could escape into the forest, she rashly swirled her cloak over her shoulders and grabbed the rifle from the wall, checking to make sure it was loaded.
After she blew out the candles and slipped the door open, it took her eyes a moment to adjust to the moonlight. Sure enough, she found the familiar bundled offering on the porch. He had been here.
Across the clearing, the brush rustled. Sakote. He was escaping already. She had to hurry. Easing the door closed behind her, she crept rapidly toward the path. When she reached the cover of the trees, she listened for his footfalls. The manzanita rattled further ahead, and she scurried to catch up.
By night, he traveled quickly, using less stealth than by daylight. She could hear the muffled scuff of his moccasins in the leaves and the soft slap of branches against his body.
She followed for what seemed like miles, over rugged rock and between low-slung limbs, guided only by the meager spots of moonlight dotting the forest floor and the increasingly fainter sound of his steps. Her chest ached, the rifle was heavy, and it was nearly impossible to quiet her gasping breath. But she couldn’t give up, not now. She was so far from her home that she couldn’t possibly find her way back.
So she hurtled forward, desperate to catch him. She turned a deaf ear to the tiny skittering of unknown creatures. She ignored the spiked branches that clawed out to slow her progress. She focused only on the stepping stones of pale light, until they dwindled and she lost sight of the moon and the stars entirely beneath a thick canopy of trees. Then the suffocating, black walls of night closed in like a deep well above her. She strained to hear anything, any sound at all even remotely human, but the silence turned as profound as the night.
She’d lost him.
She’d lost her way.
And she was alone.
Her racing heart beat faster. What would she do? She had no idea where she was. As far as she knew, she might be standing at the mouth of a bear cave or at the edge of another steep precipice or beneath the hungry gaze of that mountain lion. What had she been thinking?
She didn’t dare move now. She could barely see in the dark, forcing her to rely on sound, which was nearly impossible with the blood rushing through her brain. Her palms grew sweaty around the cold barrel and oily stock of the rifle, and she suddenly wished she’d brought extra ammunition.
Quivering in her boots, she began to concoct all sorts of dire scenarios—her body, broken at the bottom of a ravine, mauled by a bear, eaten by wolves, buzzards pecking at her grisly remains.
She thought she heard a sound
then, a faint shivering of leaves. She stiffened. Something was in the brush to her left. A bear? A wolf? The mountain lion? The brush rattled again, ever so slightly, and Mattie froze, afraid to move, afraid to breathe. Her heart pummeled against her ribs as she slowly, carefully cocked the hammer of the rifle back and raised the weapon. Her finger trembled on the trigger as she silently counted to three.
The attack came before she could fire. Or breathe. Or scream. Her arm was knocked sideways, and suddenly she was pinned from behind in a bone-crushing embrace. Her fingers tightened reflexively, and the rifle went off.
The report shattered the quiet of the forest and echoed across the canyon. The smell of gunpowder stung Mattie’s nose as she clung to the useless weapon for dear life, struggling to free herself from the savage grip.
Fear tasted like iron in her mouth. She was about to die. Something had caught her. Something big and strong and snarling. It was going to kill her. And there was nothing she could do.
CHAPTER 17
Swede’s rifle was cocked and ready before his feet even hit the floor. He charged out of his cabin while the gunshot still echoed along the ridge. His neighbors, too, bolted out of their shacks as fast as a pack of loosed hounds.
"What in blazes?" Billy yelped, buttoning up the back of his long-johns.
Frenchy juggled his Bowie knife in shaking hands. "Sacre Dieu!"
Zeke spat on the ground, then nodded at Swede. "Which direction you figure?"
Swede squinted into the moonlight. "Hard to tell. Down the canyon somewheres."
Tom tugged at his ubiquitous derby. Swede wondered if he slept in the damn thing. "Is there anyone missing?"
They all looked around. Swede did a quick count of heads. All the miners were accounted for, everyone except...
"Miss Mattie," he whispered. Something ugly fluttered in his stomach. If anything had happened to Miss Mattie...
"You think she..." Granny began.
Tom made the sign of the cross. "Sweet Mary."
Dash fought his way forward through his brothers. "Not Miss Mattie."
"Impossible! What do you think could have..." Frenchy gasped as he pricked his finger on the knife.
Swede didn’t even want to think.
The men clammed up, but it was obvious what was going through their heads. Without another word, they scrambled into their britches, lit a couple of lanterns, and followed Swede to Mattie’s cabin.
Zeke was the first to notice the package. He poked at it with his rifle, scowling at the crude rope tied around the wrapped leaves.
"It’s Injun," he decided.
His palms sweaty, Swede raised a fist to bang lightly on the door. "Miss Mattie? Miss Mattie, are you there?"
No answer. Maybe she hadn’t heard him. He knocked harder. "Miss Mattie?"
"She ain’t there."
"Shut up, Harley." Dash cuffed his brother.
"Maybe she’s gettin’ decent," Granny volunteered.
"Miss Mattie!" This time Swede banged good and hard on the wall.
But no one answered. Afraid of what he would find, Swede took a big gulp of courage and slowly pushed the door open. The men passed a lantern forward, and he peered into the dark room.
He wasn’t sure if he was relieved or worried that Mattie wasn’t inside. He’d half expected to find her slumped in a pool of blood, shot by her own rifle in some terrible accident. But no, her cabin looked to be in order. The candles were blown out. Clean dinner dishes sat on the shelf. Even her sketching paper and pencils were stacked neatly at the foot of her bed.
But if she wasn’t here, where was she?
Zeke scratched at his beard. "Maybe she just stepped out to, you know, pee."
Maybe. But Swede didn’t think so, for two reasons.
One, that package on the porch didn’t just drop out of the sky—it meant something.
And two, Mattie’s rifle was missing.
Sakote’s ears still rang from the explosion. He wrenched the gun from Mati’s hands before she could fire it again and hurt someone. With a growl, he seized her shoulder and wheeled her around to face him.
"Are you crazy?" he demanded.
"Sakote?" With a little cry, she flung herself into his arms, laying her cheek against his chest. "Oh, Sakote, thank God it’s you!"
He frowned. He wished he’d never told her his name. It sounded soft on her tongue, soft and helpless, like her body. But no, he wouldn’t be tempted by her woman’s ways. He wouldn’t be fooled by the willa’s trickery. He set her purposefully away from him.
"Why are you following me?" he snapped, though in truth it felt like the frightened yip of a cornered coyote. His hand shook as he raked the hair back from his forehead. The gunfire had shocked him terribly, but not as much as the knowledge that he’d been tracked by a white woman nearly all the way back to the village, and he hadn’t noticed. How could he have been so careless? "And why did you fire your rifle? You could have killed someone! What if I had been my little brother?"
Mati crossed her arms defensively. "What if you’d been a bear come to eat me?"
"Bears don’t eat crazy white women."
Her voice grew suddenly quiet. "Is that what you think of me? That I’m a crazy white woman?"
Sakote clenched his fists. No. That wasn’t what he thought. But fear and worry twisted his words into crooked spears that he threw at her.
She lowered her head. "I’m sorry," she whispered, and he heard the hurt in her voice. "I thought we were..." A soft sob caught the rest of her words as she turned away.
Sakote’s heart sank. Not tears. Anything but tears. He wished to be angry with Mati. He wished to scold her for her recklessness. He wished to punish her for breaking his heart. But already she softened his warrior’s spirit. She stifled a sniffle, and the sound melted his rage.
With a great sigh of defeat, he propped the rifle against a tree and reached out for her. He clasped the back of her head, and ignoring her weak protest, gathered her into his embrace, holding her close to him, against his foolish heart.
A pang of protective longing streaked through him as her ragged breath warmed his chest. Instinctively, he stroked the back of her head. Her hair slipped between his fingers, finer than his own, and it waved beneath his touch like the surface of the creek. He’d forgotten how perfectly she fit against him, how right she felt in his arms. And she smelled good, like sweet spice and pine smoke. He could hold her forever.
But Mati wished to talk.
"Why didn’t you visit me?" she whispered against his chest, absently twining a strand of his hair around her fingertip. "I went to the waterfall every day. I thought we were...friends."
"Friends?" Sakote did not fully understand the language of the white man, but to him, a friend was Noa or one of his Konkow brothers. What he felt for Mati was far beyond friendship.
Mati withdrew her hand. "I’m sorry. I thought you..."
"We are...friends," he told her.
"But you never came to me."
"You were busy," he said pointedly.
"I missed you," she breathed.
Sakote tried to remind himself that she’d let other men hold her like this. She probably had made kisses with the miners, maybe even mated with them. He wasn’t special to her. He told himself these things, but he didn’t listen to his own words. When she leaned toward him, her mouth parting as if to drink from him, he heard only the beating of his heart.
Her lips were gentle on his, and he closed his eyes with the wonder of her tender touch. Her sigh caressed his cheek as she tipped her head, deepening the kiss. His pulse leaped wildly out of control, but he coiled his fingers tenderly in her hair, holding her head still so he could taste each corner of her mouth.
She purred like the wildcat, deep in her throat, and the sound seemed to call an animal forth in him, for he hauled her to him then, crushing her softness against his hard chest, opening her mouth with his tongue to seek the succulent fruit within.
Her hands moved over his
shoulders and across his chest, sculpting his muscles like they were made of clay. Then she broke from the kiss to devour the rest of him, nipping at his jaw, nuzzling his throat, gasping with desire as she tasted his flesh so wantonly that it made him tremble.
His loins ached, and he pressed her hips against his need, longing beyond thought and beyond reason to join with her, this woman who drove him to the edge of madness.
"Ah, Sakote," she whispered breathlessly against his ear. The sound seemed like the wind of destiny.
He reached down with one desperate arm and gathered her skirt aside, letting his fingers glide up along the fawn-soft skin of her thigh. By the son of Wonomi, he wanted the white woman. He wanted his man’s-knife inside her and her legs wrapped around his bare back.
Mattie wanted...Lord, she didn’t know what she wanted. Him. More of him. All of him. He left her with a ravenous hunger impossible to quench, though she fed on his delicious flesh with lips and teeth and tongue till she could scarcely breathe. Her hands explored his body with blind need, memorizing each curve and swell. She turned her ear to his wide, warm chest, reveling in the strong, rapid beat of his heart against her cheek. She quivered as his callused fingertips grazed her thigh. And she gasped as he pressed his hips boldly to hers, branding her with his iron-hard desire.
Floating in a sleepy haze of rich sensations, Mattie made no protest as he pulled her into a faint patch of moonlight, his hand slipping higher up her leg, over the hollow of her hip, along the edge of her linen drawers, inside the fabric. She moaned and arched closer.
But something stopped him. Just as his fingers began to tangle gently in her woman’s curls, he blew out a long, sharp breath and pulled away, leaving her cold. Stunned, she mewed in complaint and lifted heavy-lidded eyes to his face.
Whatever battle waged there was hard-fought. Sakote’s brow darkened with deep furrows, and he wouldn’t meet her eyes, despite the vulnerability of his parted mouth and the winded heaving of his chest.
Vote Then Read: Volume III Page 114