Savage Betrayal (41 page)

Fighting Wolf would never let someone else tell him what to do with his child, Sarita realized.

Suddenly she felt hopeful. She would be strong, for her child’s sake, and yes, for Fighting Wolf’s sake, too, though he knew nothing of her struggle. She laughed to herself as she tried to imagine his uncle, Scarred Mouth, forcing Fighting Wolf into a marriage he didn’t want. The war chief certainly wouldn’t stand for such treatment. Neither would she!

The certainty calmed her.
I must take control of my life
. No more would she be the pawn of her father, her family, or men like Throws Away Wealth. And neither would her child!

Perhaps someday Fighting Wolf would see his child, she mused.

No, how could he? He would never know of the child’s existence. Best to banish such thoughts from her mind, she told herself sternly.

But, unbidden, they crept back. Pensively, she wondered if she would always feel the loss of Fighting Wolf so deeply. For he was lost to her, as surely as if he were dead. Her family would never accept him. He would never accept her as anything more than a slave, and she, she would never again be a slave while there was breath in her body. She could not regret escaping slavery for the sake of her child.

She sighed. Her child. How would her child fare, being born illegitimate? Better illegitimacy than slavery, she thought. Would the child be a boy, handsome and strong, like his father? Or a beautiful girl, like her mother? Sarita giggled to herself, amused at her own conceit.

“Are you sure you feel all right?” questioned Spring Fern.

Sarita stopped paddling and waved her hand in dismissal. “Quite sure. In fact, I suddenly feel better than I’ve felt in a long while, Spring Fern. A long while.”

Spring Fern shook her head silently. The nobility had such strange ways.

“Why did you do it, Nuwiksu?” Sarita stood on a small knoll, her thickly woven cedar cape wrapped about her shoulders. A winter wind buffeted the sea otter trim. Beside her, Thunder Maker looked out over the village. The longhouses were assembled, and his Hesquiat people had settled comfortably into their winter homes.

“It seemed like a good solution to your problems. When Feast Giver made the suggestion—“

“Feast Giver!” she exclaimed. “What has he to do with marriage plans for me?” she demanded.

Her father gave a long-suffering sigh. “Sarita,” he protested. “We didn’t plan this to hurt you. We were trying to help you. Marrying you off to Throws Away Wealth seemed like a good idea. You’d get a husband, something you badly need,” he added, looking pointedly at her stomach, “and we’d get a loyal ally.”

“Next time, ask me before you ‘help’ me,” she retorted bitterly.

Thunder Maker frowned slightly. “Keep a civil tongue in your head, girl,” he warned.

“Nuwiksu,” she said impatiently, “I’m being as civil and polite as I can under very trying circumstances. You don’t seem to understand. I don’t want a husband! When, and if, I decide to marry,
I
will do the choosing. Twice now you’ve interfered by trying to find me a husband. Please, don’t interfere anymore!”

“Sarita. Enough.” His voice took on the angry tone she had come to recognize lately. “Where did you learn to talk to your father like that?”

“Stop making an issue of my manners, Nuwiksu,” she said angrily. “My manners, polite or not, are unimportant compared to my future. And we are discussing my future, are we not?” Irony tinged her voice.

Thunder Maker nodded. “It is your future I’m concerned with. Now that your noble position is reestablished in the eyes of our people, you have a chance to lead an exemplary life. You can be a fine example of what a chief’s daughter should be.”

“Oh, Nuwiksu,” she snorted. “I could not care less what people think.”

“Is that so? We’ve been over this before, Sarita. I care what the people think of you. I care that your name is beyond reproach.”

“No, Nuwiksu,” she replied tartly. “You care that
your
name is beyond reproach.”

Thunder Maker fell silent for a moment. “It’s a wonder you survived slavery with that sharp tongue, daughter.” Her answer was another unladylike snort. “As I was saying,” he went on, “you now have a chance to lead an exemplary life. Such a life, however, does not include a bastard child.”

“Nuwiksu,” answered Sarita evenly, “I am keeping my baby. No matter what you say.”

There was a long pause. “Very well,” Thunder Maker responded at last, “if you want to keep you baby, the alternative is simple—marry Throws Away Wealth. You’ll have a husband; your child will have a father.”

“And you’ll have your ally,” finished Sarita.

“Your impudence is beginning to annoy me,” he warned.

“I will not marry Throws Away Wealth.”

“Why not? He seems like a good man.”

“A good man? Do you know what he plans to do to my child when it’s born?”

Her father looked at her, waiting, one eyebrow arched questioningly. Suddenly, the words wouldn’t come. A terrible premonition that her father wouldn’t believe her, swept through her. She hesitated, then her shoulders slumped in defeat. “Never mind, it’s nothing,” she muttered. “But I do refuse to marry Throws Away Wealth.” The words came out sounding sulky and weak.

“That’s too bad,” Thunder Maker answered casually. Instantly, Sarita was on the alert.
Here it comes
, she thought. “I’ve already promised you to him,” stated Thunder Maker grimly, “and I will not,
will not
, go back on my word!”

“Nuwiksu,” she cried in anguish, “haven’t you heard me? I said I will not marry him!”

“I heard you,” he answered, seeming unperturbed. “I heard you. Now you hear me. There are some things more important than your wishes. You will marry him. You’ll be an obedient daughter and marry whomever I tell you to.”

“Nuwiksu—“

“Enough, Sarita. You’ll do as I say.” His stern look softened. “Someday you’ll thank me for this, I know. I want what’s best for you, too.”

When she was younger, such a statement would have melted her resistance. Now it merely inflamed her ardor to defend herself and her child. “I think not, Nuwiksu. I think not.”

She turned her back on him and strode away, unable to look at the man she had trusted and called “father” since she was a tiny girl. Nothing he could do or say would convince her that he had chosen wisely.

No, now it was up to her to plan her own fate. But what to do? What to do?

* * * *

Sarita walked slowly along the rocky beach fronting the winter village. The town sat poised on one side of a narrow inlet, the longhouses scrunched onto a lonely strip of level land. Rainclouds covered the back-drop of mountains looming behind the village. A narrow stretch of salal undergrowth and scraggly bushes feebly protected the village from the winds that swept down the inlet and flailed the houses.

Bracing herself against the buffeting wind, she turned her back on the village. She gazed across the short stretch of saltwater. An impenetrable forest of evergreens rose straight up from the waterline. Over the forest the sky was glazed white.

She turned back to the village and looked at the cloud-covered mountain peaks behind. With the arrival of her people, it seemed as though the giant, rain-laden, heavy gray mantle rolled over the mountains to its winter site, too. She knew the clouds would stay there until spring winds blew then away. Where would she be, come spring?

Oh, why was she here? she wondered miserably. This place with its muted grays and dark greens looked as desolate as she felt. In previous winters, she’d thought the village cozy, nestled inland from severe winter storms. She had loved its quiet, natural beauty. Now, it was only a cold, bleak place.

She knew what was wrong. She missed Fighting Wolf. Never had she longed so for another human being. If he were here with her, the winter village would once again look warm and welcoming. More and more she realized how deeply she loved him.

A lone figure was walking along the beach towards her. As he approached, she recognized the wide-chested shape of Rottenwood. She reproached herself silently. Forgotten in all the turmoil of her personal life, he loomed before her now. She owed him her life, as complicated as it had become recently, she thought ruefully.

Smiling, she called him over. He greeted her, his face closed.

“I have some good news for you,” she began.

“Oh?” His response was guarded.

“Now that you’re my slave, I’ve decided what to do with you.” She couldn’t help herself; she was enjoying toying with him.

Again that guarded response.

“Yes,” she went on, “I’ve decided to free you.”

She watched with satisfaction as his jaw dropped, then waited until he recovered from his surprise. “You are now a free man, Rottenwood.”

“I—I—“ He was overwhelmed by the news, she thought smugly. She was enjoying herself. Already things were looking brighter. “Thank you,” he managed at last.

She smiled, pleased. “I’ll be giving a feast tomorrow night to announce your freedom to the rest of the village. After that, your life is your own.”

He nodded, dazed.

“I’m standing by my promise to you,” she pointed out kindly.

“Yes—yes, you are,” he stammered. “Thank you, again. I hardly know what to say—“

“Then say nothing,” she said, feeling generous. “I haven’t forgotten how I longed for my freedom when I was a slave. If not for you—“ she broke off. “Well, suffice it to say that I owe you my life. I trust we’re now even?”

This last question brought a fervent response. “We most definitely are. I thank you, again.”

Highly amused at hearing him repeating himself, she waved her hand in a dismissing gesture. “I hope you’ll find much happiness in your new status. I assume you’ll continue to work for my family?” At his nod, she added magnanimously, “Now that you’re no longer a slave, I’m sure you’ll want new living arrangements. There is a vacant space on the wall of my longhouse. It’s yours. Come, I’ll show you.”

Rottenwood bowed with as much dignity as he could muster, and followed her to freedom.

* * * *

The next night, after the small feast Sarita gave in his honor, Rottenwood moved his few belongings to his new quarters.

The cedar bench looked bare without any mats to cover it. The fire pit was cold, the floor was littered with old shells and bones from the previous occupant. But Rottenwood noticed none of these things. He was too happy to have his own place, and more important, his freedom. His mind spun from the myriad plans he was weaving for his newfound freedom.

Lifting up on one elbow, he eyed his new accommodations. Soon, he thought, soon he would fix up these quarters. Or have someone do it for him.

He thought of Spring Fern. She had looked sad tonight. Sad and withdrawn. When she’d caught him watching her, she’d smiled shakily back. Poor thing. He hadn’t approached her; he was unwilling to flaunt his new status at her. He knew she must feel awkward. Perhaps she even questioned his commitment to her. Well, he’d let her know soon enough that he wanted her, that he loved her.

If only she, too, could be free…

Ahousat.

Weary and disheartened, Fighting Wolf returned from the fruitless search for his sister. He had given up all hope of finding Precious Copper alive. He and his men had exhausted themselves scouring the local area. They’d found the canoe and the decaying remains of the two old slaves. The decapitated body of Slug told its own story. Warriors had done this. But warriors from where?

Then Fighting Wolf’s men found the Kwakiutl bodies. Only vicious men would tangle with fearsome Kwakiutls and win. Who had done this?

And still they did not find Precious Copper.

By now Fighting Wolf feared the worst for his sister. She’d been taken captive, he speculated, by vicious men. His heart was heavy as he thought of his lost sister. Deep lines of sorrow were newly etched into his face.

He barely noticed the strange behavior in his household. Everyone was avoiding him. Fighting Wolf was too tired to wonder why. Grief and going without sleep for two days in the desperate search for his sister had robbed him of his usual vitality. After a hasty meal, he staggered to bed and slept through the next day.

Awakening in the evening, he ordered a meal prepared and asked for Sarita. A hapless old woman was pushed forward from the small crowd of servants pressed around him. Hesitantly, she stammered the news that his female Hesquiat slave had escaped. The old woman scurried away from the fury that leapt into jet black eyes.

Slaves and commoners alike darted panic-stricken out of their war chief’s path as he unleashed a ferocious roar.

“That worthless Hesquiat slave! How dare she! I’ll kill her! Who let her go? She was supposed to be guarded!”

The two hapless guards were brought to him. He turned his furious countenance upon them. “Well?” he demanded. “How did she get away?”

Defensively, the first guard began, “I was standing watch, outside the longhouse as you’d ordered, when all of a sudden I was jumped from behind.” He bowed his head to show the bruise and cuts on the back of his head. “Next thing I knew, I woke up and she was gone!”

The second guard chimed in, “That’s right, sir. I was at the other end of the longhouse. A man attacked me with a war club. I drew my knife to finish him off. That’s the last thing I remember. When I woke up, my hands were tied.” A leather thong dangled from his hand. “It took me a while to undo myself. Bound tight, I was. Anyway, once I was free, I ran to where my partner, here, was. He was just waking up. By then, of course, the lady—uh, slave—was gone.”

The other guard nodded, confirming the story.

Even in his extreme anger, Fighting Wolf knew the two men would stick by their story and by each other. They were doubtless telling the truth; he knew them to be brave and honest men. That was why he had picked them for guard duty in the first place. “Is anyone else missing? Did she escape alone?”

The second guard shook his head. “The worthless slave named Rottenwood is missing. He must have been the one with the war club. They’ve been gone for three nights.”