Ride the Fire (15 page)

He took her shoulders. “Aye, with us.”

She looked at his gear behind the spinning wheel. There was hardly room for a child to sleep back there, let alone a man of Nicholas’s size. Worse, if he were all the way across the room, that would mean she would be closest to the Indians. And then she understood. She gasped, stared up at him. “And you will sleep—”

He bent close, as if to kiss her cheek. “In your bed. Beside you. As your husband, remember?”

“And who am I to fear most—you or your former brother-by-marriage?”

His gaze hardened. “Get into bed, Bethie. And keep Belle with you.”

Bethie quickly changed Isabelle’s diaper cloth, then washed her hands and face.

The two Indian men sat on their furs near the foot of the bed, speaking softly to one another. The older one watched her every move. Then his gaze collided with hers, and he spoke in English, pointing to Nicholas. “He take Wyandot women, many in one day, every day, where all can watch him. Not with you, I think. We not watch him take you.”

Bethie gasped at the vileness of these words. Nicholas had lain with Indian women openly as others watched? Many each day? It could not be true! But if it weren’t true, why didn’t Nicholas say something?

Holding Belle close, her skin crawling, she turned down the covers of her bed, climbed in, wishing she could grow wings and fly away. She lay on her side facing the fireplace, watched as Nicholas pulled in the door string, shed his shirt, yawned. How could he be possibly be sleepy with two armed Indians inside the cabin? How could he behave so calmly when one of them clearly hated him? Had he forgotten he had killed a man today on the doorstep of this very cabin? With one last glance about the cabin, Nicholas blew out | the lamp.

Apart from the glow of the fire, the cabin fell into darkness. Bethie began to pray, but her prayer scattered into fragments when she felt the mattress sag beneath Nicholas’s weight as he crawled over her to the other side of the bed. The ropes creaked as if in protest of his intrusion.

“Excuse me, love.” His voice was inches from her ear as he lay down beside her.

His scent was all around her.

And then he reached out and pulled her against him. She felt the hilt of his hunting knife and the outline of his two pistols inside the waistband of his breeches. How had he snuck them into bed without her seeing?

His lips touched her cheek. He whispered, “Turn toward me. Put Belle between us.”

Unable to hide her trembling, she did as he asked and found herself staring into his eyes. She mouthed the question that was burning within her. “Is it true?”

He stroked her cheek with his thumb. “I would never hurt you, Bethie, or your baby. I gave my word.”

It wasn’t an answer. She asked again. “Is it true?”

“Is what true? That I killed my wife and baby? Or that I tupped women in the open where everyone could watch, including my Wyandot wife?”

She said nothing, waited for his answer.

“Aye, Bethie. It’s true.” A look of anguish filled his eyes, then he closed them. “Go to sleep.”

Nicholas watched Bethie sleep, listened to the deep, stow breathing of their unwanted guests. He’d bet his life that neither Mattootuk nor Youreh were truly sleeping, despite the occasional snore. They were feigning sleep, just as he was. They were waiting until they felt certain he was asleep before making their move.

It wasn’t hard to stay awake. Regret was a knife in his gut cutting him, shredding him. Today his past had caught up with him, and the price was almost more than he could bear. He would never forget the look in Bethie’s eyes—the shock, the fear, the revulsion, as if he’d broken a promise, betrayed her, shattered her world. She now thought him the worst sort of murderer, not to mention an adulterer. And wasn’t he?

He had brought about Lyda’s death, and that of the child she carried, as surely as if he’d pointed a gun at her head and fired. But he was not an adulterer. He had never agreed to marry Lyda, never agreed to live under her roof, never agreed to plant a child inside her. And when she had left him no choice, he had merely bested her at her own game. With terrible consequences.

But would Bethie understand?

Nicholas didn’t think so. She was afraid of men, had trouble trusting them. This wouldn’t be the sort of thing she would ignore or forget.

Perhaps Lyda had gained her revenge after all, obtained at the hands of her brother.

Why should Nicholas care? As soon as he had delivered Bethie safely to her family, he would leave her behind, head back into the wilderness, forget her.

No. No matter how far west he traveled, he would never forget her.

God, she was beautiful, so young and innocent. He wanted to touch her, to run his fingers over the curve of her cheek, the swell of her lips. He wanted to kiss her again, to watch her come alive with passion in his arms, to feel her heart pound in her breast just because he had touched her. And Belle—so small, so helpless. She lay asleep between them, hands clenched into tiny fists. She resembled her mother in every detail.

Something jerked Nicholas out of his thoughts.

Silence.

The deep, slow breathing had stopped.

Someone was moving in the darkness.

In one motion, he rolled onto his back, fired both pistols into the darkness.

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.

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.

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.”

“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.

Her stomach turned. She fought not to gag, squeezed her eyes shut, clutched Belle to her breast.

Nicholas had killed a man in her home.

By the time he returned, she had laid a hiccoughing 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 b e . . . 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.

Her eyes flew open.
Isabelle!

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.”

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 cleared, 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 he had ridden away and 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 was 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, and the day’s growth of beard on his face, the half-moon shadows beneath his eyes were proof he hadn’t 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.