This Fierce Loving

by French, Judith E.

  “I haven’t heard anything but squirrels and birds for hours,” she confided. “We’ll go as soon as it gets good and dark.”

  “Where?”

  “East to the settlements,” she said with more confidence than she felt. “I’m sure I can find the way to Fort Nelson.”

  “It wasn’t finding the trail that I was worried about,”. Colin said. “It’s the weather. There’s no safe place to build a fire—”

  “Then we’ll do without one. We’ve got to get away from here.”

  “I never thought I’d miss Simon.”

  Rebecca tried not to smile. At times even a stern husband was a welcome presence. “Mind your tongue,” she said. “You forget who’s given you a roof over your head and food in your belly these last eight years.”

  “And his fist.”

  “Simon’s hard, I admit, but he’s fair. You’re wild as a Mohawk, Colin. If you’d be more obedient, he wouldn’t have to—”

  “He hits you.”

  “Not often, and like as not, I deserve it. I’ve a harsh tongue for a woman. I sometimes fail to show Simon the respect a husband—”

  “Simon’s a swivin’ bully. I’ll beat the tar out of him when I’m a man grown.”

  She gasped in astonishment. “Colin Gordon. Bite your tongue. Where did you learn such foul talk? I’ve taught you better.”

  “It’s true. He’s mean as a wounded opossum. I owe him nothin’ and neither do you.”

  “Stop it,” she hissed. “No more.” A vein throbbed in her temple. There was no mistaking the venom in her brother’s voice. She’d known he harbored ill feelings against Simon, but she’d not guessed the boy’s contempt ran so deep.

  She’d tried to keep peace between them, shielding Colin from the worst of her husband’s temper and urging the child to show proper respect. Most men beat their wives, and she’d never known a father who didn’t use physical punishment to curb a child’s mischief. Spare the rod and spoil the child, the Bible said.

  Except for their father . . . James Gordon, dead in his grave these past ten years, was the sweetest, gentlest man she’d ever seen. God, how she missed him and mourned the fact that he’d died too soon for Colin to remember him or his loving arms around them. Oh, Dadda, how I wish you were here now, she thought. Just for a minute . . . just so that I could hug you one last time.

  “It’s time,” she said to Colin. “Follow me. Keep close, and don’t make a sound.”

  Her muscles were almost too stiff with cold to stand. Her legs were as awkward as a newborn colt’s. Her nose felt as though it was a chunk of ice.

  Cautiously, she parted the bushes and stared into the twilight. Nothing moved. Holding the musket ready, she took one step and then another. “It’s all right,” she whispered. “They’re gone.” She glanced over her shoulder at Colin and then a huge dark form hurled itself out of the branches overhead and knocked her flat on the ground.

  Chapter 3

  Rebecca’s musket went off, firing harmlessly into the air as it spun out of her hand. She screamed and tried to squirm free of the heavy weight pinning her down in the snow. Gasping for breath, she flailed wildly with her fists, and the second her attacker got to his knees, she began to crawl away.

  “Chitkwesi!,” he ordered. “Be still.”

  Strong fingers closed around her bare ankle and she kicked out with all her might. “No!” she cried. “Run, Colin! Run!” From the corner of her eye, she saw her brother fighting with a swarthy brave wearing a chestplate of battered armor.

  “I said, be still, woman!” her captor repeated in carefully enunciated English.

  She kicked again, this time striking flesh. She heard him grunt in pain, but she had no time to see what damage she’d done. Shrieking with anger, she threw herself against the Indian who was assaulting Colin. Climbing his back, she pounded him on the head with both hands and tried to scratch his eyes.

  Colin lowered his head and butted the Indian in the pit of his stomach. The brave doubled over, sending Rebecca pitching into the snow.

  “Enough!” the first man commanded.

  Rebecca whipped the hunting knife from her sheath and whirled to face him. “Run, Colin!”

  To her dismay, he didn’t obey. Nocking an arrow, he drew his child’s flimsy bow and took a protective stance at her back. She could hear him breathing hard, but he didn’t say a word. He just stood there, braced against her, showing as much grit as any man full grown.

  “Colin . . .” she began. But it was too late for retreat. The bushes parted, and she caught sight of a third hostile, and then a fourth, as the war party surrounded them. Time seemed to slow as she stared hopelessly from one cruel, painted face to another.

  A man’s deep chuckle seeped through her terror. “Qua neeshk won ai,” Talon said in Algonquian. “Not a soft white woman, but a she-panther and her cub. See their sharp teeth.”

  One of the other warriors called out in a mocking voice, but the Indian words were meaningless to her ears. She turned to the creature who had laughed, realizing with shock that he was the same brave she’d shot outside the cabin when he demanded her surrender—and also the one who’d knocked her to the ground and wrestled with her. Her foot had evidently struck his nose because it was trickling blood.

  “Put down your knife, wife of Simon Brandt,” he said in perfect English. The amusement vanished from his face, and Rebecca felt the intensity of his ire. She stiffened involuntarily.

  His eyes were as black as pitch; they seemed as lifeless as glass in his sharp-featured, bronze face as he stared at her with a fierceness that made her blood run cold. She could not keep from trembling.

  “You have no chance,” he said in a low, rumbling voice. “Surrender your weapon and the boy will not be harmed.”

  “No!” Colin said. “Don’t trust him.”

  She looked back over her shoulder to her brother holding his bow drawn tight, his arrow aimed at the dark-skinned warrior in armor.

  “The boy is brave,” Rebecca’s assailant said. She could see the others glancing toward him as if waiting for a signal to strike, and she surmised that he was their leader. “Such a panther cub should not die for his courage.”

  Simon’s warnings flashed through her mind, and it came to her that she could turn and drive her knife into Colin’s back before any of them could stop her. “Better to end it quick, than slow over a Shawnee torture fire,” Simon had said. But the thought of harming Colin sickened her. Instead, she lunged at the devil-eyed savage, thrusting her steel blade toward his heart. She knew she had no hope of escape, but she intended to die fighting.

  The Indian stood his ground, waiting until the point of her knife was barely inches from his skin, then he caught her wrist in an iron grip. Before she could react, he knocked her feet out from under her and she fell. Her head hit the snow-covered earth with enough force to take her breath away. When she opened her eyes, he was on top of her, pinning both arms.

  “Let go of the knife,” he said.

  Knife? What knife? Her head spun, and blackness threatened to overcome her. Did she still have the knife?

  “Drop it, or I will break your arm.”

  She became aware of the pain in her wrist as he tightened his grasp. His face was so dose that she could feel his hot breath on her cheek. His lips were drawn back in a snarl, and she caught a glimpse of white, even teeth.

  “No!” Colin yelled.

  Rebecca gasped as the Indian flattened his nearly naked body against her, and Colin’s arrow flew over the man’s back, just missing him. Someone let out a shout, and Colin was silent.

  “Colin!” she screamed. “Don’t hurt him! Please!”

  Then the Indian was on his feet, yanking her up. He bent and retrieved her knife—she hadn’t been aware that she’d dropped it, but her right hand was numb. She struggled to see around him. He was taller than she was, but not so tall as Simon. Half naked, the brave seemed all muscle. His red-brown skin was only a little darker than Colin’s, bu
t it glistened as though it were oiled. She twisted, trying to break free, and he held her out at arm’s length, too far away to hit or kick him.

  “Colin!” she sobbed.

  “Silence,” he ordered her. He said something in his heathen language, and the armored warrior dragged Colin into view.

  “Becca.” His child’s voice revealed his fear, but he wasn’t crying—and as far as she could see, he wasn’t hurt. They had tied his wrists behind him, and his clothing was wet from rolling in the snow, but his face was unmarked.

  Her captor peered curiously into her face. “Your son?”

  “She’s my sister,” Colin cried stoutly. “She’s my sister, and you leave her be.”

  A faint smile played over the lips of the savage that held her fast. “He does not have the look of Simon Brandt, this small panther cub.” Then he grew stern again. “I am Sh’Kotaa Osh-Kah-Shah—Fire Talon. War chief of the Mecate Shawnee. You are my prisoner.”

  “You son of a bitch, you’re hurting my arm!” she protested.

  He released her and she jumped back. It was easier to breathe—easier to think—when he wasn’t clutching her with that blood-stained hand. She inhaled sharply as she remembered that the blood was his, and that she had been the one who’d given him the wound . . . and killed several of his war party.

  Her face must have given away her fright because he scowled at her. “You cannot escape, wife of Simon Brandt. I—”

  “You’ll rue the day you burned our cabin, you heathen bastard. When Simon catches up with you, he’ll—” He scowled so harshly that her words died in her throat. Her knees suddenly went weak as a newborn pup’s. God in heaven! Hadn’t Simon always told her that her mouth would be the death of her? “Please,” she said in a shaking voice. “Please let my brother go. He’s only a child. Do whatever you want to do to me, Colin has no part of it.”

  “I’m not a child!” Colin said. “Let her go. I killed those Indians. I shot them. It’s me you want—not her.”

  “That’s not true,” Rebecca protested. “I shot them. You must believe me. It wasn’t Colin. He didn’t even have a gun.”

  Talon glanced from one to the other. He had not expected such valor from the family of Simon Brandt. The woman had a warrior’s heart for all her treachery, and the boy . . . Well, the boy was not his worry. The Stranger had captured the white boy. He was his to do with as he pleased. The Stranger was not a cruel man; Talon didn’t believe he had it in him to harm a child, especially one with such promise. His own worry was the woman, and making a bargain with the English for the safe release of his father.

  “Bind the woman,” he ordered Counts in Algonquian.

  “Beware of her claws,” his follower quipped, as he drew her hands behind her back and secured them with a leather thong.

  “Becca,” the boy called. He would have run to her but The Stranger blocked his path.

  The woman trembled like a willow tree in the wind as Counts tightened the cords on her wrists, but no hint of tears showed on her pale face. Her striking eyes were large and intelligent, framed by thick lashes. The exact color of a spring sky, Talon mused. Strange eyes for a woman, hardly human in appearance, but memorable just the same.

  Talon wished she’d stop looking at him as though she expected him to strike her head from her body. Guilt washed over him. Many men took perverse delight in making war on women; the whites and a few depraved renegades even sought sexual pleasure from their helpless prey. He would never understand such logic. This was dirty business, and it weakened his manhood to be part of it.

  A branch snapped and he turned to see Osage Killer appear from the forest. He raised a hand in salute.

  “We are not alone,” Counts’ partner said without commenting on the prisoners. He gestured toward the hill. “Two Frenchmen, two hands of Huron. They have seen the smoke, I think, and come to reap our harvest of booty.”

  Talon nodded. Huron. Sworn enemies of his people. He did not fear them, but neither would he risk an encounter with so few men. Enough had died already. “We have done what we came for,” he said in his own tongue. “Let us leave this place.” He glanced at the prisoners and switched to English. “There are Huron close by. If you cry out, it will mean your death. Do you understand?”

  The woman nodded. The boy looked at her for an instant, then back to him, and gave his reluctant consent.

  “Gag them,” Counts said. “I’ll not lose my scalp for a foolish squaw’s wailing.”

  Realizing that his follower was right, Talon gave the command. He could not risk his life and those of his men on a frightened woman’s fancy. She uttered only a low moan as Counts bound a leather strap over her mouth.

  Talon motioned downhill toward the stream. Quickly, Osage Killer, Counts, and the others melted into the trees. The Stranger led the unprotesting boy away, leaving him alone with Simon Brandt’s wife. She stared at him with accusing eyes.

  I do only what must be done, he thought, as he seized her and slung her over his shoulder. It was not as if she hadn’t tried to kill him repeatedly today. Ignoring her struggles, he picked up his long rifle and set out after his men at a steady lope.

  The water was cold as he crossed the stream, taking care not to wet his powder. The woman was a heavy load, but he adjusted his stride, taking care where he put his feet down. It would not do to trip and fall with her, thereby making him look a fool in front of his men.

  She was as tense as a crouching wolf. It would have been far easier to carry her unconscious, but at least she had ceased to fight him. It pleased him; it was what he would have done in her position, and it showed her keen mind. He did not fool himself that she was subdued. No, this equiwa would bear close watching. Given half a chance, she would run a knife into his gut without shedding a tear.

  He climbed the ridge beyond the creek, walked along a fallen log, and dropped onto an outcropping of bare rock. He walked the rock for the distance of an arrow’s flight, taking care not to put a foot where it might leave sign for the Huron to track them. Each man in his party would be doing the same; it was the reason he carried the woman instead of making her walk.

  From time to time, he caught sight of Walking Bear, Fox, or Osage Killer and Counts. The pair were taking turns carrying the injured man, Joins the River. Others bore the two dead bodies; he would not leave them unburied, without proper ceremony to see them to the spirit world. Talon hadn’t seen The Stranger since they’d waded the stream, but he was a competent warrior. He had no doubt that The Stranger was ahead of him, moving fast with the boy, putting distance between them and the Huron. For the Huron would find their trail, no matter how cautious they were. So many men could not pass through a forest without leaving sign; it was impossible.

  When he reached the last of the rock, he lowered his prisoner to the ground. “Now you will run,” he told her. “If you give trouble or do not keep up, I will leave you for the Huron.” It was a lie. She was his captive now, and he would not give her up—not without shedding his last drop of blood. But it would not do to tell her so. Fear would lend wings to her feet.

  Her blue eyes sought his, full of pent-up hate. He had thought to remove her gag, but decided to leave it on a while longer. A woman’s scream carried a long way in these woods, and he had no wish to end up roasted over a Huron cook fire.

  Without speaking to her, he untied her wrists and fastened them together in front of her with a foot of slack cord between her hands. Then he looked down at her long skirts and exhaled in disgust. White women—they made even less sense than their men. Running or climbing in such garments was ridiculous.

  Her eyes widened in fear as he drew his scalping knife and cut away the layers of cloth below her knees, then slit the sides to her hip. With satisfaction, he noted that she wore sturdy skin moccasins that laced tight around her trim ankles. Bundling the precious wool and linen scraps, he tied them with a strip of leather and slung them over her shoulder. Fox had picked up her hunting bag at the mouth of the tunnel; he
made a mental note to retrieve it. Such a shrewd woman would have brought items of value with her, perhaps even powder and shot.

  “Come, we go,” he said. They began to run downhill. They were behind the others now; stopping had cost them time, but now that he didn’t have to carry her, they would make it up.

  They ran for as long as it took a man to skin and butcher an elk, and then he paused to let her catch her breath. Her blue eyes showed weariness, but they had lost none of their defiance. Sweat streaked her face and darkened her red hair. Her free hand was scratched and bleeding where she had scraped it against a thorn tree.

  He caught that small hand in his and held it up to examine the wound. The tip of a broken thorn was embedded in her palm. He raised her hand to his lips and felt the splinter with the tip of his tongue. She gasped and pulled her hand back.

  “Be still,” he admonished. “Do you want me to cut it out with my knife?” A thorn could fester and turn flesh black with poison. Dead, she was of no use to him.

  She shook her head. Her hand trembled as she held it out to him. Her sky eyes were wary, the expression like that of a doe he had once seen crossing a frozen lake in winter. The ice had been rotten, and it creaked ominously with each step the deer took. Still she had continued on until she reached the far bank and safety. He wondered if firm earth waited for this female with the strange blue eyes. Eventual safety or . . .

  A shudder of revulsion rippled through him. War should be between men, he thought. And no matter how much contempt he felt for Simon Brandt and those he led to Indian country, he could not find it in his heart to despise this courageous woman, even if she was without honor.

  Gently, he bent and brushed his lips against her hand, then, when he found the thorn with his tongue, he closed his teeth on it and pulled it free. Blood welled up from her palm as he spat out the bit of wood. He scooped up a handful of snow and pressed it against the injury.

  She blinked. Moisture glistened in her round eyes and for a second he thought she might begin to cry. Then her eyes narrowed and the expression gleaming there hardened. Again, Talon reminded himself that she was his enemy’s wife, and that she wished him dead.