Ride the Fire (16 page)

Aware his gaze was upon her, she worked quickly, tried to ignore the way that touching him made her heart beat faster and her blood grow warm. But try as she might, 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.” Then he forced himself to stand, forced himself to walk away from her, leaving that stricken look on her face. He had a dead man to bury.

Nicholas, for God’s sake, help us!

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.

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 known 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 he was already gone.

The bullet had gone deep into his shoulder and 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.

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.

The northern sky glowed orange. A wall of flames as high as the forest and perhaps a mile wide raced toward the cabin. It was a good half mile away, but it was moving fast, driven by the wind.

Mattootuk!
The bastard must be on the brink of death to attack them like this.

They had only minutes—if it wasn’t too late already. Nicholas dashed for the stables, shouting as loudly as he could. “Bethie, wake up! Fire!”

Roused either by his shouts or because they sensed the fire, the geese began to shriek.

He kicked their pen open as he passed, leaving them to scatter in a flurry of feathers. But he knew it would not save them.

The geese!

Nicholas!

A fist pounded on the barred door, startling a shriek from her throat.

“Bethie, get up! Fire!”

She threw open the door, smelled smoke, found Nicholas standing on her doorstep, his horse saddled, the reins in his hands. Behind him Dorcas and her calf ran in panicked circles.

“But I’m no’ dress—“

“There’s no time for that! Come!”

The animal pranced and whinnied, but Nicholas kept a firm grip on its bridle.

“There isn’t time to adjust the stirrups, so hold on tight! Keep one hand in his mane, and hold on to Belle with all your strength. Bend low over his back!”

In her arms, Belle began wail.

“There isn’t time! Ride south! Stop for nothing! Go!” He released his hold, slapped the horse hard on the rump. Bethie screamed and clutched Belle to her breast as the stallion surged forward, a thousand pounds of muscle and sinew exploding into motion beneath her. And then, in a moment so full of horror that it seemed to last forever, she saw.

Already she could feel the fire’s heat.

Smoke caught in her throat, stung her eyes. Gripped by terror, she fisted her hand in the stallion’s coarse mane, clenched its flanks with her thighs, bent over Isabelle, squeezed her eyes shut, prayed.

Nicholas!

Bethie lifted her head, forced her stinging eyes open. The forest in front of them glowed as if in the light of an unnatural dawn. Deer fled before the stallion’s churning hooves, their dun hides glowing red. Streamers of flame flew from treetop to treetop overhead, dropped to the ground around them like burning raindrops.

The fire was overtaking them. And if it was overtaking them...

Nicholas!

Then above the roar and crash of the fire she heard screams—the high-pitched screams of women, of children. They came from all around her—piteous, keening cries. She lifted her head, looked to her left, to her right, saw only flames.

A shiver ran down her spine.

The screams were not coming from women and children, but from the
trees.

She might have screamed, but the smoke was so thick and the air so hot that she could not draw breath without choking.

A cougar dashed out from the underbrush, almost beneath the stallion’s hooves.

Zeus shied, swerved, stumbled, and Bethie feared for one terrible moment that the stallion would fall, pitching them into the blaze. But Zeus knew the forest and quickly regained his footing.

The fire was ahead of them now, falling in graceful streams from the forest canopy, rising up from the ground in great sheets.