Candace McCarthy

by Fireheart

  Rising Bird lunged just as John dashed down to retrieve the weapon, and then the struggle began, a desperate fight for the gun.

  A shot rang out, chilling Joanna. When she saw Rising Bird fall, she screamed with rage and charged John.

  Uncaring of his gun, she beat at him with her hands, striking his face and neck, hoping to render him unconscious.

  Although stunned by the suddenness of her attack, John regained his balance and his ability to subdue her.

  He struck Joanna across the face, knocking her to the ground. When John raised his foot to give her a swift kick, his body was wrenched into the air. Fireheart had rushed in to help, grabbed his leg and jerked it upward. John screamed with pain as the limb was brutally pulled from the socket and he flew through the air to land with a thud against a tree.

  Joanna barely had time to perceive the fact that not only Rising Bird had come, but Fireheart as well.

  Fear clawed at her as she watched and worried about Fireheart. She loved him. Should anything happen to him . . .

  He was a fierce warrior, her Fireheart. Strong, capable, he was a fighting man while John was not. But John was a madman. Would Fireheart’s skill be any match for a man who murdered without reason?

  A groan from Rising Bird had her focusing her attention on her surrogate father. Rising Bird! Dear God, is he all right?

  Fireheart will win, she thought as she rushed to check on Rising Bird. He was stronger than John was, and John had to be weakening now.

  As the two men continued to fight, Joanna crouched over Rising Bird, checking his wound. But the warrior didn’t move; fear clawed at her, making her check for signs of life.

  “Rising Bird!” she cried, gently shaking him. “Don’t die! Don’t die!”

  He had suffered a bullet wound to an area above his heart. Blood poured from the injury, flowing into the misty rain, creating a red rivulet of life that ran down the area between his chest and underarms.

  She remembered all the times when she was a child and he’d been kind to her. “No,” she gasped.

  She tore fabric from her shift, which left her almost naked. She pressed the fabric into the wound, praying that she could staunch the flow of his blood.

  Several yards away, Fireheart plowed his fist into John’s face, and felt the satisfaction of hearing bone breaking. Blood poured from facial and body cuts. He wanted to beat him to a bloody pulp, but he wouldn’t. There were worse ways to make this man pay, and he would bring him back alive so he could endure pain the Indian way.

  Beaten, John staggered on his feet. Fireheart grabbed him by the shirt one more time and tossed him onto the ground. As the white man slumped backward, the warrior chief found the strips from John’s linen shirt, and used the fabric to bind John’s wrists and ankles.

  Then he went to check on Joanna and his friend.

  Chapter 23

  Joanna began to sob as she pressed the cloth against Rising Bird’s wound. The fabric was wet from the rain so it did little to stop the flow of blood. “Don’t die,” she cried. “Please don’t die!”

  “He’s not going to die, Autumn Wind. Rising Bird is a strong warrior.”

  She gasped and looked up at Fireheart, dear Fireheart who looked healthy and alive, and was the love of her life.

  “Oh, Fireheart!” she cried, rising. “You’re all right!”

  Like in her dream, he held open his arms, and she rushed into his embrace. Wrapping her arms about him, she held him tightly, absorbing his warmth, his strength. He allowed her to remain in his tender hold for several minutes; then he put her away from him. He cupped her face, inspected it from all angles. “Are you all right?” he asked roughly.

  She bobbed her head. “I’m fine.” Tears filled her eyes as she thought about her ordeal . . . about what she’d learned of Gillian . . . of seeing the men she loved fight the madman who would have murdered her. “Gillian—”

  “Kihiila. I know. I saw her.” Fireheart stroked her cheek. “I do not think she suffered, little one.”

  Skin tingling with pleasure, Joanna looked down, feeling guilt. He released her. “I hope not. She was my friend.” She glanced up when he didn’t comment.

  “She loved him. She loved him, and so he could manipulate her into betraying me.” Her tears spilled from her lashes to trail down her cheeks. The rain had stopped, but it was still cloudy. “She helped me in the end. She helped me escape, but then he killed her and came after me. She only wanted to be his wife, but he wanted more. . . . He wants Roderick’s property, Neville Manor.”

  She wondered whether or not John was dead. The man had deserved to die, but it always troubled her when a human life was lost. “Is he ... ?”

  Fireheart, who studied her intently, shook his head. “No, the white man lives.” He did not tell her that John Burton would not live to see the winter. It would be up to his people, especially Rising Bird and Mary Wife, but in the end John Burton would discover death.

  He couldn’t tell whether she was relieved or upset, and decided she was probably both. She looked so beautiful, even in her torn, wet, and dirty muslin shift. His gaze was drawn to her breasts and the skin exposed by a particular tear. His loins tightened as he caught a glimpse of white flesh and a rosy pink nipple.

  “Rising Bird,” she said, sounding breathless. He looked into her eyes and knew she felt it too . . . the attraction between them . . . the desire . . . the aching pain. “Are you sure he will be all right?”

  He brushed past her to examine his friend’s body. Rising Bird had been shot in the shoulder, but from the dwindling flow of blood, Fireheart knew that nothing had been severed that would cut Rising Bird’s lifeline. “He will live. We must bandage his arm, and get him back to the village.”

  Joanna gazed at her cousin’s husband with fear.. “The journey will kill him.” She raised her face to look at the man she loved to see him shake his head.

  “I will make a stretcher to drag him behind me through the forest.”

  “But it will take us forever along the trails!” she cried with dismay.

  “He will live,” Fireheart said strongly as if by his will alone Rising Bird would make it. He retrieved the pistol, and handed it to Joanna. “You must watch John Burton along the way. He must not escape. He will be angry, but too weak to fight.” He grinned suddenly. “Stupid white man does not know how to fight fair.”

  Joanna stared at his smile, and found her own lips curving. They had come through a terrible time; they had a reason to be happy. She took the gun. “You’ve tied him up?”

  The brave nodded. “He will not go anywhere until we let him, and then we will change his bonds so that he can take little steps, but not touch or hit.”

  The idea of keeping John Burton tied was appealing to Joanna. She wished, though, that the man would just disappear so she wouldn’t have to look at his horrible face, and be reminded of the pain he’d caused and the murders he’d committed.

  Joanna glanced toward the clearing where John lay, unconscious. Then she turned back to Rising Bird only to find him gazing at her with eyes glazed with pain. “Rising Bird.”

  He managed to smile at her. “Autumn Wind, my daughter. You are well. Mary Wife will be so pleased.”

  She bent down to kiss his cheek. “Wa-neé-shih.”

  “This man did not help you,” he said, dismissing her thanks. “Our sachem did. Fireheart.” His eyes turned to his friend. “Wa-neé shih.”

  Fireheart nodded silently, then moved to help Rising Bird to stand. “You will sit here until I can make a stretcher.”

  Rising Bird scowled. “I do not need a stretcher.”

  “You will use one!” Joanna said stubbornly. “Mary will never forgive any of us if you do not return to her alive.”

  The warrior seemed about to argue until he saw Joanna’s face . . . the combined fear and love sent his heart hammering. He would use a stretcher because this daughter of his heart wanted it. When he had seen Gillian, her friend, he thought that Autumn Wind
was gone, dead at the hands of the white man. She was alive, and he would show his gratitude to the Great Spirit by listening to the second woman who had stolen his heart . . . Autumn Wind, his daughter. He sighed heavily, but agreed. “I will use the stretcher, but I must walk for short periods until we reach the village. If I tire or feel pain, I will lie down quickly.”

  Fireheart gazed at the two people whom he loved and saw the private war of emotions going on inside each of them. He knew for he battled his own. He was to marry another, but he wanted Joanna. He prayed to the spirits for a way to make all within the village happy without hurting another.

  As Fireheart worked to fashion a stretcher out of pine branches and other brush, Joanna heard John moan as he started to stir. Her stomach roiling with anger, she approached him. “John.”

  He opened a swollen eye to peer at her, wincing as he focused his gaze. “Joanna.”

  “You’ll never get it,” she said, viewing his beaten body with satisfaction. She had never enjoyed seeing a person’s pain, but then John Burton had pushed her past the limit of endurance. “Neville Manor. Your brother and Burton Estates be damned, you’ll never see a shilling from Neville Manor.”

  To her surprise, he managed a lopsided grin, although he gasped as he formed it. “I’ve already taken coin, Miss Neville. In fact, I’ve taken several. I’m sure Michael will find a way to save our family home.”

  She sniffed and turned her nose up at him. “As long as you know that you’ll not be the one doing the saving, John. After the authorities get done with you, you’ll be lucky to ever see the sun shine.”

  “Is he upsetting you, Autumn Wind?” Fireheart had come up behind Joanna on silent feet.

  She turned to smile at him. “He is not worthy of another thought, Fireheart.” She touched his arm, ignoring the sound of John’s snort.

  “Savage lover!” he spat.

  She spun to glare at him. “At least, he is someone worthy, while you—you’re not fit for anything!”

  They began the journey back to Little River once the stretcher was made, and Rising Bird felt ready. Joanna didn’t care about John Burton’s comfort. It might be an uncharitable way to feel, but he was a murderer! How could she feel anything but contempt For the murderer who had killed her best friend?

  As she walked behind John Burton, prodding him with a gun while Fireheart followed with Rising Bird, Joanna thought of Gillian and fought back tears. Poor love-struck Gillian. If she herself had been fooled, for Gillian it had been worse. She had not only believed in John’s web of lies, she had become. ensnared by her love for him . . . and, in the end, he had killed her.

  Recalling her friend, Joanna turned her thoughts to the two men who had rescued her. She had apologized to both men for putting them in danger. Both had dismissed her apology, telling her that they had come searching for her because they loved her and feared for her safety.

  Joanna knew that Rising Bird loved her like a daughter, but what of Fireheart? He had included himself in that love. Yet, he was to marry another. How did he truly feel about her? Like a sister? Like a lover? Like a friend?

  Her knowledge of John and Gillian made her realize that not everyone considered physical intimacy between two adults binding with love. Gillian had been in love, most certainly, but John ... he had used Gillian just as he had wanted to use Joanna. She had satisfied a sexual need, and so he’d taken. From Joanna, his need was material. And it seemed that he’d already taken a bit of that in monetary gain.

  She began to wonder about the state of Roderick Neville’s estate. How much did John steal? Not enough to ruin it, she was certain, or else he wouldn’t have been so adamant about marriage. He had probably just taken enough to help Michael manage to keep Burton Estate’s creditors at bay.

  Dear God, when she thought about how she had consented to be his wife! She shuddered and, for good measure and a great deal of satisfaction, prodded John particularly hard with the gun. She had traded the pistol for the rifle, preferring to keep her distance from him. Fireheart carried the pistol tucked into the string of his loincloth. She knew he would use it if he had to so she wasn’t afraid.

  As she thought about her impulsive agreement to John’s proposal of marriage, she recalled why she’d agreed. Fireheart had hurt her. Seeing him and Moon Dove together had caused her heartache. She had decided that she had to get away. And there had been John offering her a new life, like a gift.

  She didn’t want Fireheart to think of her as a sister. She wanted him to look at her as his wife. She closed her eyes briefly, for just a second, and the images of their lovemaking came so fast, so clear, that she nearly cried out with the surprise of it.

  He doesn’t think of me as his sister, but then neither does he regard me as a lover anymore, which makes me his what? His friend?

  She didn’t want to be just his friend either, but she would take that for now for she had nearly lost the chance to see him forever. She would accept this .new opportunity to find happiness in small simple measures.

  The cry of welcome that they had been longing to hear came two days later. “He!”

  They had stopped to rest for the night, then continued their trek. Rising Bird looked pale, but he had managed to walk quite a distance on his own. John was a mass of bruises and red welts, and Joanna didn’t care that she had added a few dark sore spots of her own to his person. Although she was slightly ashamed of the fact, she took great delight every time he grunted with pain when she poked him.

  She heard Fireheart give the answering cry, “Oho!” to the Lenape greeting someone had called out to them.

  Rising Bird grinned as he got up from the stretcher, which Fireheart dropped to walk with him, side by side. Joanna turned to smile at Fireheart.

  He came up beside her and took the rifle. “I’ll watch John Burton,” he said.

  “All right.” She was more than happy to relinquish the chore.

  As they entered the village, family and friends immediately surrounded them. Mary, spying Joanna first, ran to embrace her cousin.

  “I’m glad you’re all right!” she exclaimed as she held Joanna. “I was frightened for you.”

  Joanna pulled away, but kept hold of Mary’s hands. “With good reason.” Tears filled her eyes as she lovingly squeezed her cousin’s fingers. “He murdered Gillian, Mary. Killed her in cold blood.”

  Mary gasped and whitened, then glared at the bound white man.

  “Go to Rising Bird,” Joanna told her. “He’s been injured.” She saw the leap of fear that entered Mary’s expression. “Fireheart said he’ll be all right, butwe’ve come a long way.”

  Mary gave her cousin one final hug before she ran to her husband whom she had just spied entering the village, trailing behind the others.

  “Rising Bird!” she cried as she rushed to his side.

  Joanna watched the tearful reunion between Mary and Rising Bird, and felt her throat tighten with emotion. She saw her cousin hug and kiss her husband before examining and exclaiming over his injuries. Rising Bird must have said something because Mary glanced her way again. Joanna’s face became infused with guilty heat until she realized that Mary wasn’t angry with her. . . . She looked relieved.

  A rush of love for her family overwhelmed her. She didn’t want to go back to England. She needed to find a way to stay with the Lenape people.

  The weight of responsibility for Roderick Neville’s property was heavy on her shoulders. And then she remembered John’s claim that Roderick had had a son.

  Kenneth Neville, Joanna thought. Could she trace the man’s whereabouts? Kenneth was Roderick’s rightful heir, she decided, not she.

  “Autumn Wind.” Fireheart’s gentle voice drew her attention to the warrior sachem. “You must see to your injuries.”

  Injuries? She thought blankly. Then she looked down to find her legs covered with scratches and a small cut across her breast that would have been hidden but for the gaping of the remaining fabric of her ruined shift. She gasped, sudd
enly becoming aware of her state of undress. Her wounds were of no consequence; in her fury toward John Burton she hadn’t even noticed them. Neither had she thought about her lack of clothes . . . until Fireheart’s attention had reminded her.

  “I’ll be all right,” she said, turning away as she became self-conscious of her breasts, her exposed legs and thighs. She’d had her satchel, but hadn’t thought to change.

  “I will call someone to help,” he insisted. “Moon Dove is good with healing. I will get her—”

  “No!” Joanna cried, probably more loudly than was warranted, but she didn’t want to be attended by Fireheart’s future wife. The fact of Moon Dove’s role in Fireheart’s life was already too painful.

  “Then I will bathe your wounds,” he said, grabbing her arm and tugging her toward the lake.

  “Mary will care for them,” she insisted, trying to pull from his grasp.

  “Mary will be busy with Rising Bird.”

  Unable to argue that point, Joanna slumped with defeat and allowed Fireheart to escort her past villagers who stared at them, down the trail to the large body of glistening water.

  “Sit,” he said, helping her to rest comfortably on her favorite rock.

  She started to rise as he dipped a small clay bowl into the water. “Fireheart, I can tend to my—”

  “Sit!” he ordered, turning to push her down. “I am the sachem. You will listen to me!”

  Aghast that he would use his authority that way, she obeyed him, more because she was so surprised by his commanding display than for any other reason. As she watched him refill the bowl with water, she slowly came to her senses and her temper began a slow boil.

  She felt a fiery heat that tightened her stomach and brought a hot flush to her cheeks. “How dare you—”

  His expression as he faced her was tender, caring, and the diatribe she was about to deliver died before it left her lips. He looked as if he ... loved her.

  She closed her eyes as he began to wash first the scratches on her arm. Loved her? She shivered as he raised her head to wipe a soft piece of cloth over a small scratch on the underside of her chin.