Jemma allowed them to usher her back to Many Feathers’s hut. The three tall men surrounded her, towering over her. The exhaustion that had vanished at Hunter’s sudden appearance rushed back through her in waves. It took all the strength she could muster to put one foot in front of the other and keep moving.
The sun had sunk low behind the forest of trees beyond cleared fields filled with piles of drying cornstalks. Work had ceased throughout the village as the inhabitants went inside their family dwellings. The air was pungent, tainted by the smoke from the many cook fires. Inside Many Feathers’s hut, the air was close and still. The aroma of simmering meat filled the room, and Jemma’s mouth watered.
The men sat on the floor near the fire. Hunter acted as casual as if he spent every day of his life squatting in the dirt in an Indian hovel. Jemma started to sit beside him, but Hunter and Soaring Raven motioned her back.
“See to the food.” Many Feathers’s son nodded toward the pot bubbling over the low fire.
“She doesn’t cook,” Hunter swiftly commented. “I told you she is of very little value.”
Ignoring their English exchange, Many Feathers busied himself with tamping tobacco into the bowl of a stone pipe attached to a soft wood stem. Unlike anything she had ever seen, the pipe was nearly two feet in length. A small carved figure of a wolf leaned against the bowl of the pipe.
Once more Hunter surprised her. As she gingerly lowered herself to a sitting position in the shadows behind the men, she watched as he confidently took the pipe the old man offered, held it almost reverently the way Many Feathers had, took a long drag of smoke, and then passed it on to his right. Her guardian angel seemed right at home, ignoring her completely.
Jemma pulled her knees up to her chest, wrapped her hands around her toes, and propped her chin on her knees. Blisters burned her palms. Her shoulders and arms ached from raising and lowering the heavy pestle, as well as from the blows the women had dealt her. Her stomach rumbled noisily. It was going to be a very long evening.
At least his hunger had been satiated. The sun had set hours ago. Hunter and the other two men had eaten hunched over the stew pot, alternately dipping portions of venison, corn, and squash with long wooden ladles. Jemma got what was left. Stories were told and countless bowls of tobacco went up in smoke. He had traded a cooking pot for a Cherokee stone pipe with a bear fetish on the bowl. Nette would enjoy it if he cut the stem down. He now owned an assortment of cane baskets and in the trade had lost a frying pan, a spoon, and a paring knife. Losing the goods would cost him, but Many Feathers was now certain that he was the more skillful trader.
The old man wanted no less than four horses for Jemma and he was not about to be persuaded otherwise.
Despite his desperate need to keep both of the horses, Hunter went so far as to counter and offer one of them in trade for Jemma. He had no idea how far he was from a wilderness plantation or a friendlier Indian settlement. To offer both would have been suicide. At the end of many hours of bartering, Many Feathers’s offer still stood: four horses for the woman.
The old man gleefully told Hunter, through signs and translation, that he firmly believed his son would eventually see the wisdom in taking the ugly white woman for his bride. If not, he had shrugged, then he, Many Feathers, just might marry her.
The only good thing that happened all evening was that Jemma stopped staring daggers at all of them and had finally fallen fast asleep curled up on the dirt floor near the door. She wasn’t aware of his failure.
Finally, Hunter decided to play his last card. He turned to the small pile of goods he had tied into a canvas tarp. Hidden beneath the bolt of printed cotton fabric he had purchased for Nette was a crock of Luther’s best Kentucky whiskey, the only one he had reserved for his trip up the Trace. It was the emergency jug he carried for medicinal purposes, enjoyment, for whatever situation dictated a need for the fiery brew. Hunter was not much of a drinker—dealing with Jemma had put him in the mood for a long swig more than once, but he had held out. He was ready to sacrifice the entire contents of the crock as a last resort.
He pulled out the jug and popped the cork, took a long pull, and dramatically smacked his lips.
“Ahhh.” He closed his eyes and sighed with all the drama he could muster, swirling the liquor to let the heady aroma of the brew taint the air. When he opened his eyes again, Many Feathers and Soaring Raven were leaning close, eyeing the jug speculatively.
“Whiskey?”
Hunter nodded at Soaring Raven. “The finest, the smoothest, the mellowest batch this side of Kentucky.” Hunter smiled.
“Trade?” Soaring Raven wiped his palms on his thighs and nodded at the crock.
“I’ll trade you the whole thing for the woman.” Hunter was bone tired, ready to take Jemma and get out.
Many Feathers was torn; it was as plain as the pained expression on his face. He licked his lips, cast a glance over his shoulder at Jemma’s sleeping form, and then looked at his son.
“No.” Many Feathers shook his head and signed. “Woman or four horses.”
Soaring Raven said something to his father that made Many Feathers burst into a spate of Choctaw. The men discussed the matter loud and long, so loud that Hunter was afraid they would wake Jemma, but she merely rolled over. Hunter took another pull from the jug and, as the liquor burned its way down his throat, decided his only option was to get the men drunk.
“I’ll trade you half a jug for some tobacco,” he said.
Soaring Raven translated and Many Feathers’s eyes lit up. The old man’s son unfolded his legs and rose to a standing position as blithely as if hours sitting cross-legged on the hard ground had not fazed him—while Hunter thought that if he didn’t get up and stretch soon, he might never walk again. Soaring Raven rustled through a basket of dried and tied tobacco leaves and returned with two good-sized bundles and two drinking gourds.
“Two bundles for all of your whiskey,” came the offer.
“One for half,” Hunter said, biding his time. He took one bundle and filled the drinking gourds with whiskey.
Soaring Raven savored his portion, but Many Feathers lifted the gourd to his lips and didn’t stop drinking until the whiskey was gone. He smacked his lips and looked expectantly at his son as he held out the second bundle of tobacco.
“Again?” Hunter pretended to take another long draft of liquor. He shook his head. “You don’t like it?” He nodded at Soaring Raven’s drinking gourd.
“I know the power of the whiskey. I am more careful than my father.”
Hunter took the tobacco and poured them both another round.
“I am sorry we could not make a trade for the woman.” Soaring Raven glanced at Many Feathers. “My father has a head of rock.”
“He has been a good host,” Hunter said, “so I’ll give you both one more round of whiskey.” His gaze shifted to Many Feathers, whose glassy-eyed stare focused on the whiskey jug.
While the old man slurped down the last of his whiskey, Hunter bundled up the newly acquired goods with the few items he had left. Many Feathers’s eyes were already heavy lidded. He was weaving where he sat. Soaring Raven made no move to stand.
“I hope you have more luck than I did getting that woman to work,” Hunter said, slinging the canvas full of goods over his shoulder. “To tell you the truth, I’m happy to be rid of her.”
He heard a gasp behind him and whirled around. The items in the blanket clanked together.
Awake, Jemma shoved herself to a sitting position and scooped her hair back off her face, blinking up at him with astonishment and fear in her wide blue eyes.
“You’re actually leaving me here?” Her whisper was laced with disbelief.
Hunter shifted his load and glanced over his shoulder. Soaring Raven was watching the exchange as intently as he could. Hunter steeled himself to feign detachment.
“That’s right. Many Feathers drove too hard a bargain. He wanted four horses for you. You know I don’t have them.”
Her hands were shaking so hard she had clasped them together in her lap. “But—”
“There’s no way I can get four horses tonight, Jemma.”
“I just heard you tell him you were happy to be rid of me. I paid you good money to get me upriver, Hunter Boone. I gave you my last gold piece.” She thrust her chin up as if daring him to walk out on her. It was a pitiful show of last-ditch bravado, but it didn’t alter the fright in her eyes. “You can’t just leave me here with … them.” Her eyes suspiciously bright, her voice broke on the last word.
He walked toward the door, passing close beside her to get there. “Do you remember what I told you earlier? Trust me,” he whispered.
She reached out and grabbed his pant leg. Her hand curled around the well-worn leather. “Please, Hunter. I’m begging you. Don’t leave me here.”
Many Feathers had crawled up on the sleeping platform and was snoring heavily. Soaring Raven tipped up the drinking gourd. Hunter didn’t want to leave Jemma with him any more than she wanted him to, but there was no way he could keep up the charade and tell her as much.
He had to be convincing, had to walk out without a second glance if he was going to get her out at all.
“Let go of me, Jemma.”
Her fingers uncurled one at a time. She drew a deep shuddering breath and dropped her gaze to the ground.
“I’ll be back,” he whispered.
Either she didn’t hear him, or she didn’t believe him. When she looked up again, the expression in her eyes was bleak. Sitting there in the dirt of the Choctaw hovel, she looked like a fallen angel. With all his heart, he wanted to scoop her up and carry her out.
As he turned away, he prayed that he could rescue her. If not, the look in her eyes would haunt him forever.
Her hands and feet bound by stout cord, Jemma lay in the dark staring up at the ceiling. A lazy stream of smoke drifted out of the smoke hole in the center of the dwelling. Battered by the river and the insults she had been dealt, she ached all over. The hard floor added insult to injury. Across the room, Many Feathers was snoring loudly enough to wake the dead.
Reeking of liquor, Soaring Raven had tied her hands and feet, his last act before he left the hut. Hope flared when she thought he might have been too befuddled to do a thorough job, but although she struggled with her bonds until her hands stung, she could not work free. She finally gave in to tears and let them stream silently down her face as she fought back the sobs that threatened to choke her.
She hated feeling weak and defeated. She refused to cry. Her father had never put up with her tears. Hunter had been unmoved by her plea. She wondered if and when he would come back, then asked herself: Why would he risk his life for her? Even though she had tried her hardest not to hinder him, she was slowing him down. This morning she had nearly cost him his life.
Why should he come back for her when she had been nothing but trouble since he’d first laid eyes on her?
Her nose itched. Her cheeks were streaked with unwanted tears. She couldn’t do more than rub them with the backs of her bound hands. Forcing her eyes shut, she was determined to try to sleep despite the hard cold ground beneath her and the pain in her wrists and ankles. There was no time to be maudlin, no time to waste crying when she should be making plans. She would need to keep her wits about her. If Hunter failed to come back for her, she would have to save herself.
What seemed like hours later, Jemma heard stealthy footsteps beside her. Her breath caught in her throat. She forced herself to lie still and feign sleep. The fire had died out completely; the room was bathed in inky darkness. Slitting her eyes open, she could barely make out a tall shadowy figure moving toward her. She glanced at the sleeping platform and saw Many Feathers still lying there asleep. As much as she was repulsed by the idea of the old man trying to touch her, she knew she would have a much better chance fighting him off than Soaring Raven.
She interlaced her fingers, prepared to strike out with hands and feet as soon as the Choctaw touched her. She could feel the warmth of his body, smell the hickory-tainted scent of the fire when he knelt beside her.
Curling slightly in on herself, she lay like a wound spring, prepared to combat her attacker. With her eyes half-open, she watched the man lean closer, feeling the slightest waft of air as his hand moved toward her.
Just when she was about to scream, he reached out and covered her mouth and nose, cutting off all but a garbled cry. Fear snaked down her spine as he slid over her, pinning her with his weight. His warm breath hissed past her cheek. His voice was low in her ear.
“Don’t make another sound if you expect me to get you out of here alive.”
Jemma went limp with relief when she recognized Hunter’s voice. Over his hand, she glanced across the room at the sleeping platform. She saw Many Feathers still lying there asleep. Soaring Raven might walk in at any moment and they would both be in jeopardy. She feared her pounding heart would give them away.
Without another word, Hunter rolled off Jemma and began to cut the bonds around her ankles and her wrists. He moved with stealth and silence, the only sounds in the room the swish, swish of the leather fringe on his clothing and Many Feathers’s rhythmic snores.
He pulled her to her feet. Her legs buckled and she almost went down. Hunter slipped his arm around her shoulders and behind her knees, lifting her as if she weighed nothing. He had left the door ajar.
They slipped out into the night.
A dog curled up outside a hut raised his head and stared at them. Hunter froze. The dog yawned, sniffed, and went back to sleep. Jemma, her arms about his neck, tightened her hold as Hunter carefully made his way through the settlement. He felt solid and warm in the October night’s chill, his arms a safe haven. She was tempted to nestle closer, to press her cheek against his shoulder and hide her eyes against his neck.
They reached the edge of the village. There was one last hut to pass. Hunter was moving soundlessly, like a ghost in the night, when the door of the hut opened, taking them both by surprise.
Soaring Raven stepped out and straightened to his full height. Half-nude, he stood there in flannel trousers, the blue stripe a dark slash in the darkness. Hunter gently let her down. As Jemma’s feet hit the ground, she prayed her legs would hold her.
She felt Hunter tense at the first sight of the Indian. With a hand on the hilt of his knife, Hunter was braced for attack. Soaring Raven stood there watching them, but made no move to rouse the others. Instead, he crossed his arms over his bare chest and nodded slowly to Hunter.
“Go,” he whispered.
“You’re just letting us walk out of here? Why?”
Jemma was appalled that Hunter would even take time to question the man. Soaring Raven looked back at the hut he had just exited.
“I have three wives already. I don’t need another. Besides, my father and the other old ones don’t understand that keeping a white captive will bring your people down on us. Since the war with your English brothers ended, you have many soldiers in need of someone to kill. I would prefer it is not my people.
“Get as far away as you can by morning. My father will insist on a search. If we find you tomorrow, I will not be able to intercede.”
Chapter 8
They ran as if the hounds of hell were after them, out of the Indian village, into the forest, heads down, feet pounding. Hunter held tight to her hand, half-dragging her along behind him. Pine needles and twigs cut into the bare soles of her feet. Her breath was ragged, searing her throat. Just when she thought her heart would burst, he veered to the right.
“I hid the horses over there.” Heading for a stand of trees, he stopped in front of the animals loaded with his remaining supplies. When he grabbed her around the waist, Jemma reached for the saddle horn and Hunter tossed her up onto her mount.
Grabbing the reins of both horses, he mounted up and headed away from the Indian village. How he could see anything, let alone the zigzag path through the trees, was beyond her, but h
e seemed to know where he was headed. She tightened her hold and hung on.
Jemma spent the rest of the night clinging to the saddle and glancing back over her shoulder, praying that she would not see a Choctaw search party closing in on them. All night long Hunter remained intense, tugging on her horse’s reins whenever it balked, traveling along the intricate cobweb of Indian trails and buffalo runs. He crossed streams and backtracked.
As dawn melted the cover of darkness, the new day gained strength. The sky paled to gray and slowly came alive with streaks of light. Jemma began hoping he would stop longer than the usual time it took to swallow water or relieve themselves, but he pressed on at a frenetic pace until midday.
Finally, he forced the exhausted horses into the edge of a clear running stream. He dismounted, unaware of the water that soaked his moccasins and the hem of his pants. He walked back to Jemma and reached up to help her out of the saddle as if it were the most natural motion in the world.
The caring gesture was so simple, so unexpected, that she almost burst into tears.
“I think we’re safe now.” Hunter carefully lowered her to the ground, pausing for a heartbeat to trace her with his gaze. “Are you all right?”
“I think so.”
Shaking from hours of riding, she clung to her horse’s mane as Hunter walked away. The cool, rushing stream was a balm to the bruised, aching soles of her feet. When she felt steady, Jemma bent down and scooped up a handful of water, splashed it over her face and neck, and repeated the gesture until she felt cleaner. She cupped her hands and drank, letting the blessedly refreshing liquid spill down her chin.
When she had finally had her fill, she glanced up. Hunter was staring at her, but more than that, there was something dark and dangerous blazing in his eyes. She followed the direction of his gaze and looked down. The front of her shirt was soaked, clinging to every curve and swell of her breasts. Her nipples pressed like hard pebbles against the white fabric. She might as well have been standing there half-naked.
Quickly, she grabbed the fabric of her shirt and plucked it away from her skin, too embarrassed to look up until she heard his footsteps splashing away from her. He had turned his back and was walking toward his horse with long, determined strides.
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