by Leigh Bale
Drawing herself up, Kerstin jutted her chin and tried to still her trembling hands. "My father knows I love Elezer."
"Elezer can do nothing if your father decides to break the betrothal," Minin remarked. "And perhaps it would be a good thing. Beware of Elezer’s handsome face and kind ways, mistress. I’ve heard the men say he tends to be devious and selfish, interested only in a woman’s soft body, comforts and wealth. I don’t want to see you hurt."
Kerstin gasped. "You know nothing of Elezer’s goodness. How dare you carry such tales to my ears?"
Minin shrugged and Kerstin slammed a jug of wine onto the table, sloshing the contents across wooden bowls. The soft drumbeat of raindrops struck the roof of the hall outside. The storm had broken and would quickly end, but for Kerstin, it went on and on. She longed to take her fears to Elezer and had no doubt of his devotion. He would help her plead their case to her father.
Sighing deeply, she glanced at her sister-in-law, who cowered in one corner of the room. "Letta, please fetch the iron candle holders while I see about more ale."
Letta seemed not to hear. When the thunder boomed again, her eyes filled with a strange, wild light. Letta grabbed a carving knife from the trestle table and headed for the door. "I will not welcome these murderers into my home, nor allow your father to wed you to a savage man."
Kerstin went after her, catching the woman as she reached the door. Kerstin yanked the blade from Letta's clenched fist. As much as the thought of killing Jonas and the other Sigurdsson’s appealed to her, what would it accomplish other than Letta’s death? “Nay, Letta, you mustn’t try such a thing. You are crazed with grief.”
Losing her balance, Letta bumped into the tall loom against the wall. As if the thump knocked her senses back into her brain, Letta burst into tears and covered her face with her hands.
"Oh, what am I to do?" she cried. "We will all be killed. My poor dead babes."
Kerstin’s throat constricted. Little Elyn and Ari. She remembered their soft hands and gurgling laughs as they pulled her hair or tried to steal sweet meats from the cooking pot. How could she fault the desperation of a grieving mother?
"Shh," she said, hugging Letta close against her breast as she smoothed her pale hair. "I know your misery, Letta. Come with me, and I’ll give you a soothing tisane to help you sleep.”
As she led Letta away, Kerstin wondered about tomorrow. Swallowing her own tears, she tried to be brave. Alrik would make the right decision, wouldn’t he? She must trust him.
“You know,” Letta whispered as they walked to the back rooms, “I could kill Jonas Sigurdsson, and he would die, like his brother did.” She laughed in harsh gasps, the sound shrill.
Kerstin froze as Letta dropped onto her sleeping furs. What had Letta said? She must have heard wrong. A horrible lump settled in Kerstin’s stomach. Could Letta have killed Bjorn? Did she know enough about potions to have mixed the poison that took his life?
Letta drew herself into a tight ball beneath the warm furs on her sleeping couch. Keening a quiet lullaby in a singsong voice, she rocked back and forth. Pity blanketed Kerstin’s heart as she pushed the unholy thoughts aside. "Don’t be afraid, Letta. I will protect you."
"But who will protect you?" Letta’s voice came as a whisper, trembling over Kerstin with such intensity that she flinched.
It took a moment to recover. “Rest now, Letta.”
* * *
Kerstin hurried back to the main hall. When she spotted Minin, she pulled her aside. “Letta is still upset. Watch her carefully while I’m gone.”
With a croon of sympathy, Minin nodded.
Kerstin took up a linen towel and lavender-scented soap and stepped outside the hall. To her surprise, the men were gone, probably adjourned to the counseling hall farther up the mountain. She could only guess at their mood. Jonas Sigurdsson must have accompanied them.
Water dripped off the eaves of the longhouse and the air smelled of rain. Black clouds filled the sky, not at all finished with their fury. Stepping over puddles, she scurried across the yard to the bathing hut.
A large stone and wood building, the hut contained an outer chamber lined with wooden benches. The inner room had more benches and a fire pit, the hearth cold now, and dark. Great shadows played across the walls as Kerstin hurried about her task.
She jerked her filthy garments from her body and sighed with relish now that she could finally lather her arms with the fragrant soap. She moved her hands over her abdomen in small, circular motions. She poured tepid water over herself, then ran her hands over her legs. Sudsy bubbles dripped down her thighs and calves. Lifting each leg in turn, she rested a foot upon a bench as she rinsed.
It felt good to cleanse away the blood and sweat of battle from her body. A throaty moan escaped her as she flexed her stiff shoulders. How she wished she could wash the events of the day away. She didn’t hurry, wanting to enjoy this time alone before she had to witness Jonas’s wrath when her father told him there would be no marriage.
After she scrubbed her face, Kerstin lathered and rinsed her hair, then toweled herself dry. She dressed in a long-sleeved, ankle-length tunic of fine pleated linen. She had dyed the soft fabric a deep golden color from the leaves and stems of agrimony. Over this, she wore a calf-length woolen pinafore dyed a vivid yellow from the flowers of chamomile. At each shoulder, she fastened a gilded brooch, decorated with intricate animal patterns, a gift from her father when he took her trading in York last summer. Then, she combed out her hair until it crackled with life.
Letting her head fall back, she closed her eyes as relief washed over her. How good it felt to be attired like a woman again. She dreaded returning to the hall and wished she could remain here, alone. No doubt Minin would have her hands full if Letta awoke and decided to cause more mischief.
Kerstin sighed, feeling the weight of her responsibilities.
Bending, she picked up her dirty clothes. A movement caught her eye and she paused, peering into the deep shadows across the room. She made out the figure of a large man reclining upon one of the benches. The figure shifted and she gasped.
Jonas!
He sat silent. Kerstin sucked in a sharp breath, clutching her soiled clothes to her breast. How long had he been watching her?
His bright eyes gleamed in the shadows. Beside him on the floor lay his sword. She wasn’t surprised. Even when he took his leisure, he kept his weapon close at hand.
Embarrassment flooded her cheeks with heat and hot prickles tingled down her spine. He had watched her bathe. “Why are you here?"
Reclining on one elbow, he lifted a foot to rest upon the bench. His free arm relaxed across his raised knee. Cast in shadow, his expression looked fierce, his blue eyes sparkling.
"I came here for the same purpose as you. To wash away the stench of battle and to be alone for a time." His voice sounded low and husky.
"You should have made yourself known to me. Only a lecher would sit here in silence and watch a woman bathe."
"If I were a lecher, you’d already be flat on your back,” he told her without humor.
His long body unfolded as he stood up. Kerstin’s eyes widened. The movement must have jarred his injured shoulder and he flinched as if it pained him.
He wore a soft, long-sleeved shirt, which molded his torso like a second skin and defined the muscles of his arms and chest. He tied a bathing cloth about his lean waist to hide his heavy loins and Kerstin's mouth rounded as she took a step backward.
She glanced at the doorway on the other side of the room, realizing she would have to pass by him to reach it. Trapped, like a caged animal. Her gaze drifted back to him.
His eyes never wavered from hers and he appeared to be more pleased than vexed. "I didn’t mean to spy on you, little Kerstin. You were so intent upon your chore, I thought to let you finish bathing in peace. But I won’t speak a lie and say I didn’t enjoy the sight. I am a man, after all."
Kerstin's mouth dropped open. His confession filled her w
ith confusion, something she hadn’t expected. He was toying with her. "Do you think to flatter me with compliments?"
"I merely speak what is on my mind. A man doesn’t want an old crone when he takes a wife."
She grit her teeth. "You know nothing about me."
Jonas shrugged lazily, then paled and grimaced, as if the movement pained him. "I know most accused you of murdering my brother. Only a fool would trust you. And I am no fool."
“And I will never trust you.”
“It’s just as well, Witch.” He spoke in a placid tone.
His accusations cut her deep. She longed for people to see her for the healer she was, not a witch.
A volcano of anger and frustration resided inside her, building up until she shook with it, ready to explode. “You are nothing more than a mercenary. Who are you to speak to me of honor?”
Kerstin edged toward the door. If he attacked, she had no weapon. Why had she left her dagger inside the hall? Even if she screamed, her father’s men wouldn’t hear her.
He took a step closer.
"Stay back." She held out a hand to ward him off.
Jonas stood in the shadows, his gaze fixed upon her face. Kerstin longed to kick him, but didn’t dare get that close. She remembered how he had caught her in the forest, quick and light on his feet.
She took another step toward the door. He also took a step and her heart sank. "My father will kill you if you touch me."
He shook his head and his rich laughter filled the room. "I don’t think so."
"I will die before submitting to you, or I will kill you first."
His white teeth flashed with a chilling smile. "I accept your challenge, Kerstin. It’ll be entertaining to see if I can prevent both tragedies from occurring while I bring you pleasure."
Another step toward the doorway. "I will find no pleasure in you."
"Ah," he breathed as he also moved closer. "Perhaps Elezer hasn’t been a generous lover. What has he taught you, Kerstin? Are you still chaste?"
Her eyes narrowed with fury. How dare he ask her such intimate questions? "Like me, Elezer is a Christian and cares for my feelings. You are a vile heathen who believes in nothing but pagan gods."
He came closer and Kerstin eyed him. She must move fast or be ensnared.
"I assure you, Kerstin, I can be most gentle. And when I’m finished, you’ll have no doubt that I am a man and you are my woman."
Kerstin felt her cheeks flush crimson. In sudden panic, she tried to dart past him. He simply stepped to the side and she ran straight into his solid chest, jarring his injured shoulder. A low groan came from his throat. Now he must let her go.
Jonas enfolded her quaking body in his iron-thewed arms.
"Let me go.” She struggled to free herself and felt his chest quake with laughter.
In the forest, she had wondered if his eyes would crinkle and sparkle when he smiled. Aye, they did indeed, but his amusement infuriated her. She managed to pull one of her arms loose and drew back her fist, striking his injured shoulder. He grunted, showing a pained frown.
Picking her up, he squeezed her against his hard body. Kerstin found her mouth seized by his in a searing kiss that curled her toes. Cupping the back of her head, he pulled her closer. She couldn’t breathe. The sweet warm taste of him told her he had enjoyed some rich wine before his bath. She gasped for air as his kiss went on and on. A strange warmth spiraled through her, stealing her senses.
Before she realized what she was doing, she returned his kiss. The way her body betrayed her was more than she could comprehend.
Wedging her hands between their chests, she pushed away, succeeding only because he allowed it. Their gazes caught, held. His intense look no longer showed amusement, but sultry desire. "Your passion betrays you, Kerstin."
Humiliated, she stared at the wall, stained by years of weekly steam baths. How could she be so disloyal to Elezer? "I belong to another man.”
His jaw hardened. "Your passion belongs to me."
“I want no part of you.”
His eyes darkened. "You shall have all of me, Kerstin. It is only a matter of time."
Jonas placed her on her feet. Relief flooded her when he set her free. She whirled about and fled, the sound of his deep laughter rumbling behind her.
###
Excerpt from Healing the Forest Ranger, available May 2013
Healing the Forest Ranger
Chapter One
They didn’t know she was watching. Lyndsy Warner crouched low behind an outcropping of rock. Prickles of excitement dotted her arms. She held her breath, hoping the wild horses wouldn’t catch her scent and bolt. At least not yet.
Overhead, a hawk spiraled through the azure sky. The late April weather had been unseasonably warm. Tufts of green grass and red paintbrush trembled as the breeze whispered past, carrying the earthy smell of dust and sage.
Letting her camera hang limp from the strap around her neck, Lyn reached up to remove the bronze shield pinned above the right front pocket of her forest ranger’s shirt. A glint from the afternoon sun might give her presence away to the mustangs in the valley below.
After tucking the badge into her pants pocket, Lyn reached for the camera again. Holding it up to her eyes, she adjusted the focus and studied the herd through the lens. Five mustangs, led by a handsome buckskin stallion. The stud’s black mane and tail stood out against his golden coat. The band included three mares and a black foal with a white tail and mane. Not really black, but almost. With just a bit of white on her hind left foot and on her right under flank and in her mane and tail. Not a true pinto, either. Very unique coloring and absolutely stunning. The filly’s spindly legs looked long and strong, a foreshadowing of the beautiful mare she’d become. Wild and free.
Lyn snapped a quick series of pictures, wishing she could share this moment with Kristen, her ten year-old daughter. Like most girls, Kristen loved horses. But these mustangs carried a deeper meaning for Lyn. A reminder of the night her husband died.
The bony ribcages of the horses seemed too lean, an indicator of sparse forage on the range. As the herds increased, there just wasn’t enough for them to eat, not to mention the other wildlife roaming this area, or the beef cattle the ranchers paid the government to graze.
Lyn zoned in on the stallion she’d named Buck. This wasn’t the only herd foraging in Secret Valley. Lyn had named all the stallions roaming the mountains of McClellan National Forest, but not their mares and foals. She didn’t want to become more attached to them than she already was. Especially if she was forced to round up some of them for removal.
A low nicker drew Lyn’s attention to the plateau overhead. A smaller dun stallion stood gazing down upon the tranquil family of mustangs, his cream coloring similar to Buck’s except that tiger stripes circled his front legs. A throwback from prehistoric horses. Probably a bachelor stallion, with no mares of his own. His ears pricked forward with rapt attention and Lyn knew he wanted Buck’s mares. Or at least one of them.
“Don’t do it, buddy. Buck’s a lot bigger and he’ll hurt you if you try to steal one of his girls.” The warm breeze stole Lyn’s whispered warning.
While Buck’s lead mare kept watch, two of the other mares dipped their noses into the murky water of the shallow spring. No vegetation grew here, the banks beaten down and churned to mud by too many tromping hooves. By mid-May, Lyn figured the water would be gone. Dried by the baking sun to nothing but cracked earth. The horses needed this water. Desperately. Without it, they’d have to journey across the mountains to Cherry Creek, a thin stream nine miles away. An arduous trip that would sap their energy, keep them from feeding, and weaken their foals.
Always on the lookout, Buck noticed the bachelor stallion and snorted. He skirted the edge of his band, tossing his proud head and pawing the dirt with one hoof. With his long tail flying high like a flag, he raced toward the plateau, placing himself between the watering hole and the bachelor. Buck wouldn’t give up his mares. Not witho
ut a fight.
The dun neighed in challenge, then picked his way down the steep grade. As he reached the valley floor, he lifted his elegant head and arched his muscular neck. A dark dorsal stripe ran down the middle of his back and Lyn decided to name him Stripe.
Absolutely gorgeous.
Buck didn’t think so. He let out a shrill squeal. Ears laid back flat against his head, he raced toward the dun. At first, the two stallions circled one another, snorting and sizing each other up.
Stripe ducked away from Buck and chased after a plump dapple gray mare that looked ready to foal soon. Stripe nudged her rump, urging her forward, trying to whisk her away. Buck intercepted, biting Stripe’s hindquarters. The mare knew who she belonged to and lashed out at Stripe with her hind legs. Buck bared his teeth, the whites of his eyes showing. His black mane whipped across his strong neck like billows of smoke.
Stripe circled back, chasing after the mare. Desperate for a mate. Buck followed, neighing his disapproval. The bachelor stallion was lean and tough, but no match for the more experienced buckskin.
And the battle began.
Both stallions reared. Screaming, biting, slashing each other with their razor-sharp hooves. Again and again, their hooves thudded against each other like iron clubs. Lyn cringed at the horrific noise they made. Survival of the fittest. Their ferocity frightened her on a primitive level. She lowered her camera and stared in shock.
The mares galloped out of the fray, the black foal scurrying to join the safety of her mother. Stripe followed, still trying to separate the dapple gray from the rest of the herd.
Buck intervened with a roar of rage. He kicked. Once. Twice. Bludgeoning Stripe in the head and shoulder. The bachelor stallion staggered and dropped to his front knees. Buck offered no mercy. Rearing, he came down hard on top of Stripe’s head.