Under the Same Sky (28 page)

That night I dreamed of the forest.

It was dark and I was running, dodging trees and rocks that appeared out of the blackness like ghosts. I tripped and stumbled as I fled, then was back on my feet and tearing through the underbrush again. Every muscle was tight, preparing to be grabbed by whatever breathed so hard behind me. I never looked back. I didn’t need to. I knew there wasn’t anything there for me to see.

I ran until I couldn’t run anymore, until my escape was blocked by a tall stone wall. All I could do was turn and face my invisible pursuer. When I did, I saw, as I knew I would, nothing. I looked back toward the wall, and there he was.

The coyote bore a vivid white scar from a long-ago battle. It had cut through the copper red fur on his face, beneath his flattened ears. His yellow eyes focused on me while his tongue followed the points of his teeth.

He paced toward a large tree, watching my reaction with every
one of his steps. A simple gold chain, like a ladies’ piece of jewellery, hung from the tree above him, clasped onto one of the lower branches. The coyote lifted his leg and marked his territory, catching the tree, the ground, and the gold. The stench of urine filled my senses.

I stepped to the side and he mirrored my movement. He moved forward and I retreated. He grew as he moved toward me, as did the growl that vibrated through the furry throat. I blinked and the hunter’s eyes became murky pools, simmering with madness. When I blinked again, he lay on his side, chest still, eyes glazed in a final stare. A dark stain spread over the plush whiteness of his breast. It stained my own trembling hands with blood that wouldn’t wash away. He suddenly seemed very small.

I stepped back and everything disappeared. All that remained was the air. Even the solidity of the earth was gone. I fell down, down, down, my black wings beating madly in their struggle against the spiral. The wind sucked me toward a web of black fangs that stretched toward me, and I knew I was lost.

Every time we rode to town, Captain Quinn was there. He always arrived so promptly it was as if he’d been watching the paths for us.

Wahyaw eventually, and reluctantly, permitted the captain and me to walk alone. Captain Quinn was very attentive, and his words were full of compliments and praise I’m sure I didn’t deserve. It was all very flattering.

About six months after I first met him, everything changed.

The Cherokee and I had just ridden for three long days, then spent a half hour haggling in George Arnold’s trading post. I looked and smelled appalling. Nevertheless, Captain Quinn was waiting for us outside the tavern, and he grinned when he saw me.

“Good afternoon, my friends,” he said, nodding to each of us as we walked toward him. “You are all well, I hope? Miss Johnson, you are looking particularly lovely if I might say so.”

I couldn’t help laughing at that. “Oh, Captain. What a thing to say! I’m horribly dirty.”

“Not at all!” he cried, beaming at me. “Not at all. It is indeed wonderful to see you looking so fine. The glory of the day pales next to you.”

That was how he always spoke to me. It was strange hearing words like that, directed at me.

“Gentlemen,” Captain Quinn said in Cherokee, “I do hope you’ll excuse us this afternoon. I have something special planned for Miss Johnson.”

Without waiting for their response, he ushered me into a tavern, which, owing to the late afternoon hour, was empty. Not even a waitress in sight. He led me to a table against the back wall, where we sat. He was still smiling, his eyes lit with excitement.

“What is it?” I asked. “What has you so happy today?”

From under his chair, Captain Quinn brought out a small package. It was wrapped in brown paper, bound with rough string that was tied in a careful bow. He balanced it on his palm, then stretched out his hand to me.

“For you, my dear,” he said.

I stared at the package sitting on his palm. I had never received a gift in my entire life. Or at least nothing that had come wrapped. I touched the paper tentatively, not exactly sure how to proceed. He must have sensed my confusion. He placed the package in my hand and closed my fingers over its rounded edges.

“It is just a small gift, Miss Johnson, a token of how much I have enjoyed our friendship. I hope you will not find it inappropriate.”

I pulled the loose end of the string until the bow unraveled and the paper escaped its bindings, revealing a small box. I lifted off the top and peeked inside, then closed it again in shock. My expression must have been comical because he laughed. He leaned toward me and opened the box himself, reaching in and pulling out a gold, heart-shaped locket, which he dangled from a delicate gold chain.

“Captain Quinn, I…” I stammered, feeling blood fill my cheeks. I had never seen anything so beautiful. I was almost afraid to touch it.

“Here,” he said. “Allow me. These things can be difficult to manage.”

He rose to his feet and took my hands so that I stood as well.

“Shh,” he whispered and put his hands behind my neck to close the tiny lock.

The action brought his face close to mine, and I did nothing to push him away. His kiss was light at first, almost apologetic, but his confidence returned immediately. Heat rose in a wave from the depths of my chest, through my throat, up through lips and ears, even tickling inside my nose. He placed his hands on either side of my face to hold me there, and I was taken aback by the strength of his kiss, of the need that pulsed through him. He breathed heavily through his nose, sounding hungry. My lips and cheeks burned from his whiskers.

Curiosity and arousal shifted suddenly as fear flooded through me. I felt it bubble up in a sudden cold sweat which covered my entire body. Memories of men kneeling over me, of sheer helplessness in the face of primal violence.

“Stop,” I said. “Please stop. You’re scaring me.”

He didn’t seem to hear me. His voice, muttering what I assumed were intended endearments, sounded husky and unfamiliar. One of his hands gripped the soft flesh above my tunic, leaving red circles where his fingers pressed.

“No,” I whimpered, struggling against him. “Please don’t do this. Please stop.”

I gasped when he pulled me in too hard and our teeth knocked together. His breath filled my mouth and tasted like onions. I tried to avoid his tongue as it probed and explored. My hands pressed
against his chest to push him away, but he forced me back against the cold, stone wall.

I became very aware of the locket. The small, heart-shaped weight above my breasts increased suddenly, as if it grew in size. The chain dug into my neck. The locket was warm. No, it was more than warm, I realised. It was hot. And it
vibrated
.

“Stop!” I cried, but he heard nothing.

I jerked my face away from the captain’s mouth, gasping for breath, but he sank his lips into my neck and travelled hungrily toward my breasts. Terror pulsed through my chest, and I felt myself being sucked back into that forest, back into the meaty grasps of the slavers, back against the sappy bark. I grasped within my mind for something to anchor me. My mind exploded in a storm of colours, whirling and shrieking, dragging me toward its eye. My visions barged in, and the locket pulsed against my flesh as if someone had jabbed me with a hot poker.

And I saw.

I saw a box on an earthen floor. Within its rough wooden sides lay small, incongruous trinkets: ribbons, a bit of lace, a small shoe, a button or two.

I saw the tightly woven grass bracelet I had tied around my sister’s wrist so long ago.

I saw the blue hair ribbon that had once tethered my hair back.

And beneath that, I saw a much-loved rag doll wrapped in material from Ruth’s baby gown. Its big, black eyes stared up at me, empty and lost.

I saw six girls sitting behind the box, leaning against the wall. Their long hair was matted and their faces were grimy, tear-streaked, and bruised.

The shock hit me like a fist. “Let go of me!” I screamed. “Let me go!”

The captain heard nothing but his own momentum. I felt the hard muscle, swollen beneath his immaculate white breeches, and I shoved against him with all my strength. His fingers gripped and bruised my thigh. My mind shifted back to that day, that moment when I had been forced to spread my legs for the first time, while a complete stranger shoved himself through my defenses. I was powerless again, unable to defend myself.

“No, no, no, no,”
I said, trying desperately to wriggle away.

The man wrapped around me was a stranger. A stranger who was somehow responsible for the deaths of my mother and my baby sister. I dug my fingers into his arms until my nails drew blood. I tried to kick, to raise my knees against his progress, but his hips held me pinned to the wall. Tears ran down my face, and sweat wound under my tunic. I heard myself crying out, telling him to stop, but my voice seemed very small, and very far away.

“His eyes, lass. His eyes!”

I had no time to question Andrew’s presence. I did as he said. I put my hands on the captain’s cheeks and jammed my thumbs into his eyes.

The captain howled and fell back, clutching his face with both hands. I grabbed for the knife I always carried in my belt. He lowered his hands and lunged at me, and my blade disappeared within his neat waistcoat. I yanked it out and he went down hard. His head hit the stone floor before the rest of him did, and he lay still. I stared at his body in horror, in confusion at the man who had called himself my friend.

“I’ll head in to make the ’rrangements with the cap’n,”
Blue Shirt had said. His voice was so clear he might have been standing beside me, not lying dead by a stream.

My lips felt numb. The words tumbled out in a hoarse whisper. “Where are they? Where are the girls? What have you done?”

He didn’t move, but anger shoved ahead of my shock and I dropped to my knees beside him. I didn’t know what to touch, didn’t want to touch any part of him, but I had to know. I slipped my knife back into my belt and pounded his back with my fists, needing a reaction of some kind.

“What—have—you—done?” I cried.

He gasped. A quick intake of breath, then a moment before he oriented himself. He turned his head to the side and rested his cheek on the floor. He was still handsome. Still Quinn. But blood was smeared across his face and his eye was unfocused.

“I beg your pardon,” he said hoarsely. “I believe it is I who should ask that question.”

“No, Captain,” I said. “You tell me where those girls are.”

“Have you killed me, Miss Johnson? Why would you kill me? I only loved you—”

“Stop it!” I yelled. I didn’t bother fighting the tears. He was dying. I could see it in the fading light of his eyes. But he wasn’t allowed to die yet. Not until I was finished. I lowered my face to his and spoke through clenched teeth. “You are the captain. You are the one in charge. You sent those men to steal my sisters and me from my mother. They killed my mother, did you know? Then they raped the three of us until we couldn’t walk. And my baby sister? Who was ten years old.
Ten!
They raped her to death, Captain. And you paid them to do it.”

A remarkable transformation came over his face. He turned his profile so he could see me better, and both eyes came sharply into focus. A dark red flush raced up his neck and mixed with the blood on his face.

“What are you talking about?”

“You know,” I said. “Where are those poor little girls? What kind of man
are
you?”

He stared at me, his expression unreadable. I didn’t need to read it, though. I saw his thoughts as if they were my own. Disbelief. Fury.
How could she know?

His lips pulled back as if he were growling. “You know nothing,” he hissed. “My personal business is entirely that. Mine.”

I undid the locket from around my neck and dangled it in front of his nose. “Whose was this? How old was she? Did she fetch a good price?”

The little gold heart danced on the end of the chain, and he blinked. When he spoke, his voice sounded strange. Like the soft purr of an awestruck child.

“From the beginning I knew you were special, Miss Johnson.” He dropped his cheek back to the floor. “So beautiful. So different from any other woman.” His hand fluttered beside him, then stretched out, reaching for mine. But he would never hold it again. His voice changed again. “But you’re not as smart as you think,” he said. “You
could
have been smart. You
could
have stayed with me, where you belonged. But you’d rather spread your legs for those savages, wouldn’t you?”

I had no words, only stared at him in horrified amazement. The man wore a complacent smile one might use on an obstinate child. He admitted nothing, and yet I knew it all to be true. Now he expected all to be forgotten, and worse, forgiven.

“Where are they?”
I screamed.

The door slammed shut, and I realised a man had come into the building, apparently looking for the tavern owner.

“Have you seen…” he started, walking toward me. “Hey—what’s goin’ on here? What…”