Through the Fire (The Native American Warrior Series) (2 page)

After an agonizing moment, the men resumed their genial banter, some smoking pipes. Only one warrior stood. His tall figure bent to dip a cupful of liquid from the kettle near the fire. Cup in hand, he walked toward her.

His muscular body was clad only in an elkskin breechclout, blue cloth leggings, and buckskin moccasins that reached well up his calves, a far more primitive use of the same skins fashionable men wore. A sheathed knife hung from the navy and red woven belt knotted at his waist. He’d slung a tomahawk at his other side. The blade protruded above his belt and the carved handle below, ready to grasp in an instant. But he didn’t reach for either weapon.

She scarcely dared to breathe. With dry mouthed fear, she fastened her eyes on this formidable male, like some New World god sprung from this wild land. A shudder coursed through as he knelt beside her, but she did not look away. Hiding her face would not secure her life.

“I’ll not harm you,” he said.

His quiet assurance in clear English took her by surprise. Not only that, but there was a familiar quality about his face, his voice. Striving to remember, she searched every contour: eyes as black as a night without stars, high cheekbones, sculpted nose, strong chin. His lightly tanned skin was unstreaked by red and black paint. No silver cones hung from his ears. No ornament pierced his nose. Instead of the scalp lock worn by most braves, his black hair hung loose around his shoulders.

She shifted her gaze to the muscled planes of his bare chest, an eye-opening sight for a woman accustomed to long-sleeved shirts, waistcoats, and cravats. She let her eyes drop lower. His narrow breechclout revealed a great deal more of masculine thighs than she’d ever been confronted with, and she hurriedly returned her widened stare to his dark scrutiny. Gaping at a man, even a potentially deadly warrior, wasn’t her nature.

For a moment, he simply looked at her. What lay behind those penetrating eyes?

He held out the cup. “Drink this.”

Did he mean to help her? She
’d heard hideous stories of warriors’ brutality, but also occasionally of their mercy. She tried to sit, moaning at the effect this movement had on her aching body. She sank back down.

He slid a corded arm beneath her shoulders and gently raised her head.
“Now try.”

Encouraged by his aid, she sipped from the wooden vessel, grimacing at the bitterness. The vile taste permeated her mouth. Weren
’t deadly herbs acrid? Was he feigning assistance to trick her into downing a fatal brew?

She eyed him accusingly.
“’Tis poison.”

He arched one black brow.
“No. It’s good medicine. Will make your pain less.”

Unconvinced, she clamped her mouth together. She couldn
’t prevent him from forcing it down her throat, but she refused to participate in her own demise.

“
I will drink. See?” Raising the cup, he took a swallow.

She parted her lips just wide enough to argue.
“It may take more than a mouthful to kill.”

His narrowing eyes regarded her in disbelief.
“You dare much.”

Though she knew he felt her tremble, she met his piercing gaze. If he were testing her, she wouldn
’t waver.

His sharp expression softened.
“Yet, you have courage.” Setting the cup aside, he lifted his hand to her head.

Her life hung on his every move.

He loosened the remains of her knot and spilled her hair over her shoulders and down her back. Gold streaks shone in the firelight as he wound the abundant lengths around his fingers. “If I wished your death, fair one, you would already lie dead. Your scalp mine. I wish you to live. Drink now.”

The firmness in his tone told her he would not tolerate further refusal. She drained the vile brew, wrinkling her nose.
“What is this?”

“
Tea from the bark of the tree you call willow. We give this to our injured.” He wrapped the navy blue blanket snugly around her. “You fell hard from the horse.”

Only a dim recollection of those final moments surfaced, but he stood out with growing clarity.
“You brought me here?”

He gave a nod and stood.

She followed him with her eyes. “What is your name?”

“
Shoka.” It rolled out in his quiet baritone.

Metal glinted at his hip as he turned. A brass stock stuck out above his belt.
“Hey. That’s my pistol.”

He glanced at her with the ghost of a smile.
“Mine now. I left your necklace.”

She patted at her throat for the locket, reassured to find the precious keepsake hanging just inside her bodice beneath the ivory kerchief tucked around her lacy neckline.

He scrutinized her with the barest hint of amusement in his dark eyes. “I could have taken it, your earrings, all.”

“
Why didn’t you?”

Shoka made no reply, just left her to wonder, as he strode back to his companions and the haunch of venison roasting over their fire. An older man, scarred and fierce, his braided scalp lock heavy with silver brooches, greeted him with disapproval. The scowl he fired at Rebecca made her cringe. If it were up to this warrior, she had no doubt she
’d already lie dead, her bloody scalp in his possession.

A younger brave, however, regarded her with friendly curiosity. He rested his hand on Shoka
’s broad shoulder and spoke to him, eliciting a smile and a response too soft to hear. The youth smiled in return. His face bore an appealing resemblance to Shoka’s. Were they brothers? Clearly, the younger man admired the warrior. He also wore his hair long, and his lean body was free of piercings and paint.

Laughter erupted from the larger gathering, the high spirits an evident result of their success against the militia. The war party
’s injuries had been minimal, unlike the soldiers they’d left in the clearing, eyes unseeing, bloody bodies still. A pang of regret cut through Rebecca as she thought of Lieutenant McClure.

And dearest Kate, what had become of her? How could Rebecca bear not knowing?

At least, Kate had gotten away, but to what fate? Somehow, she must find her sister.

Unwilling to look any longer upon the warriors
’ revelry, she rolled onto her side facing the stream. Gradually, her inner turmoil diminished a little as the willow infusion eased her physical pain, and woodland beauty soothed her wounded spirit.

Hues of green cloaked the trees like the softest mantle. Hay-scented fern carpeted the ground, drifting down the bank to the stream. Only a small part of the stream was visible from where she lay, spilling over stones as it rushed along. Little shrubs grew in the narrow crevices between the moss covered rocks and tiny ferns sprouted in the green cushion. If she blocked out the strange voices and listened only to the wind and water, to the call of the nighthawks and whippoorwills, she could almost pretend the attack hadn
’t happened. Almost.

Pearly flowers glowed in the dusk. White, queen of the night, was the last color to fade as darkness enveloped the ridges.
“God keep you, Kate. Forgive me,” she whispered.

The first stars somehow seemed closer here, peeking out from between the tossing branches. The cold settled in with the breezy night, and the blanket wasn
’t enough to stop her from shivering. If only she had the cloak left in her saddlebag. At least Kate should still have provisions.

Rebecca startled at the touch of a hand on her shoulder.

“I’ll carry you nearer the fire,” Shoka said quietly.

She twisted to look at him. The flames at his back flickered over a tan hunting shirt overlapped in the middle and held together with his blue woven belt. Was the shirt his or torn from one of the militia? She saw no fresh bloodstains.
“I didn’t hear you come.”

“
Why should I wish you to hear?”

Panic fluttered in her chest as he slid his arms beneath her. She wanted to be no nearer the others, particularly that scarred warrior.
“Wait. I’m not cold.”

“
Your body agrees not with your words.”

“
Even so. Leave me here.”

“
Warriors will not harm you.”

She pointed shakily at the scratched features of the brave who
’d tried to yank her from the horse. “He would.”

Shoka snorted.
“Amaghqua will trouble you no more.” He lifted her, blanket and all.

“
Put me down! The others—”

“
Will do you no evil.”

“
No. Don’t take me any closer.”

“
Do you think they do not see you? Not hear you?”

She struggled against his raw strength, like trying to uproot the oak towering above her.
“Please. I beg you.”

“
You are foolish.” He carried her out from beneath the tree.

“
Leave me here, Shoka.”

He paused and pursed his lips as if considering her plea. Surrounding warriors regarded them with the intensity of a wolf pack. The fierce warrior shot her a scorching look.

Throwing her arms around Shoka’s neck, she shrank against her new protector. He smelled of wind, sun, and a masculine scent she found both attracting and oddly comforting.

He pivoted and stepped back under the tree.
“Eat first,” he relented and set her down against the trunk. Raising his arm, he beckoned to the young warrior she’d seen him with earlier. “
Weothe
.”

The brave drew his knife and sawed off a hunk of venison. He skewered it on a sharpened stick and walked over to them. Smiling shyly, he offered it to her.
“Take, lady.”

Despite his apparent good will, she did not reach for the offering he extended.

“Are you hungry?” Shoka asked.

“
A little.”

He took the stick, waving the youth off. He trailed reluctantly back to the others.

“Who is that brave?”

“
Meshewa, the son of my uncle. Why did you not take the meat?”

“
What am I to do, gnaw at it like a dog?”

“
If you were hungry, you would gnaw like a rat. Eat rats.”

“
Never.”

“
Fine ladies never know hunger?”

She shook her head.

Shoka drew his knife and knelt beside her, slicing a manageable portion. He speared it on his blade and held it out to her, but kept a firm grip on the deerskin-wrapped handle. “We have no forks. Still, I think you can eat what I give.”

Ignoring his sarcasm, she bit into the warm venison. The smoky meat tasted good, and she was emptier than she
’d realized. She chewed, swallowed, and took another bite, all the while slanting glances at his dimly lit face. He’d saved her life and was her best hope of staying alive.

“
Thank you. Also, for the willow. I am improved.”

Though he made no reply, she sensed her gratitude pleased him.
“How is it that you speak English so well?”

“
Not all warriors are ignorant of your tongue. I also speak Mohawk, Cherokee, Ojibwa, and French.” Scorn underlay his tone.

She refused to be put off.
“Even so, there’s something highly unusual about you.”

“
Ah. You know much of me?”

“
You stand apart from the others.”

He swept his hand at the men.
“I stand with my people.”

She pushed back the hair blowing across her eyes.
“You have not always been with them.”

“
No, clever one. Before we went to war, I was a guide for the English. They taught me much of English ways. A priest taught me the most.”

“
You spent all that time with a priest, and you’re still doing these dreadful things? How can you fight your friends?”

He tensed beside her.
“I have killed no friends.”

“
Perhaps not, but you’ve battled many of their comrades. This war—” she shuddered, “—is terrible.”

“
Have your eyes ever looked on battle?”

“
Not like this.”

“
This war is like others,” he said.

“
It’s far worse. Your warriors kill women and children.”

“
Not all. Many are taken captive and adopted. Do you even know who we are?”

“
Indians.”

“
Shawnee.”

The name held an ominous ring.
“I’ve heard of this tribe. Your warriors are said to be fierce. You are certainly living up to your reputation.”

“
Your people have killed no one?” he countered.

“
Not women and children.”