And it was the same voice that taunted. That led him more than once to the edge of the mountain. That whispered, “Take but one more step and you will never be haunted by guilt again.”
But if she professed to be an angel then this voice was the devil... he was the devil.
Logan shoved open the door and his heart stopped beating.
She was gone, her mat still unrolled, the blanket tossed aside. But it was not that that concerned him. It was the tomahawk savagely slashing the mat.
Ostenaco’s tomahawk.
With a primal yell, Logan wrenched the weapon from the woven straw and shoved it into his belt. If he hurt her... Logan’s fingers itched to squeeze the life blood from Ostenaco. Pausing only long enough to grab up his gun and snap at the dog to follow, Logan exploded out the door.
There was a trail.
But then Logan knew there would be. Rachel was not who Ostenaco wanted. He was. Not that the Cherokee warrior wasn’t capable of doing unspeakable things to her, of killing her. But in the end it was Logan he wanted to pin beneath his scalping knife.
It had always been Logan.
He’d known that and yet he brought Rachel here, when there was a chance, however remote, that Ostenaco would come also.
Just as he had wed Mary, bringing her to the frontier and leaving her to the mercy of an unforgiving people. He lived with the weight of her death on his shoulders. Logan didn’t know if he could survive the burden of Rachel’s.
He walked when he wanted to run. Forced himself to remain calm when he wanted nothing more than to scream to the heavens.
But Ostenaco did not make it simple for Logan to find him. There were false leads. A bit of holly branch bent that seemed to lead further into the spruce stand. Only after wasted steps and untold minutes did Logan realize it was nothing but a fool’s trail, leading nowhere.
Ostenaco reveled in weaving him over and across the river, deeper into the mountains. He seemed to pick the hardest path, through brambles and over rocks. And he pulled Rachel with him—Logan hoped. He let his eyes stray as he tramped through the underbrush of moss and fern, wary of any clue that Ostenaco grew tired of dragging his hostage along.
When Logan saw her small bare footprint in the soft mud leading out of a stream he let out his breath and forged ahead with increased resolve. He had to get there before Ostenaco killed her. He simply had to.
The sun rose higher in the east and still Logan followed the carefully planted leads... alone. It took him till he crossed the river for the last time and headed up the mountain path to realize the lazy dog hadn’t come with him. And to think, he had started buying into Rachel’s notion that the spaniel should be called something noble like Henry. So much for her contention that she and the dog were friends. She probably gave him extra food when Logan wasn’t around to inspire the animal’s devotion. But obviously when it really counted, the dog didn’t care.
Which simply showed how distraught his own mind was, if he could think about such foolishness as Rachel’s relationship with his dog when she was in such mortal danger.
He should have told her everything about Ostenaco.
No, he should never have brought her here.
Logan climbed higher and higher, never looking back. Never looking down. He wasn’t at all surprised that Ostenaco chose to bring her here, along what the Cherokee called the sky path. The rocky ledge twisted around the mountain, rising into the mist, wide enough for a division to march on at one point, narrowing to barely accommodate a man at another.
The Adawehis preached that it led to the world of spirits, a place comparable to the heaven of Logan’s childhood memories. But to Logan the mountain and its torturous trail was another hell on earth.
And Ostenaco knew of his fear. Of the ofttimes immobilizing anguish that standing on the edge of a precipice caused him. Logan’s father had laughed at his fear, chiding him with taunts that questioned his courage and manhood. Ostenaco, himself a young man, had been present at Seven Oaks, Logan’s father’s trading post, during one of those tirades.
As was the case with most Cherokee, Ostenaco loathed Robert MacQuaid, as did Logan. The warrior had been Logan’s friend. He seemed to close his ears to Robert’s tirade. But he heard and he remembered.
Gravel crunched beneath Logan’s moccasined feet as he pressed forward. There were no more signs of Ostenaco’s presence... of Rachel’s. But Logan knew they were ahead of him. There was no other way down the mountain except over the edge. The path had narrowed, sheer rock to his left, nothingness to his right when Logan allowed himself a peek into the abyss.
He’d hoped years of living on his mountain, on the edge of another cliff would harden him. But the too familiar sweat broke out on his upper lip and he dragged first one, then the other hand down over his shirt to dry his palms.
The self-exile to his lonely mountain had been nothing more than the punishment he planned. The punishment he deserved.
Realizing how snug his body was pressed to the rock face, Logan forced himself away and hurried on. Wondering when Ostenaco would make his move. Wondering how Rachel was bearing up... if she was bearing up.
She might fantasize about being a friend of the queen and the like but she didn’t know how to survive in the wilds. She was small and delicate and Logan cringed at the thought of Ostenaco’s rough hands on her.
His mind was so inundated with thoughts and fears for her that when he first saw her standing on a flat rock jutting over the gorge below he hardly credited it. She seemed to float, the mist swirling about her ankles and the breeze catching the golden curls. For an instant, he believed she was an angel.
Then she screamed, her face a mask of despair. “Go away! Logan, don’t let him kill you!”
He lurched toward her, only stopping when she stepped back toward the edge. “Rachel!” Fear for her lodged in his throat like bile, paralyzing him. “For God’s sake!”
“The white woman would sacrifice herself for you.”
Logan whirled around to see Ostenaco standing, his back to the quartz-veined rock. Like Logan he cradled a musket in his arms, a tomahawk and knife in his belt. Unlike Logan he had nothing to lose but his own life.
“Let her go, Ostenaco. She is nothing to you.”
“But she is to you, white man.” The last words were spoken with such venom Logan knew Ostenaco would kill her if given the chance. There was no doubt.
“It is time we settled our differences.” Logan spread his legs, claiming the ground between the warrior and Rachel, silently vowing to protect her with his life.
“The time is long, overdue.” Ostenaco tossed his musket aside. “I will kill you, white man, and the soul of my brother will finally go to the darkening place.”
Logan’s gun fell to the rocky ground. Ostenaco stalked toward him, shifting his weight easily, his legs spread for balance. Logan shifted the tomahawk out to his side and raised to the balls of his feet. He’d practiced the Indian ways of fighting since he was young. He was a match for Ostenaco... if he concentrated. But his mind kept dancing to the woman behind him.
Then Ostenaco’s tomahawk flashed in the sunlight, striking out toward him, and there was only the two of them and their fight to the death. A fight long overdue.
Feinting to the side, Logan escaped the first swipe. They were both crouched, Ostenaco moving lightly on his feet, trying to circle. But Logan wouldn’t allow it. As much as he’d prefer to have the solid rock rather than a sheer drop to his back, he wouldn’t let the warrior get between him and Rachel.
They each took tentative swipes as if they needed to test the mettle of their adversary. Methodically trying to force the other back... off balance. Then with a savage cry Ostenaco lunged, hacking down with the honed edge of steel. Logan’s arm shot up to ward off the blow but the footing was uneven. The force of the attack sent them both stumbling to the ground.
Sweat poured off them as they roiled, Ostenaco on top, then Logan. Straddling the Cherokee, Logan strained, his fing
ers clamped around the wrist of his opponent. Ostenaco’s hand worked feverishly to keep Logan’s tomahawk from cleaving his skull.
They rolled again, toward the edge of the path, twisting and turning, sleek muscles straining. Logan was the first to draw blood, but it was a glancing blow, more a victory of style than substance. And he quickly lost any advantage he’d gained when he caught a glimmer of blue and silver moving toward them from the corner of his eye.
The break in concentration was infinitesimal, but it was all Ostenaco needed. He broke free, leaping to his feet, lunging toward Rachel. But Logan moved faster, surging forward and tackling his foe, yelling for Rachel to get the hell away.
The movement cost Logan his tomahawk, but he managed to grab the knife from his leggings. They grappled, dodging blows, snarling, their chests sucking air like bellows. Logan thrust with his knife, knew it sliced through flesh. They twisted again and blood dripped onto Logan’s face. Ostenaco’s blood.
And then they were at the edge... over the edge. Logan’s head hung over nothingness and Ostenaco was forcing him down. The old fear clawed at his innards. Logan tried to take a deep breath, tried to steady the hand that gripped his knife.
Logan barely saw the blur of blue before she was on top of the Cherokee, pummeling his back.
“Rachel!” Logan’s warning came too late as Ostenaco twisted about. Logan jumped to his feet but she was already held prisoner, bound to the bleeding warrior by his wounded arm.
“Let her go, Ostenaco.” Logan’s heart pounded in his chest. “It is not a warrior’s way to shield himself with women.”
Ostenaco’s face was a mask of hatred as he stared at Logan. Then suddenly he thrust Rachel from him and she stumbled, falling to the ground. Logan forced himself not to look. Both their lives depended upon him besting the Cherokee.
They went at each other with renewed vigor. Arms and bodies entangled, their ebb and flow again brought them precariously to the edge of the uneven rock shelf. And certain death below. They broke free of one another, staring with a blood lust that vowed defeat for one of them. Then as Logan grappled for footing the Indian attacked, tomahawk raised.
Logan held his ground, lifting his knife. Live or die. The next split second would decide.
And then Ostenaco swerved, and Logan saw why. His heart stopped beating, then pounded with chest-shattering intensity. Rachel came at Ostenaco yet again, pounding his shoulder with her fists. The Cherokee swung around, catching her chin with his elbow, knocking her unconscious. She fell, slipping toward the edge as Logan’s blade thrust deep into the warrior’s gut.
Logan lunged for Rachel, catching her hand as she slipped off the ledge, barely noticing Ostenaco as he tumbled into the abyss.
Rachel dangled over the precipice, her only link to life the fingers that clasped hers. She was far from being a heavy woman, but his arms were weak from his struggle with the Indian, and she was dazed, unable to help herself. Logan inched forward, forcing himself to look down as he reached with his other hand, grasping her wrist.
“Hang on, sweetheart.” He didn’t think she heard him. Logan’s breathing rasped in his ear as he strained to pull her up. His palms were slick with blood and sweat, and tendons stood out on his neck, straining as he felt her slide.
“Rachel.” His first attempt at calling her name failed to elicit response. “Rachel! Grab on with your free hand and pull.” He could feel his hold slipping. “Rachel!” He didn’t dare move forward or the weight of their linked bodies would send them both plummeting to their deaths. His fingers tightened, digging into her flesh, struggling for purchase. He would go over the side before he let her go.
And then she looked up at him, her eyes as large as saucers. His own stung as he gulped in air. “Reach up,” he ordered. “Reach up and latch on to my arm.” Rachel struggled to do as he said, swinging her body as she did. He felt her hold on him as his on her hand slipped further.
“There. That’s good. Now don’t let go. Just hold on as I catch you under your arm. Aye, that’s it.” His muscles bulged as he labored to pull her up. When her upper body cleared the ledge she let loose her hold on his arm and clutched the rock, wriggling along as he pulled her the rest of the way.
After rolling them both away from the edge Logan lay as did she, on his back, his chest heaving with each breath. His head twisted to the side, staring at her and only then did all the fear he’d felt for her settle over him. Logan swooped over wrapping her in his arms and hugging her tightly against him.
Her sobs tore at his heart. “Did he hurt you? Tell me.”
“No. I’m fine. Well, my jaw pains me a bit, but it’s nothing really. I was just so frightened.”
“’Tis over now.”
Rachel clung to him, her fingers digging into the soft animal skin of his shirt. He was safe. That was all that mattered. She’d saved his life. Then why wasn’t she gone? Not that she wanted to leave just this moment. It felt too good, just holding him, knowing he was alive.
But in the next instant he sat up, grabbing her shoulders and thrusting her to arm’s length. “What in the hell were you thinking coming at him like that? You could have been killed.”
That was not very likely. But this didn’t seem the time to point out that she had already died. “Well, so could you.”
“Me?” He simply stared at her a long moment. “For God’s sake, Rachel, I had a weapon at least. Ostenaco and I were closely matched. But you...” He couldn’t continue. In his mind’s eye he saw her again, coming at the Cherokee, being knocked aside, rolling toward the edge.
She didn’t appear at all contrite though. “I was afraid he would kill you and I couldn’t let that happen.”
“My God.” Logan’s arms stiffened. “Does this have anything to do with your foolish notion that you are to save my life?” She didn’t need to answer. He knew it did. What in the hell was he to do with her? She obviously was so committed to this crazy idea that she acted without thought to her own safety. If he wasn’t careful there would be yet another woman feeding his guilt.
“Come on,” he said, standing and pulling her to her feet. “Are you well enough to walk?”
“Of course, I am.” She yanked her hands from his grip. She was tired of him making light of her predicament. She did everything she could, risking her own life—if she actually had one—for him. And this was the thanks she received.
Rachel took a step down the path only to stumble. If not for his strong hands clutching her elbows she would have fallen to her knees. She whimpered when he folded her into his embrace.
“I’m sorry.” He smoothed curls back from her forehead. “None of this was your doing. ’Twas mine. And that’s where the fault lies.”
“But you did nothing.” Rachel looked up at him, her eyes brimming with unshed tears. “It... it was that man.” Her gaze left his to stray toward the cliff’s edge.
Logan shook his head. “I brought you here. Come on, lean on me and we’ll get down off this mountain.” He lifted her chin with his thumb. “He didn’t force you...?”
It was clear from the expression on his face, the way his green eyes looked at her, what he meant.
“He said things.” She felt Logan’s body stiffen. “But there was no time for him to do anything but drag me about. You came so quickly.”
“I couldn’t let him take you.” He held her a moment longer before scooping up the tomahawk, jamming it into his belt, and retrieving his musket. Then he moved slowly toward the edge of the path, searching the rocks and underbrush below for Ostenaco’s body.
“You should have, you know.”
She was behind and slightly to the side of him. He couldn’t tell whether she could see the grotesquely twisted form below or not. At any rate it wasn’t something he wished to dwell on.
“Should have what?”
She just shook her head. There was no reason to make him angry. And telling him he should have let Ostenaco take her would do that. “I’m ready to leave now.”
<
br /> She sounded more like her old self and Logan couldn’t help smiling as he offered his arm. “As you wish, Your Highness.”
She gave him a look which clearly showed her displeasure and Logan nearly laughed. But his spirits sunk as they made their way down the mountain, for his thoughts kept straying to what might have happened if he hadn’t found her in time. If he hadn’t killed Ostenaco.
Whoever she was, Rachel Elliott didn’t belong here.
Chapter Twelve
“The restraints we impose on ourselves to refrain from loving are often more cruel than the severities of our beloved.”
— La Rochefoucauld
Maxims
“I thought you refused to go East until spring.”
“I’ve had a change of mind.”
“Because of me?” Color blossomed in Rachel’s cheeks when he glanced up at her. Of course it was because of her. She wasn’t such a ninny that she didn’t know that.
He didn’t answer, instead returning to his task of tightly rolling several blankets together. She watched him a moment longer. His hair was unbound and fell forward, shadowing his face as he worked. She wished he’d look up at her again. But no, that wouldn’t help.
Her ability to connect with his thoughts and feelings seemed to have disappeared.
Though she knew it wouldn’t work, Rachel tried to concentrate on him, but she sensed nothing. Yet in this instance did she really need to read his mind to know what he thought?
Restless, she pushed out of the chair... his chair... and began pacing the cabin. They arrived back at his cabin yesterday, two days after leaving the Cherokee town of Cheoah. And they were leaving again tomorrow. For his brother’s place at Seven Pines.
“I thought you were tired.”
“I am,” she insisted. At least that’s one of the excuses she used when he told her they were leaving his mountain. It didn’t help. He was adamant about leaving.
“Then perhaps you should lie down and rest.” He tied off a rawhide thong and stood, raking fingers back through his hair. She saw him glance toward the jug on the shelf over the fireplace, then look away, his jaw tight.
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