Ride the Fire (14 page)

Isabelle cooed cheerfully from her basket in the nearby shade. She was growing fast. She had already begun to sleep through the night once in a while.

That was more than Bethie could say for herself. She hadn’t slept well since the first night Nicholas had kissed her. Instead, she had lain awake until late into the night, listening to his breathing, wanting... Wanting what? If only she knew.

Every time he kissed her was better than the last. Never had she imagined that the simple touching of lips, the swirl of a tongue, could leave her feeling so desperate, so needy. Each taste of him made her hungry for more, until she felt she could never be satisfied.

A hand fisted brutally in her hair, jerked Bethie painfully to her feet. She would have screamed had a hand not closed over her mouth.

One walked inside the cabin, knife drawn, rifle in hand.

The other strode toward the shade, toward little Isabelle.

Belle! Dear God, not Belle!

A cry for help. A warning.

Where was Nicholas!

Shattering pain. Flashes of white.

She felt herself swirl to the edges of consciousness, felt her body go limp.

One wrong move on his part and both Bethie and Belle would die.

There were two of them. Two to one—good odds. Then the man who held Bethie’s limp body turned toward his companion and Nicholas got a clear look at his face.

The rules of the game had just changed.

“Mattootuk wishes to die today. That is why he mistreats my woman and child.” Nicholas spoke in Wyandot, then stepped out from behind the barn, his pistol fully cocked and pointed at Mattootuk’s head.

Nicholas kept all trace of emotion from his face as Bethie fell unconscious to the ground. Then movement at the door of the cabin caught his eye as a third warrior emerged from the cabin, rifle in hand.

Mattootuk smiled, apparently recovered from his shock.

“Ha-en-ye-ha, brother, it is good to see you.”

Bethie’s head ached as she struggled to wake up from her nightmare. She had dreamed three Indians had come out of the forest, had attacked her and Isabelle while Nicholas was off checking his traps. She’d tried to free herself, had been struck on the head. And then . . .

Then she had heard Nicholas’s voice, but he hadn’t spoken words she recognized. There’d been a gunshot, and Belle had begun to cry.

It had been a terrifying dream.

From outside came the sound of voices, men’s voices. She could not understand what they said. Their words were strange, guttural. Somewhere nearby, Isabelle fussed. A bolt of alarm surged through her.
It hadn’t been a dream.

“Easy, Bethie. Drink this. Isabelle is fine, though I think she’s getting hungry.”

Twas Nicholas.

She felt his hand slip behind her head to lift her, felt the tin cup against her lips. She took a sip, pulled away. “I know it’s bitter, but it will take away some of your pain without making you sleepy. Come, love. Drink.”

She did as he asked, opened her eyes to see his face hovering inches above hers, his eyes filled with concern. “I-it wasn’t a dream?”

“No, Bethie, it wasn’t a dream. There are two Wyandot warriors sitting outside roasting a goose over the fire pit. I’m afraid we have uninvited guests.”

“Nor do I, but it is far safer to have them here where I can keep my eye on them than to drive them off only to have them return to attack in stealth.”

“I’m afraid.”

“They will not touch you again. I’ve told them you’re my wife and Isabelle is my daughter. Do nothing to make them think otherwise.”

Bethie’s breasts ached, heavy with milk. She nodded, tried to sit, gasped as pain seemed to shatter her skull.

“Easy, love. Just lie on your side, like you do at night.” She rolled onto her side, began to unbutton her gown, wondered vaguely how he knew that she nursed Isabelle on her side at night.

Nicholas lifted Belle, who was now wailing, from her cradle, laid her by Bethie’s bared breast.

Bethie guided her nipple to Isabelle’s little mouth, felt her baby latch on and begin to suck hungrily. Her breasts tingled as her milk began to flow. She felt drowsiness overtake her again.

Nicholas’s lips were warm on her cheek. “Just rest, Bethie. I’ll watch over both of you.”

By the time Belle had finished nursing, Bethie was fully awake. The potion Nicholas had given her had taken away most of her headache.

She checked Belle’s diaper cloth, found it soaking wet. Carefully she rose, took up a clean, dry cloth and changed her daughter, who gazed about with bright blue eyes as if nothing terrible had happened.

And nothing terrible had happened. Thanks to Nicholas. Bethie had no doubt that both she and Belle would be lying dead outside the cabin now if not for him. She felt suddenly sick to her stomach, and, trembling, lifted Belle into her arms.

Nicholas tore off another bite of roast goose, chewed, oblivious to the taste of the succulent meat. His thoughts were focused on the two Wyandot men who sat across the fire from him. They ate with abandon, having already consumed all of Bethie’s corn cakes and the potatoes she’d boiled.

It was all part of the game. Mattootuk wanted to show Nicholas that he wasn’t afraid, wanted to put Nicholas at ease. It would make it easier for Mattootuk and Youreh, his companion, to carry out whatever scheme they had in mind.

Mattootuk might call him brother, but Nicholas was not fooled. The Wyandot warrior hated him, had hated him from the moment Lyda had claimed him. Mattootuk wanted nothing more than to see him dead.

Mattootuk drew out his knife, cut off another sliver of meat, held it to his mouth with greasy fingers, spoke in Wyandot. “The years have been good to you. A wife. A daughter. The years have not been so good for the Wyandot.”

Nicholas cut another strip of meat for himself, aware that Bethie watched from the shadowed doorway with Belle in her arms. He answered in Wyandot. “The Wyandot should not have made war on the Big Knives. They are neighbors to the Wyandot and will not be driven away. It would be better to make peace.”

Mattootuk smiled, bared his teeth. “We shall see, brother. All of the People now make league together. We follow Ob’ wandiyag, whose cousin you killed today. If we join together, who can stop us?”

Nicholas chewed, pretended to mull over the question, swallowed. “Today I stopped you.”

For a moment, Mattootuk’s face twisted into a scowl. Youreh, who’d been but a boy when Nicholas was taken prisoner, gaped in astonishment at Nicholas’s insult. Then Mattootuk laughed and nodded at Nicholas, but hatred gleamed in his brown eyes. “Let no one say you are not a man of courage. Did we not witness your bravery in the face of fire and torment? How I wanted to partake of your heart! It would have been sweeter meat than this old goose.”

Now it was Nicholas’s turn to laugh. “Ah, Mattootuk, but I have no heart.”

The warrior glanced over at Bethie, his eyes raking her in appraisal.

She withdrew deeper into the shadows.

“I’ve seen how you look at your woman. You protect her like a bear protects her cubs. You have a heart, brother, and she has the keeping of it.”

Nicholas fought to keep his reaction from his face. Was Mattootuk implying that he was in love with Bethie? “She is my wife. It is my duty to protect her and our child.” A look of triumph came into Mattootuk’s eyes.

“Just as Lyda was your wife.”

Nicholas had known the moment the words left his mouth what Mattootuk would say. He had walked into a trap. “I did not wish her death.”

“You did not wish the child’s death. For Lyda you cared nothing.” Mattootuk’s face was a scowl, his gaze daggers of ice. All pretenses had fallen. No more games. Nicholas preferred it this way. He smiled.

“If you wish to challenge me, Mattootuk, do it. I would gladly kill you with my bare hands.”

Bethie could not understand what was being said, but she could tell that Nicholas knew these men, or at least the older one. She could also tell that words had brought them to the edge of bloodshed. The glint in Nicholas’s eyes, as cold and sharp as the tip of a blade, told her that. The forest seemed to wait.

Then the older Indian laughed, said something that made the younger one smile, and the tension was dispelled. Except in Nicholas’s eyes.

“She good wife?” The older man spoke in broken English, pointing at Bethie and startling her. “Strong, brave wife?”

“Aye.” Nicholas’s gaze touched her for the briefest moment.

“Bethie, go back inside. Shut the door.”

Something was happening here she didn’t understand. She was about to step back inside when the older Indian spoke in English again.

“You tell her? You tell her you kill your wife, my sister?” Bethie stopped still, met the older Indian’s gaze and saw there a dark, seething hatred.

Stunned, Bethie sought for the truth in Nicholas’s eyes.

What she saw there froze her blood.

It couldn’t be true. It couldn’t.

He kill my sister and her baby.

Nicholas. Nicholas.

He’d told her he’d been held captive by Indians, not that he had married into the tribe. That was something different, wasn’t it?

She felt the faint stirrings of jealousy, brushed them off. Had he lied to her? Did he have reason to cover up his wife’s existence and, with it, her death? Or was there more to the story?

She prayed it was the latter.

Apart from that first day, when he’d ridden out of the forest on the brink of death, he’d been good to both her and Isabelle. He’d seen her through her travail with a gentleness that almost stopped her heart whenever she looked back upon it. He had saved Isabelle’s life. He’d saved her from being burned. He’d put meat on the table, taken care of the heavy chores. He’d done so many thoughtful, things, Bethie had lost count. He couldn’t possibly be a cold-blooded killer, the sort of man who used his strength to prey upon the weak.

Why, then, had the look in his eyes told her that he was? Belle began to fuss again. She couldn’t possibly be hungry already, could she? Perhaps she was on edge, just like her mother.

Bethie set her spinning aside, lifted her daughter from the cradle.

The door to the cabin swung open, and she nearly jumped out of her skin.

She clutched Belle to her breast, turned to see Nicholas step inside, the two Indians behind him.

“Are you and the baby ready for bed?” Nicholas said something to the two Indians in their own language, pulled his gear out of the corner and motioned to the space where he usually slept.

Bethie watched in stunned surprise as the two Indians unrolled furs and laid them on the floor. “Wh-what—?”

Nicholas carried his gear across the cabin and dropped it on the floor behind her spinning wheel, then spoke in a lowered voice. “It would be an affront to their notions of hospitality to make them sleep outdoors or in the barn.