And Belle—so small, so helpless. She lay asleep between them, hands clenched into tiny fists. She resembled her mother in every detail.
He would gladly give his life for either of them.
Something jerked Nicholas out of his thoughts.
Silence.
The deep, slow breathing had stopped.
Someone was moving in the darkness.
Chapter 12
Nicholas kept his breathing slow and steady, closed his hands tighter around the handles of his pistols, listened.
The snake-glide of leather across the wooden floor. The creak of a beaded moccasin. The slow intake of breath.
Every muscle in his body tensed. He had only time to think how much this would frighten Bethie and Isabelle before instinct took over.
In one motion, he rolled onto his back, fired both pistols into the darkness.
Twin flashes of gunpowder.
A woman’s scream. A baby’s cry.
The thud of a body hitting the floor.
Mattootuk howled in rage and pain, stumbled across the cabin.
“Don’t move!” Nicholas shouted the command at Bethie, leapt over her, tried to catch Mattootuk before he reached the door.
But in the darkness he stumbled over Youreh’s body, and in the split second it took him to regain his footing, Mattootuk had fled into the night.
Jerked from sleep by gunfire, Bethie held her baby daughter close, squeezed her eyes shut against the violence that seemed to be happening on all sides at once.
Then, as abruptly as it had begun, it was over.
Stillness.
Dreading what she might find, Bethie turned her head to glance back over her shoulder.
Nicholas stood, his back against the open door, his face and bare chest outlined in starlight. His hands were busy reloading a pistol, but his gaze was focused on the darkness beyond.
She sat up, felt her body begin to shake.
In her arms, Belle cried inconsolably.
Bethie pressed her lips to her daughter’s cheek, felt Belle’s wet baby tears, thought she might cry, too. Her voice quavered. “It’s over, little one. Shhh, now.”
“I’m sorry, Bethie.” Nicholas turned away from the forest, slipped his pistols back into the waistband of his breeches. “I wish there had been some other way.”
She tried to speak, could not.
“Stay in bed. I’ll take care of this.”
For a moment she wondered what he meant. Then he bent down, picked up something heavy from the floor, dragged it outside.
A body.
Her stomach turned. She fought not to gag, squeezed her eyes shut, clutched Belle to her breast.
A dead body.
Nicholas had killed a man in her home.
And she was grateful. He had saved her life—and Belle’s—once more.
She chided herself for her weakness, struggled to quell her nausea and slow her breathing. Nicholas had faced this danger head-on. What was wrong with her that she trembled so?
By the time he returned, she had laid a hiccuping Isabelle in her cradle, lit several candles, and stood looking down at the pool of blood on the puncheon floor.
She met his gaze, forced her mouth to form words. “Sand. Sand should soak it up, polish out the stain.”
“Bethie.” He said her name, nothing more. Then he pulled her close, rained kisses on her hair, her brow, her cheeks.
Her trembling began anew. Tears rolled, hot and salty, down her cheeks. She let his arms enfold her, clung to him with every ounce of her strength. “Nicholas! Oh, Nicholas!”
“You’ve nothing more to fear tonight, Bethie. I’ll bury Youreh along with his gear in the morning. Mattootuk fled into the forest. He’s injured, but I don’t know how gravely. He won’t return tonight.”
Her stomach churned. “I—I think I’m going to be . . . sick!”
She dashed past Nicholas, ran through the open doorway, sank to her knees on the ground. She felt Nicholas gather her hair, felt his reassuring hand on her shoulder as she lost her supper.
* * *
Bethie heard a baby fussing. It fussed a bit, then it began to cry in earnest.
She rolled over, tried to keep sleeping.
Her eyes flew open. Isabelle!
Bethie tossed back the covers, stepped from the bed, leapt back when she remembered what stained the floor near her feet. Then, careful not to step near the dark patch on the floorboards, she hurried to Belle’s cradle.
“I’m sorry, sweet. You must be hungry.” She lifted her daughter into her arms, sat in the rocking chair, bared a milk-sore breast.
Isabelle began to nurse greedily.
The shutters were latched over the parchment window, keeping the cabin dark. But daylight showed through the crack beneath the door. It was late—well past sunrise.
Bethie tried to clear her mind. She felt so groggy. But then none of them had gotten much rest last night.
It was strange to think that only a few hours ago, Nicholas had killed a man in this very room. Gunshots, her own screams, shouting—it seemed like a bad dream now. But the bloodstain on her floor proved it had been only too real.
She hadn’t meant to get sick, felt embarrassed by her own spinelessness. She had grown up on the frontier, had grown up with tales of violence and brutality. So why had the sight of a dead man, a pool of blood, the sound of fighting terrified her?
It was one thing to hear such tales, quite another to find herself in one.
Nicholas had stayed with her until she’d been strong enough to stand. While she had rocked Isabelle back to sleep, he had soaked up most of the blood with one of the Indians’ blankets and carried their belongings outside with plans to bury them after sunrise. Then he’d carried his own gear outside.
“Pull in the door string, Bethie. Try to get some sleep.”
“Where are you goin’?”
He’d met her gaze for one moment, his blue eyes bleak. “If he returns, he’ll expect me to be inside with you. I’ll keep watch out here.”
But she’d known there was more to it than that.
Things between them had changed. In the immediate aftermath of the attack, it had been easy to forget what Nicholas had admitted to doing. But when the dust had settled, the truth stood between them like a wall.
Bethie switched Belle to her other breast, tried to dispel the chill that had settled around her heart. She ought to have known that Nicholas was hiding some terrible secret. Hadn’t she sensed it in his silence, the way he never spoke about himself? Hadn’t she felt it in his anger? Hadn’t she seen it in the shadows that haunted his eyes? Aye, a part of her had known since the beginning. But she had allowed herself to ignore it.
And now?
She thought of how caring he’d been toward Isabelle, the kindnesses he had shown them both, the barely restrained passion of his kisses, his patience as he taught her to read. How could such a man have intentionally killed a woman and a child, his own child?
She would never know unless she asked him, gave him a chance to explain.
With a sudden sense of urgency, Bethie finished feeding Isabelle, changed the baby’s diaper cloth. Then she washed her hands and face, dressed for the day, and braided her hair. She picked up the bucket and was about to open the cabin door when a terrible possibility occurred to her.
What if during the night Nicholas had ridden away? What if he’d left her?
She grabbed her water bucket, lifted the bar from the door, threw it open, took one step into the morning sunlight.
“Stay inside, Bethie.”
She whirled toward the sound of his voice, relief warm in her veins. He stood in the shadows, leaning against the corner of the cabin, his arms crossed over his bare chest. Both pistols were still tucked in the waistband of his breeches, the knife in its sheath.
He glanced at the water bucket in her hand, strode toward her. He hadn’t shaven, the day’s growth of beard dark on his face. The half-moon shadows beneath his eye
s were proof he hadn’t yet slept, either. He reached for the bucket. “I’ll take that. I want you and Belle behind closed doors today.”
She looked up at him, confused. “But you said he was injured, that he had fled.”
He met her gaze for a moment. Then he looked at the dark wall of forest beyond the barn, his lips a grim line. “I can feel him out there. He must be more seriously injured than I realized. Otherwise, he would have either attacked us already or moved on.”
“If he’s injured, then I’ve naught to fear.” She reached for the bucket.
“Even a dying man can throw a knife or fire an arrow from the shadows. I won’t give him that chance. Go back inside, Bethie, and stay there.”
Nicholas brought water, firewood, and fresh eggs and did the morning milking while Bethie prepared a quick breakfast. Neither spoke as they worked. Bethie half expected to see the Indian man’s shadow in her doorway at any moment.
She had just poured tea into Nicholas’s cup when she noticed the strip of old cloth he’d tied around his left forearm. “You’ve been injured!”
“It’s nothing, Bethie.”
“I’ll be the one decidin’ that.” She set the teapot aside, took his muscular arm in her hands, began to unbind the wound.
“It’s little more than a nick.”
Beneath the cloth was not a nick, but a deep cut. He had already washed it and spread his special ointment on it. There was little more she could do. She looked up, saw an amused grin on his face that left her both cross and a wee bit breathless.
“Will I live?”
“If it festers, who can say?” She let his arm fall to the table with a thud and, ignoring his chuckle, walked to the cupboard, took out a strip of clean linen and her little crock of violet-leaf salve. “The least I can do is bind it in a clean cloth.”
Aware his gaze was upon her, she worked quickly, trying to ignore the way that touching him made her heart beat faster and her blood grow warm. Still, she was painfully aware of even the smallest details beneath her fingers—the rasp of dark hair against smooth, sun-browned skin, the outline of veins, the firmness of his muscles.
“He meant to plunge his blade into my chest. Bad luck for him I chose that moment to turn and fire.” He said it lightly, as if he were talking about a game of cards and not a life-and-death struggle.
“His knife did this?” She secured the bandage with a little knot, looked into his eyes. “I dinnae know how to thank you, Nicholas. You saved us.”
Nicholas wanted to pull her close, to kiss her, to lift any shadow of lingering fear from her heart, but he held himself back. “I promised to protect you.”
She looked away, covered the little crock of salve with a scrap of cowhide. “So you were just keepin’ your promise?”
What would she have him say? That he cared for her more deeply than he would have thought possible? That he would sooner tear his own heart out and stomp it into the dirt than see either her or little Isabelle harmed? That he had never experienced such fear as when he’d seen her and Belle in the hands of Wyandot men?
It might be true, but he could not tell her this—for her sake. What a damned fool he’d been! How could he have imagined even for a moment that he could help her forget her past when he would never escape his own? He’d come so close, so dangerously close, to seducing her. But Mattootuk had shown up in time to remind him, to stop him.
He braced himself for the pain he knew he would cause her. “Aye, keeping my promise. What else would it be?”
And there it was—shards of hurt in her violet eyes. She swallowed, bit her lower lip. “You told me you were taken prisoner, no’ that you had lived among the Indians with your Indian wife.”
“I was their prisoner.” Because he hated himself for hurting her, the words came out harsh and angry. “Think no more on it. You’ll be rid of me soon enough, and then what I told you or failed to tell you will no longer matter.”
He willed himself to stand, willed himself to walk away from her, leaving that stricken look on her face.
He had a dead man to bury.
* * *
Nicholas pulled the stiffened corpse into the shallow grave he’d dug within sight of the cabin, crouched beside it, gazed at the young man’s face. Youreh had been a boy of twelve or thirteen summers when Nicholas had been held captive. Nicholas had never spoken with him, had never shared a hunt or a meal with him. Still, Nicholas remembered him.
At the onset of manhood that summer, Youreh had been called upon by the warriors to show his bravery the night Josiah and Eben had been tortured to death. More than once it was he who had pressed the lit torches to their skin.
Nicholas, for God’s sake, help us!
Nicholas stood abruptly, dropped Youreh’s gear in the grave, along with the things Mattootuk had left behind, shoveled dirt on top of it all. Then he cursed Mattootuk and Youreh to everlasting hell.
* * *
Bethie served Nicholas a second helping of stew, picked the biggest chunks of venison from the pot for him. “After this, you should get some sleep.”
He shook his head. “I want to scout for tracks once more, make certain he hasn’t been stalking the cabin.”
She swallowed her objections, sat, picked at her dinner.
He’d barely spoken a word to her all day, and when he had, his words had been cold or gruff and angry. She wanted to believe it was just the strain of having gone all night and all day with no sleep and precious little food. But she knew it was more than that.
She had learned more than he wanted her to know about his life, and he was pulling back.
She supposed she should be grateful. ’Twas far better to learn the truth now than later. Had things continued as they were going, she might have found herself smitten with him. She might have become willing to overlook any fault to taste more of his kisses. She might even have hoped to marry him.
You’ll be rid of me soon enough, and then what I told you or failed to tell you will no longer matter.
Oh, but it did matter! ’Twas one thing to learn he had dark secrets in his past. It was quite something else to think he had deceived her, kept something so important from her.
And yet, what did he owe her? Why should he tell her? They were little more than strangers to each other, two people whose paths happened to cross in a vast wilderness. Besides, didn’t she have secrets? Had she not knowingly kept from him a truth as dark and terrible as the one he had kept from her?
Aye, she had. She had accepted his protection, enjoyed his many acts of kindness, received his kisses—and kept from him the shameful truth. Would he have kissed her so sweetly had he know of her taint?
She watched as he ate his last spoonful of stew, noticed the lines of fatigue on his face.
He pushed back his chair, stood. “Pull in the string once I’m out. I’ll see you in the morning.”
“It’s still daylight, Nicholas. Will you no’ get some sleep before you go back out? You cannae go forever without it. If he really is still out there, it would be better to face him well rested.”
But Nicholas was already gone.
* * *
On a hilltop to the northwest of the cabin, Mattootuk fell to his knees. So much of his spirit was now gone that it was all but impossible to stand. But he had a task to complete before he was willing to die. So he struggled to his feet again, took several more staggering steps, spilled a thin trail of black powder on the forest floor.
The Sa-ray-u-migh’s bullet had gone deep into his shoulder, made it hard for him to breathe, made blood well up in his throat. But neither the Big Knife nor his woman nor their daughter would escape his vengeance. Already the wind was shifting. Soon it would blow steadily from the northwest. Then Mattootuk would light the powder and watch.
He laughed, ignored the spray of blood and spittle that issued from his mouth.
Fire.
It consumed. It cleansed. It purified. The Big Knife had been pulled from its embrace once, thanks to Lyda’s
lust, but he would not be so lucky again. The powder would ignite, and the flames, pushed by the wind, would race headlong toward the cabin, reaching it so quickly that the Big Knife and all that was his would perish in a matter of moments, a delayed sacrifice to the gods, a gift to a sister long dead.
I am dying, but I will conquer my enemy.
His powder gone, Mattootuk spat the Big Knife’s words from long ago back at him. Then he sank to the ground, watched the sun slip below the horizon, felt the wind—and waited.
Chapter 13
The leather cords bit painfully into Nicholas’s wrists. No matter how he twisted or turned, he could not free himself. There would be no escape.
From nearby came the sound of weeping.
Eben and Josiah.
“I dinnae want to die!”
His stomach lurched at the sound of her voice.
Bethie!
She stood, tied to a stake beside him, still pregnant and stripped to her shift.
Mattootuk stood near the fire pit, laughed at Nicholas, a knife in his hand. Then he strode toward Bethie.
And Nicholas knew. They weren’t going to kill him. It was going to be like last time. They were going to kill Bethie and force him to watch.
“Take me! Let her go! Take me, Mattootuk! It’s me you want!”
Mattootuk laughed.
Then Nicholas felt a knife pierce his skin. He looked down, saw Lyda, his blood hot on her hands.
She said one word. “Fire.”
Nicholas bolted awake, jerked his knife from its sheath.
The cabin stood before him, dark and quiet. A breeze whispered through the new leaves on the beech trees, raised goose bumps on his sweat-drenched skin. Except for the swaying branches, nothing moved in the darkness.
But something wasn’t right.
He trained his senses on the forest around him, got slowly to his feet.
The distant screech of birds frightened from their night perches.
The faint smell of smoke.
Nicholas ran out from the shadows that had concealed him to the north side of the cabin.