Ride the Fire (17 page)

But then the smoke began to clear, the fire to thin.

Had they outrun it?

Suddenly before them stretched what seemed to be a gaping chasm, its darkness lit by small glowing fires.

Then the stallion stretched out its legs and leapt out above the brink.

Icy cold, it rose above Bethie’s head as stallion and rider plunged as one into the current.

Bethie felt herself float from the stallion’s back, kicked with all her strength, desperate to get Isabelle’s head above water.

She broke the surface, sucked sweet, cool air into her lungs, lifted her baby above water.

She was alive.

But she wouldn’t be for long if Bethie couldn’t make it to the other side. The current was strong and swept her along, and although she was a good swimmer, she knew the Ohio River was perilous, with falls and hidden rocks that mangled both boats and bodies. She knew she needed to reach the other side if she wanted to survive.

She peered through the darkness for the stallion, heard it snort a short distance downstream, spotted it in the fire’s eerie glow. It was almost ten feet away from her and swimming hard for the other side. If only she could grab hold of its mane.

Belle coughed and cried harder.

Bethie took her baby under her left arm, rolled onto her back, reached with her right arm, kicking through the water with all her strength.

Strands of coarse hair.

The stallion’s tail.

She grabbed hold, pulled until she was near enough to reach the saddle. Exhausted, she sagged against the powerful animal, gasped for breath as it carried them to safety.

“Come, little one.” Bethie’s voice was rough from smoke, which still wafted through the air from across the river. She leaned against a rock, began to nurse.

Nicholas was dead.

There was no way he could have been behind her and survived. She squeezed her eyes shut against the images that rose up unbidden in her imagination. Nicholas racing behind her on one of her mares. The fire closing in on them, overtaking them, claiming them. Unbearable heat. Choking smoke. An agonizing, terrible end.

Tears filled her eyes, blurred her vision, ran hot down her cheeks.

She could not bear to think of his suffering, could not bear the grief that filled her at the thought that he, who had once been tortured by fire, should have died in flames. No one deserved to die that way.

Nicholas!

All of it was gone. The cabin. The barn. The chickens in their coop. Dorcas and her wee calf. Her loom and spinning wheel. Isabelle’s cradle. The moccasins Nicholas had made for them. Her quill. The book.

“Nicholas.” She whispered his name, felt her heart shatter. He had done so much for her and Isabelle. He had treated her with a kindness no man had ever shown her, save perhaps her real father. He had awakened something inside her—feelings she didn’t understand. And his kisses . . . But now he was dead.

As the sun poured its golden rays across the landscape from the east, she wept.

Some hours later, Bethie stood on a rock, rubbed the horse’s chestnut coat with a makeshift currycomb of dried reeds while it nibbled at the soft green grass. She had lifted the heavy saddle and blanket from the stallion’s back and hung them over a tree branch to dry. She didn’t want the wet wool or leather to chafe and cause sores on its back or belly. They had many miles to cover, and the stallion would have to carry them nearly every foot of the way. Their survival depended upon him.

It was nearing midday, and panic had begun to build in her belly. She kept her gaze off the dark wall of forest beyond, but still the weight of the wilderness pressed in on her. She was utterly alone. No food. No shelter. No weapons. No clothing. Even if she’d had all those things, she’d have faced a struggle to survive. Good heavens, how would she be able to keep both herself and Belle alive without them?

And yet she had no choice but to try.

Fighting despair, she had found a small outcropping of rocks and set up a little camp on the leeward side. She knew she should move on. She needed to find food and shelter. Although there was grass and water aplenty here for the stallion, it was too early for wild berries, and she had no means to kill or capture game and no way to cook it. Until she found a trading post or a family that would take her in, there would be little more than wild greens and roots for her to eat, barely enough to keep up her milk for Isabelle. Besides, the nights were still cold, the forest alive with wild animals and even wilder men. Alone in the forest, wearing little more than her skin, she was naked and defenseless. But where could she go? She had no clear idea where she was. Oh, aye, she knew she was on the opposite bank of the Ohio River, but the Ohio was long and winding. That the stallion had covered so much ground so quickly still astonished her. The mares could never have run so swiftly. Nicholas must have known that. He must have chosen—

Nay! She could not do this. Nicholas had died giving her and her baby a chance at life. And so she must pull herself together. She must survive.

She swallowed her tears, forced her grief-weary mind to think. She supposed she should follow the river until she came to Fort Pitt, but how long would that take? Weeks? A month?

She could not expect help. In this country, there were few women, and the men would be more inclined to take advantage of her plight than to help her. Those who weren’t the sort to rape or kill her outright would likely expect something in return for aiding her.

And when she reached Fort Pitt . . .

Surely the officers would not let their men prey upon a woman with a baby, a widow, no matter how she was dressed.

He was not there. He would never be there. She forced herself to look away, fought to keep her mind on the task at hand, off the regret and sorrow she knew would overwhelm her if she let them.

Water. Food. Shelter. A way to protect herself. She needed some kind of weapon. She picked up a few stones, placed them beside the tree that sheltered Belle. Then an idea came to her.

She sought among the piles of driftwood, gathered a handful of sturdy sticks, took up a sharp stone, began to hone one of the sticks to a point. It would not be the same as a blade of steel, to be sure, but it might be enough to save her life and Isabelle’s.

She had just completed her first improvised dagger when Zeus whickered. Ears up, the stallion stomped impatiently, whinnied.

From nearby came an answering whinny. Then another. Her heart slamming in her breast, Bethie jumped to her feet, sharpened stick in one hand, a rock in the other. Whoever they were, they knew she was here. The stallion had given her away. She fought the urge to run and hide, forced herself to stand on watery legs and face them. She wouldn’t let them hurt her baby.

The moment stretched into eternity. She heard the roar of her pulse in her ears. The distant cry of a hawk. The dull thud of horses galloping over sand and stone.

Nicholas!

Dizzy with relief, she gaped at him, unable to believe her eyes.

“Nicholas!”

He slid off the mare’s back, crushed her to him, pressed his lips against her hair. He smelled of smoke and forest and sunshine. “Bethie, love! Thank God, you’re safe! Where’s Belle? Is she—?”

Then he cupped her bottom, pulled her against him, and she felt the heat of his arousal against her belly. An answering heat flared inside her.

She whimpered, whispered his name.

And then, without warning, the crest of her emotions broke. Tears pricked her eyes, and she began to tremble, as the terror and the grief of the past three days crashed in on her. He wiped the tears from her cheeks. “Are those tears for me?”

She sniffed, nodded, rested her hand against the reassuring rhythm of his heartbeat. “I thought you . . . Oh, God, I thought. . .”

His gaze drifted to the burn on her cheek, and he touched it lightly with his fingers. “I’m fine, love. A few scratches and bruises. But let me take care of that burn.”

She brushed the back of her hand over the wound, turning her face away from him. “It’s no’ bad.”

He ran his thumb across the curve of her lower lip, mimicked her brogue and the words she’d spoken to him only yesterday. “I’ll be the one decidin’ that. Go sit in the shade, or the sun will burn that pretty pale skin of yours.”

She watched as he quickly tended the mares, unable to take her eyes off him for fear this was only a dream and she would wake to find herself alone in her grief. From the lines on his face, she could tell he was exhausted. He must have ridden all night to find her, pushing both himself and the mares to their limit.

But he was alive.

“Let me wash your burn. Then I’ll put some of my salve on it.” He dipped a cloth in the cool water, squeezed it, gently cleaned her cheek. “It’s not bad. It ought to heal well. Flying cinders?”

She nodded, then met his gaze. “I thought you were dead.”

He dabbed salve gently onto the small burn mark. “I planned to follow you, but in the time it took to fetch my saddlebags, I’d been cut off. I was forced farther to the west and took shelter in a lake until the fire passed. ThenII followed a creek until it came to the Ohio.”

“If you had been behind me, you’d have been killed. The fire caught up with us.” She shuddered at the memory. “The trees—they seemed to scream.”

He set aside the salve, pulled her against his chest, held her. “It’s over now. We’re alive, and that’s what matters.”

She allowed herself to sink against him, savored the feel of him, his scent, his strength. Suddenly, she was so very tired. “What are we goin’ to do now?”

He stroked her hair, pressed his lips to her temple. “First we’re going to get some sleep. Oh, don’t worry. The horses will warn us if anyone approaches. Then I’m going to find us a nice, fat rabbit for dinner. Tomorrow morning we make for Fort Pitt and from there on to Paxton.”