This Fierce Loving

by French, Judith E.

  “You think too much about this fox-haired woman,” Counts said. “She will bring you only trouble.”

  She already has, Talon thought, as he checked the priming on his rifle and zig-zagged up the woody incline. She already has.

  Rebecca followed Siipu up another ridge and through another stand of pine. They had spent the night together, shared a morning meal, and been walking since early dawn, but Rebecca still wasn’t certain she could trust Talon’s sister to return her to the white settlements.

  The Indian woman had barely spoken since they’d stamped out their small campfire and left the tiny cave where they’d spent the night. She strode along with effortless grace, the big yellow-brown cat padding soundlessly at her side. Rebecca had slept within arm’s reach of the mountain lion, and her clothing still smelled of cat. She was grateful for the shelter Siipu had found, but nothing would make her easy around the puma and his curving white fangs.

  It was a miserable day for traveling. The temperature rose, and it was drizzling cold rain. The snow had turned to mush, and the undergrowth soaked their clothes every time they brushed against it. The air was heavy with the scents of wet leaves and musty earth. Rebecca’s outer moccasins were wet, the inner pair damp; she had pulled her fur hood over her head to protect her from the rain, but icy drops still dripped off the folds and trickled down her neck, making her shiver.

  Most cats hated water, but if this one was bothered by the nasty weather, he didn’t show it. Siipu had told her that the lion was still young, that it would continue to grow for another year. Rebecca couldn’t imagine how large it would be when it reached maturity; the thing was enormous now. His yellow eyes watched every movement through lazy slits as the ropelike tail waved slowly to and fro.

  Then, suddenly, the animal tensed and bounded off through the trees. It happened so fast that Rebecca blinked her eyes and stared. One minute the lion was beside Siipu, and the next, it had vanished.

  Talon’s sister stopped short in her tracks. She put a finger to her mask for silence, and unslung the bow from her left shoulder.

  Seconds later, Rebecca heard a rifle shot. The sound echoed through the trees, followed by what could have been a man’s shout. Siipu tapped her shoulder and led the way quickly up a steep incline toward several large boulders half buried in the hillside. Another shot rang out, closer than the first. Siipu ducked down behind a rock and motioned for Rebecca to do the same. They crouched there, side by side.

  Something large and black swooped down from the branches overhead with a shrill kik-kik-kikkik cry, and Rebecca’s heart jumped. Then she let out her breath with a hiss of relief as she recognized the red crest and the white underwing of a pileated woodpecker. We probably frightened him out of his hollow tree when we scrambled up the slope, she thought, as she watched the big, awkward bird flap his long angular wings and drift away into the forest.

  She was staring in the direction the woodpecker had flown when she saw a white man dash from the trees and run toward the boulders. Right behind him sprinted an Indian. The first man whirled and fired at his pursuer; the Indian dodged aside, hit the ground and rolled, and came up swinging a tomahawk. The feathered weapon spun through the air. Rebecca shut her eyes just before the hatchet struck the victim, but she couldn’t shut out the sound of the white man’s scream.

  When she looked again, the Indian stood over him, stripping his motionless body of his weapons and valuables. He threw back his head and let out a triumphant whoop.

  Siipu grabbed her arm. “Run!” she cried.

  Rebecca twisted around to see two more white men coming over the top of the rise directly behind them. One militiaman dropped to his knee and raised his musket, sighting in on her.

  “Run!” Siipu screamed again.

  “No!” Rebecca shouted as she threw up her arms. “Wait! I’m a white—” The musket roared and the lead ball slammed into the rock over her head. Pieces of granite flew around her like angry bees. Something stung her face. In shock, she touched her cheek. When she looked down at her fingers, they were stained red.

  “Becca!” Siipu urged. “Run!”

  Rebecca leaped up and began to run. But only a few yards from the boulder, she slipped on the loose scree and fell to her knees just as the second man fired at her. Siipu doubled back and seized her hand, jerking her to her feet.

  Together, they dashed down the hill through the pouring rain back toward the place where the puma had left them. Crumbling rock and slick mud made the slope dangerous, but they didn’t hesitate. From the corner of her eye, Rebecca saw the Indian off to her right in hand to hand combat with another white man in buckskins. When she glanced back over her shoulder, she went numb all over. One of the men who’d tried to kill her was close behind and gaining with every stride. Terror lent a new burst of speed to her flight, but the strain of running over such rough ground, even downhill, was telling on her. She could feel her strength draining away with each ragged gasp of breath.

  Siipu yelled something at her in Algonquian, then, when she realized that Rebecca didn’t understand, she switched to English. “Drop musket!”

  Rebecca pushed the heavy weapon off her shoulder without a minute’s hesitation. Siipu let go of her hand, leaped up onto a rotting log and notched an arrow on her bowstring. Rebecca heard a groan behind her as she followed Siipu over the fallen tree and down a steep outcrop of crumbling shale.

  Bullets whistled over their heads. Rebecca had lost one mitten somewhere, and she’d dropped her hunting bag. Siipu stopped behind a tree to let fly another arrow. Rebecca’s breath was coming in painful gulps as the two of them plunged into a tangle of fallen pine and briers, wiggled through the morass, and slid down into a narrow stream.

  Water soaked Rebecca to her knees. Her exposed hand was bleeding, but she didn’t feel anything. She glanced at Siipu and realized that the woman’s fringed mask was twisted to one side so that Rebecca had a clear view of her face. To her astonishment, there was no ugly scarring. Siipu’s face was as smooth and flawless as a baby’s. “Your mask,” she blurted out. “I thought—”

  The Indian woman snatched the leather covering into place. For an instant, their eyes met and Rebecca thought that Talon’s sister was going to answer her unasked question.

  Instead, she reached over and pushed back Rebecca’s hood so that her hair tumbled loose around her shoulders. “Listen,” the Indian woman said. She pointed upstream. “More come.”

  Above the sound of her own pounding pulse, Rebecca heard men cursing—in English.

  “Too many,” Siipu said. “Too many long knife.” She touched her own chest. “Losowahkun no be capture. Never.” Her eyes were dilated with fright behind the mud-streaked doeskin mask. “No more.”

  “It’s all right,” Rebecca assured her. “I’ll be all right. If they see my red hair, they’ll know I’m white. They won’t hurt me. I’ll protect you. I won’t let them—”

  “Shhh,” Siipu warned.

  Underbrush crashed behind them. There was a thunderous growl and a human shriek. Siipu flattened herself against the muddy creek bank.

  Rebecca saw a bearded white man come into view along the far side of the creek. He was wearing a red hunting shirt and a shapeless leather hat, and he was definitely not one of the men who’d fired on them earlier. She glanced at Siipu, then sprang forward and splashed through the water. “Help me!” she screamed as loudly as she could.

  “Help me!” She ran toward the men, away from Siipu’s hiding place.

  “What the hell!” Red Shirt raised his rifle and took aim.

  “No!” Rebecca shouted. “I’m Rebecca Brandt! I’m white!” She stopped short and held up her arms. “Help me! The Indians—”

  The bearded man leaped down into the water and seized her by the chin. He twisted her face up and peered into it. “Reckon ye are Simon’s woman, after all,” he said.

  His breath was foul and her stomach turned over as she caught a whiff of stale tobacco from his beard. His green eye
s narrowed as his dirty fingers dug into her flesh. “Stop it. You’re hurting me,” she protested.

  “Had ye a good time with ’em savages?” he asked slyly. He let go of her chin and fumbled for her breast. She stepped sideways and threw her weight into him with as much force as she could muster. He bellowed with anger, lunged for her, and lost his footing on the slippery rocks. He went down into waist-deep water.

  Rebecca scrambled up the muddy bank, then groaned as his hand closed around her ankle.

  “Not so fast!” he shouted. He shoved her face down as he climbed up behind her. She crawled forward on hands and knees, but when she rose to her feet, he backhanded her with a meaty fist.

  She hit the ground hard and lay still, stunned.

  “Crazy, are ye?” Davy demanded. “Crazy enough to fight yer own kind?”

  She tried to get up and he kicked her in the ribs. She doubled up in pain and swore at him as blood ran from the corner of her mouth. “I’m Simon Brandt’s wife, you stupid ass,” she screamed. “You can’t . . .”

  “Shut your mouth,” he ordered. “Lay right there until I tell ye to move, or I’ll knock them pretty white teeth down yer throat.” He scanned the quiet woods and began to empty his rifle’s frizzen pan of wet powder.

  “Simon will kill you for this,” Rebecca said. The wet ground was cold under her and rain beat in her face. Her hair hung in matted ropes, and she was covered in mud. “Can’t I make you understand who I am?”

  “I tole ye to hold yer tongue,” he muttered. “Treacherous little red-swivin’ slut.” He was soaking wet; he’d lost his hat, and even his hair was dripping. “No better than an Injun yerself.” He measured dry powder from a horn and wiped the water off the stock of his rifle. The falling rain streaked it as fast as he rubbed, but he didn’t seem to notice.

  She watched him warily as he took a few steps closer, then looked around again. Nothing stirred. Not even a squirrel moved in the treetops. There was no sign or sound of human life.

  “Don’t I know you?” she asked. “Are you Davy Clarke? You’re in Simon’s militia. Why are you doing this to me? He will—”

  “I tole you to shut up!” he warned. “Ye won’t tell ole Simon nothin’ if the Injuns kill ye, will ye? What Simon don’t know won’t hurt him. It ain’t as if he’s pinin’ away over ye, ye howlin’ red-haired bitch.” He glanced around quickly. “Now spread them legs and hike up that dress, girl. Davy ain’t got all day. My root’s as cold and stiff as a grave marker. I got a notion to warm it in yer jelly pot.”

  Rebecca curled into a ball. “I won’t,” she whispered. “You can’t expect me to—”

  “I expect ye to give me what ye been givin’ them red bastards. Ye got nothin’ left to lose, woman. Fact is, ye might even like it.”

  “I won’t!”

  “You damn sight will, and you’ll hold your tongue afterwards. You say a word to that man o’ yourn, and I’ll make ye the laughin’ stock of the territory. I’ll tell it that ye begged me fer it, and turned nasty when I wouldn’t give it to ye.”

  Rebecca took a deep breath and let out the loudest scream she’d ever given in her life.

  Davy threw himself on top of her. Still screaming, she twisted under him and dug at his face with her nails. He grabbed one wrist and forced her hand back over her head, pinned her with his knees, and tried to yank her dress up with his free hand. She slammed him in the nose with her fist, and he let go of her arm long enough to slap her twice, so hard that she saw stars.

  Her head rocked back and she nearly lost consciousness. He’s going to kill me, she thought, from some distant corner of her mind. If I just close my eyes and lie still . . . if I let him have his way, then maybe—

  But the image of his swollen red member tearing into her filled her with a terrible rage. “No!” she cried. “No!” In desperation, she renewed her struggle with the strength of a madwoman.

  “I’ll ha’ ye, ye screamin’ bitch,” he grunted. “I’ll ha’ ye, if I ha’ to strangle the life out o’ ye first.”

  His threat rang in her ears as his bare hands closed around her throat and cut off her breath.

  Chapter 16

  Cold, deadly rage possessed Talon as he sprinted toward the bearded militiaman who had knocked Becca to the ground and flung himself on her like a raging beast. He could see that the woodsman was choking her, but Talon couldn’t risk a rifle shot that might kill her as well as her assailant.

  Instinct told him he was endangering his own life and that of Fox. But he was past the point of reason. The long knife was trying to murder Becca, and for that crime, he would pay the ultimate penalty, no matter the cost to Talon.

  He uttered no war cry as he bore down on his enemy. With the silence of his totem, the plunging hawk, he fell upon his quarry with swift, merciless wrath. At the last possible instant, the white man looked up and saw him coming.

  Green eyes dilated in terror. His mouth gaped open to scream. Then Talon struck. His weight hammered the white scout to the ground. Before he could do more than struggle, Talon drove the polished steel point of his scalping knife deep into the coward’s heart.

  The white man gasped, his eyes rolled back in their sockets, and his head fell unnaturally to one side. Talon twisted the weapon free, wiped it clean of blood on the red hunting shirt, and shoved it back into his sheath. Shoving the body away in disgust, Talon turned his attention to the woman.

  She lay like an abandoned cornhusk doll, hair tangled, face expressionless. Her eyes were closed, and she wasn’t making a sound. It wasn’t until he knelt beside her that he saw the ugly purple bruises on her throat.

  “Becca,” he murmured. “Becca?” Had he been too late to save her? He gathered her in his arms and brushed her pale eyelids with his lips.

  She hung limp and lifeless.

  Tears clouded Talon’s vision as a great wave of sadness washed over him. He crushed her against his chest. “No! I will not lose you!” he cried in his own tongue. “Live, my Becca, I command you to live.”

  He looked down into her ashen face. Her lips parted slightly and he caught a glimpse of white, even teeth. So perfect, he thought. So beautiful. Without thinking, he bent his head and kissed her mouth, breathing into her his own life spirit . . . trying desperately to hold on to what had been her essence.

  She moaned.

  “Becca!” He shook her roughly “Becca!”

  She drew in a long, gasping breath, then began to choke.

  He leaned her upright against his chest and supported her head. “Breathe, Becca,” he urged in English. “Breathe.”

  Her eyelids flickered and she fought to suck air through her swollen throat.

  He murmured her name with infinite tenderness.

  Slowly, she opened her eyes and looked up into his face. “You came,” she tried to say. Her voice was so distorted by her ordeal that the words were little more than rasping tones, barely audible.

  But Talon had no need to understand her harsh whispers. Her eyes glowed with meaning, and when she smiled up at him, his soul leaped.

  “Are you mad?” Fox called in Algonquian.

  Talon looked up to see the Shawnee brave dashing toward them.

  “Simon Brandt is still out there with six of his men,” the warrior admonished. Then he glanced down at the white man’s outstretched body and corrected himself. “Well, five, if you count the wounded. Would you offer them your scalp already stretched for drying?”

  Talon was on his feet, helping Becca up. “Can you walk?” he asked her. Still breathing with difficulty, she leaned against him and nodded.

  Fox glanced from one to the other. “I found Siipu by the creek bank,” he said, continuing in the Shawnee dialect. “She’s hiding in the bushes on the far side.”

  “Siipu? But why is she here?” He glared down at Becca. “Why are you both here? Is Siipu all right?”

  “Uninjured,” Fox replied.

  “I told you to stay at the wigwam,” he said to Becca in English. “Wh
y did you disobey—”

  “Later,” Fox admonished. “This is not the best place to satisfy your curiosity. They’re here. Now what are we going to do with them?”

  “You’re right,” Talon agreed. “You take my sister back to her longhouse. Counts and Osage Killer should be there. Counts will need her skill to heal his wound.”

  “And you?”

  “It’s not wise for us to travel together with the women. We’d leave a trail. I will take the white woman with me. We’ll all meet at the village in two weeks’ time.”

  “You’ll leave Simon Brandt and his militia alive?” Fox demanded. “You said—”

  “I said I would kill him and I will. But not today.” He clasped his friend’s arm. “We have taught the long knives a lesson they’ll not soon forget. I think they’ve had enough of this hunting trip. If we leave them, they’ll turn back to the white settlements.”

  “But you intend to keep the woman?”

  “Until I trade her for my father. Yes, Fox, I keep her.”

  “Hmmp.” The slim warrior looked unconvinced. “I hope you have not misjudged Simon Brandt.”

  “How so?”

  “What if he does not want her as much as you seem to?”

  “She is his wife. If she were yours, would you want her?” Talon demanded, trying to control his temper. What was Fox insinuating? Did his friend believe that he would put a beautiful white woman ahead of the best interests of the people—ahead of his father’s safety? Whatever feelings he had for Becca were private. They would not keep him from his duty.

  “So long as you remember that Medicine Smoke’s life hangs in the balance,” Fox said.

  “On the day I forget, on that day you can become war chief in my place.”

  Fox tapped his breast with a clenched fist. “In two weeks, then. Guard your back, brother.”

  “And yours.” He smiled at Fox. “You may find that Siipu is the woman of your dreams.”