Whitefire (5 page)
Authors: Fern Michaels
The following days were grueling. Katerina worked with Stepan at her side from dawn till dusk. She ate her dinner quickly, took a hot bath, and fell into bed. When she slept, her dreams were invaded by a dark-eyed man with hair the color of night. He stalked her slowly, insidiously, through the thick trees. She always woke just as she was about to be captured, a hammer raised in her hand, her coppery hair wet and matted, and a sheen of perspiration on her face. Could she slay him when the time came? Finding no answer, she would crawl from her bed and work nonstop throughout the day, only to fall into bed and dream of the same terror.
“Volin,” she said to Stepan one morning, “will shine like a kopeck when we are finished. My father will be proud of me.” She still hadn't forgiven him for berating her the way he had, but she knew she would the moment she saw him. At that moment she would forgive him anything, because beneath their arguments they deeply loved each other. Their quarrels were usually caused by their similar temperament.
By the end of the week Katerina noticed the dried, yellow grass poking through the snow and pointed it out to Stepan with the toe of her boot. He waved his arms and uttered a sound much like that of a new baby. It was the first sign that winter was slipping away and spring would soon cause the earth to give birth to its greenery. Once again the steppe would be covered with a rainbow of color, as animals and birds returned to sing the sounds of life.
“We have a few good hours of daylight left, Stepan. Come, we're going hunting.” An hour after sunset, they returned with nine geese and seven rabbits. “Hardly a feast, but each will get a portion.”
Stepan waved his arms and hands to show he agreed as they thrust out their bounty for Olga and Ostap to see.
That night as Katerina soaked in her bath, the steamy wetness relaxing her, she thought of the coming weeks. Soon the farming would begin and the fields would be seeded. Once the sowing was done, the buyers would begin to arrive and the bartering for the Cosars would start. It was exciting to watch the outsiders and her father trying to outsmart each other. She slid farther down into the tub and tried to remember what it was she had to do the following day. She wanted everything in order for her father's arrival. How could she have forgotten? She had to stack the wood, light the ovens, and lay the oblong lace cloth on each bread table, in a north-to-south direction, and place an unlit candle, a loaf of black bread, and a tiny dish of salt upon it. This was the Cossack custom for good health and good luck in the new year. When she finished she would walk to the end of the road and watch for her father. She missed him, Mikhailo, the horses, and the old man who sat by the fire waiting to die.
The bathwater was cooling; it was time to get out and snuggle into the warm bed. Lord, she was tired to the very bone. If only she could have one good night's sleep, one without the Mongol invading her dreams.
It was not to be. As soon as the dark lashes were stilled and her breathing was regular, a dark-eyed man on horseback raced after her as she spurred Bluefire onward. She thrashed about in the big bed, the quilt sliding onto the floor from her frantic movements. He was gaining; closer and closer he came, until he was abreast of her. His dark eyes were laughing and his white teeth gleamed in the early night. He wore a brown sable cape, which he threw to the ground as he reached out a long arm and dragged her from Bluefire's broad back. She fell to the ground, and from somewhere she felt her fingers touch a heavy wooden pallet. He stood over her, laughing, his stance arrogant, his face amused and mocking. She struggled to her knees, the mallet raised, ready to strike. A bloodcurdling scream ripped from her mouth as she tumbled from the high bed onto the softness of the quilt. She rubbed the back of her hand across her forehead, and was not surprised to see it come away wet.
Her heart beating madly, she gathered the covering around her and walked to the huge oven. Katerina secured the quilt around her and lay down on the felt-covered floor, her eyes wide and staring.
The following morning Katerina and Stepan worked diligently to finish their tasks, scurrying from hut to hut performing their specific duties.
Laughing and teasing each other, they walked to the end of the road. Suddenly Katerina commanded, “Sh-h-h, listen. Do you hear them?”
The boy tilted his head toward the open steppe. He motioned that he heard nothing.
“Listen again,” she urged, “the hoofbeats are louder now, you should hear them.” Again he turned his head, intent on listening, his face brightening and a broad grin emerging, acknowledging that he, too, heard.
As the horses thundered closer, Katerina stood directly in the middle of the road, her hands on her hips, her legs astride, waiting for her father. Moments later, Katlof came thundering down the road, majestic atop Snowfire, almost running her down. She didn't move a muscle. Her father brought the horse to an abrupt stop.
“So, you're alive after all!” he shouted, looking down at her fiercely.
“Yes, I'm alive, and so are Wildflower and Bluefire!”
Katlof dismounted and stood at the side of his horse, a stern look on his face. “Then come here, baryshna, and give your father a proper welcome home.”
As Katerina ran toward him, the stern look dissolved, a broad smile crossing his face. As they embraced each other, her father said, “In my heart I knew you were alive. Why didn't you send word? Why didn't you return?”
“Because, Father, I haven't forgotten your scolding, and I hadn't forgiven you until this moment. I was angry with you so I thought I would let you spend a week agonizing and praying for me,” she said coolly. “I thought it would do you good.”
“Ha!” roared Katlof. “Spoken like a true Cossack,” he said, as he gave her a hearty slap on her back. “A true Cossack, that's my Katerina!” he chuckled.
A Cossack rode up and led Snowfire away as Katlof and Katerina walked toward their summer dwelling together. “So, Daughter, tell your father what you have been doing this past week.”
“You'll see.” She laughed as she led him through the town toward their hut.
Before they entered, Katerina looked out across the endless plain and thought, the steppe and I have something in commonâit goes on endlessly, as does my nightmare. She knew then she would never be free of the Mongol. A feeling of panic began to engulf her. She silently pleaded, God, dear God, help me! “Please!” she whispered as she closed the door behind her.
Again they embraced fondly. Katlof stepped back, staring down into her eyes. “I'm sorry for my tirade back in the fortress,” he said gruffly. “How like your mother you are. You have the same fiery Mongol temper and the same gentle persuasiveness.”
“Was she beautiful, Father?”
“You have only to look in the mirror to see the beauty of your mother. Because of you, your mother is always with me,” he said tenderly.
Katerina threw herself into his arms, burrowing her head into his broad chest.
His words, softly spoken, were barely audible. “How I love you, child, you're my life, my reason for being. Without you I would have nothing.”
Tears welled in the amber eyes. “I'll never fail you again, Father.”
Â
Spring was everywhere. Most evident was the farmland, where the ground, now softened by the thaw, left the earth ready for the plow. Cossacks could be seen with plow straps draped around their shoulders as the Cosars that were fit only for farming pulled the primitive plows forward.
The village bustled with activity as each Cossack performed his tasks. There were farmers, hunters of game, lumberjacks, and the women who worked in the homes and helped in the field. The remaining Cossacks tended the famed Cosars.
Katerina and Katlof spent their days in the barn with the mares, watching the miracle of birth. The birthing made her feel clean and near to God as she watched the foals leave the shelter of their mothers' wombs, bringing a closeness between her and her father that was renewed every year at this time. As they watched, the attachment expressed between mother and foal engulfed them also. Katrina looked at her father with love-filled amber eyes as he enfolded her in the crook of his arm. She felt safe and secure, out of harm's way. Safe from the Mongol for the moment.
As the weeks passed, the steppe was again a playground for wild game and birds. The young fillies and colts frolicked and ran along with the wild inhabitants through the short grass and budding flowers. Katerina adored watching the horses when they were on the plain, running like the wind, testing their spindly legs, and at the same time strengthening them. When she could stand it no longer, she would leap on Bluefire's back and race along with the colts and fillies.
Each day as new foals were born, Katerina and Katlof were in attendance. “It looks like an especially good year for selling stock. Except for one or two sickly colts, we haven't lost one horse, and with the proper attention, the two sick fillies will be up and around again,” Katlof said quietly.
“Father, let me nurse the two sick colts. You know how they respond to me; let me take care of them!” she begged.
“If you want to spend that much time with the animals, of course you may tend them. But as you know, it's a full-time task which must be done with much love and patience,” he stressed.
“Just trust me,” she said confidently.
“Very well, Katerina.”
Every day and every night for weeks, Katerina hand-fed the colts and tended to their every need, sleeping in the barn at night to make sure nothing went awry. Almost a month to the day, they were up on their legs, kicking up their heels with the urge to run. Katerina led them from the barn to the open steppe, where they disappeared like the wind. She had done well; her father would be proud. She had the Kat's touch. As she gazed after them, she noticed a streak of white flash by. It was Whitefire, prancing and running with his offspring. Busy with the ill horses, she had forgotten it was time for Whitefire to perform stud service. The stallion would stay in Volin for two months, and then Stepan would take him back to the Carpathians.
Leaving the barn, Katerina looked toward the compound and saw it filled to capacity with the mares selected for next year's supply of foals. As was Katlof's system, so long as his herd was plentiful and healthy, he divided the mares into thirds, each group going to stud once every three years.
As she watched the men release a mare to run with Whitefire, feelings of desire began to stir in her. It was spring, and the animals, birds, and horses were busy reproducing. She smiled as Whitefire chased a mare behind a small clump of trees. Soon thereafter, the stallion reappeared, reared up on his hind legs, and whinnied triumphantly. It was done: another mare carried the seed of the prized horse.
Strange feelings and emotions began to course through her as she watched the mares, her mind remembering the animal that had raped her. But deep within her she felt a need for tenderness, for love. She wondered if she could love. Was love the same as lust? What the Mongol did to her, was that the way love happened? Underneath it all, was it just a matter of copulation? She couldn't and wouldn't believe that was all there was to it.
That night two lovers stole into the barn under cover of darkness, unaware of her gaze. How sweetly they embraced each other and how passionately they vowed their endearments in husky murmurings. As quickly as they had appeared, they were gone, leaving a wide-eyed Katerina staring after them.
Her heart fluttered in her chest at the thought of the young couple. She wanted desperately to be held, to be kissed tenderly and gently. No man will want me now, not after the Mongol ravaged me, she cried silently. She felt confused and afraid. If only it hadn't happened that way, if only . . .
Forcing her mind to think of other things, she walked back to the hut to tell her father the colts were well and running in the fields, healthy young Cosars.
Excitement began to build in the village as each passing day brought the buyers one day closer. This year the thought of the buyers coming for the Cosars held no appeal for Katerina. Something was missing in her life, and she couldn't come to terms with the alien feeling. Throwing herself into her work, she toiled during the day and then rode Bluefire across the plains for hours to clear her head, and still the aching feeling stayed with her.
Someday, somewhere, she would find what she was looking for, and when she did, she would know it, she was sure of it. As always when the thought entered her mind, the Mongol was right behind, mocking her with his dark eyes. Then she would wonder . . . would she know, would she really know?
Chapter 4
W
ord spread quickly through the villageâCzar Ivan's emissary would be arriving any day now. To Katlof, he was just another buyer, but his people were always impressed when the Czar's man came to Volin. They knew if it was not for the Cosars, a nobleman would never set foot in this part of the steppe.
ord spread quickly through the villageâCzar Ivan's emissary would be arriving any day now. To Katlof, he was just another buyer, but his people were always impressed when the Czar's man came to Volin. They knew if it was not for the Cosars, a nobleman would never set foot in this part of the steppe.
Katerina was glad that she had managed to keep outward appearances normal during the past weeks, but inside she was depressed, lonely, and hurt. She hoped her father wasn't aware of her inner turmoil, and since he hadn't asked if anything was wrong, she knew she was playing her part well.
Maybe the arrival of the Czar's emissary would distract her from her thoughts for a few days. She wondered what the man would look like. Would he be any different from the grouchy, businesslike nobles that came before him, who selected the horses, settled on a price, and were gone?
When breakfast was over and the hut was in order, she dressed and headed for the barn. Tending the brood mares, Katerina heard a commotion outside the barn. “Yaschu, what's going on?”
“One of the riders just rode into the village with news of the emissary from Moscow.”
“What news?”
“The rider said the Czar's buyer is on his way and should arrive within the hour.”
Katerina felt a stir of anticipation, but paid it no mind and went back inside, content to care for the horses.
From outside the barn she heard someone shout, “They're here!” Putting aside her work, she left, looking for her father, and found him standing at the front of the village, waiting for the emissary. Two men approached quickly on horseback. Katerina walked to her home, deciding to wait and watch from there, knowing her father didn't like to be disturbed when he was conducting business.
Katerina's sharp eyes noticed that this buyer was younger than his predecessors. From his horse the emissary looked down at her father and said, “I'm looking for Katlof Vaschenko. Can you tell me where I might find him?”
At the sound of his deep, vibrant voice, Katerina felt her heart pound. She could see him clearly now, in his crimson jacket and black trousers. The shine from his leather boots winked in the bright sunlight as he moved to dismount the graceful brown Arabian. Respectfully, as the Kat identified himself, he removed the pointed black cap resting rakishly on his head. “Yuri Zhuk, emissary to Czar Ivan, and this man is Gregory Bohacky with whom I've been visiting,” Yuri said, motioning to his comrade. “Gregory comes from Kiev and is a cousin of the Czar's. He also wishes to purchase pure whites. Gregory will observe the herd now and make his final selection during midsummer,” for he must leave immediately.
Katerina drew in her breath as she watched Yuri dismount and walk toward her father. The Russian extended a long, muscular arm and handed Katlof a rolled piece of parchment to read. The Kat raked his eyes over the crackling paper and nodded slightly. He was proud of his rare ability to read, having learned it as a boy from a priest. It had stood him in good stead more than once and he had encouraged most of the Dons to become literate as well.
His voice carried to Katerina. “The Czar shall have one thousand horses by the end of spring, but only if he pays the price I ask. There will be no haggling and no bargaining. Do you have the money with you?”
“Czar Ivan said the money will be paid on delivery of the horses,” came the low, husky reply.
“And the Kat says not one horse leaves until the money is paid . . . in advance,” came the cold, firm reply.
“The Czar wishes me to remind you that the price is not what was originally agreed on. He wishes to know why the price has doubled.”
“The price has doubled because I wish it. If there are more words between us, the price will triple.”
Yuri Zhuk, emissary to Czar Ivan, looked at the leader of the Cossack village with smoldering eyes and knew he would pay whatever the amount was for the horses sired by Whitefire. “Agreed,” Yuri said curtly. “I'll make my selection tomorrow at dawn, when the horses are at their best.”
“The matter is settled then,” the Kat said briskly. “The following day you will leave here with a signed contract for one thousand horses. This evening you will have supper in my house.” With a curt nod of his head, the Cossack chief walked away, leaving Yuri to stare after him.
Oles, one of the young men from the tribe, told him in cool, jeering tones that he was to remain in the Kat's house until dinner.
Yuri's dark eyes were angry, and his jaw tightened at what he considered the Cossack's crude manners. He straightened his slim shoulders as he followed the Cossack. How sure they were; how confident they appeared. Here he stood, an emissary from Czar Ivan, and he was being treated with thinly disguised insolence and mocking superiority. Tales of Cossack fierceness were widespread, as were the tales of the Kat's horses. The Cossack, in Yuri's view, had no equal. Some people were born to royalty, like himself, while others were born to be a Cossack. Yuri knew instantly he would have given his life's blood to have been born a Cossack.
A wild whoop of laughter split the air. Yuri turned to watch as a group of young Cossacks mounted their horses and rode the length of the dusty road, their weapons thrust in front of them. It must be some sort of drill, he thought to himself. For an hour he watched as horses and riders cavorted on the sleek white horses, animal and rider one, each magnificent beast perfectly attuned to the man on his back.
Weapons drawn, the equestrians charged at each other with split second timing. A moment before impact, a rider would slide beneath his horse and come up, weapon flicking the air, from the horse's right flank. To Yuri's amazement, no weapon ever touched another, nobody was unseated during the drill. A pity these men did not fight for the Czar. They were a race, a people, an entity unto themselves. No soldier, no warrior, no matter how experienced, would wish to go to battle against a Cossack.
At a sound from behind, Yuri turned to see a girl with hair the color of burnished copper in the doorway of a hut. Her heavily fringed, slanted eyes shone like rich amber. Yuri's eyes widened appreciatively. Cossack women were more beautiful than he had imagined. Her tawny skin intrigued him, as did the doe eyes. Mongol blood must run in her veins, he told himself as he smiled at her and bowed graciously. “Yuri Zhuk, at your service.”
Katerina inclined her head slightly, her breath quickening at his show of good manners. Not one of the young Cossacks would bow to her or show her respect in any way. Women were to be used and good for nothing else. It wasn't only the Mongol on the steppe who held that opinion. This man looked at her with approval and liked what he saw.
The thick lashes fell over her high cheekbones as she advanced a step and stood looking up at him. “I am Katerina Vaschenko. The Kat is my father. He asked that I show you around our village before supper, if it is agreeable to you,” she said hastily.
“Only if you promise to tell me about the Cossacks.” He grinned, showing even white teeth, his voice deep yet melodious.
Familiar with the company of the boisterous, fun-loving Cossack youths, who did nothing but taunt her and tell her wild, gory tales of what they were going to do to her when she came of age, Katerina felt at a disadvantage with this tall, muscular man. Her cheeks flushed a bright crimson as she pictured what he would look like stripped to the waist. Would he be as masterful and powerful as the Mongol? Would his arms hold her as tightly . . . She shook her head to clear it, and forced herself to look into the Russian's eyes. Her tongue moistened her dry lips as she imagined his nude muscles moving in his powerful back as he hunched his shoulders to make himself more comfortable in her presence. She wanted to feel the wide, sensuous mouth on hers. Swallowing hard, she tried to force herself to ignore such wanton thoughts, but found herself mesmerized by his dark, smoldering eyes as they stared deeply into hers. What would his lean, hard body feel like next to hers? How would his hands feel on her flesh? Why was he looking at her like that? Surely he couldn't read her mind, or could he? Or was it that he was thinking the same thing? The moment she saw him ride into the village, she knew he was different. She had to do something, say something. How long was she going to stand and stare at him like some ignorant child? “If you'll come with me,” she said, her voice soft and thick with emotion.
They walked from one end of the village to the other, each aware of the other, deliberately keeping a space between them. Katerina knew that if her arm so much as touched his, she would crumble and faint. She was petrified at this strange feeling that was taking hold of her.
At last she risked a sideward glance in his direction when he turned to look at a small watering pond for the new colts. A sheaf of dark hair fell low on his wide forehead. His nose was straight and chiseled, his jaw lean and square, with a pronounced cleft in his chin. He didn't have the full cheeks of other Russians, and his skin was weathered but not rough like the Cossack youths'. He sported no beard or mustache, reflecting an individual who dared to defy fashion. Her heart thundered as she imagined his cheek next to hers before their lips met in a searing, passionate kiss.
Katerina stumbled and would have fallen if Yuri hadn't reached out a strong arm to grasp her and bring her closer till she was steady on her feet. Leaning against him, her breathing labored, she laid her head on his broad chest and listened to the furious pounding of his heart. She raised clear amber eyes and looked directly into his as the tip of her tongue again moistened her lips, his eyes pulling her into their depths. Katerina felt him stiffen as she brought her head up till her face was inches from his. I should do what the other girls do, flutter my eyelashes, smile, and tease him with my eyes, she thought. It was impossible, and Yuri wasn't one of those loutish young boys that . . .
Katerina felt her body forced back slowly till she was against the wall of the stable. Like a hungry child, she raised her mouth and waited for the feel of the Russian's lips. Her body was feverish, and she felt her breasts grow taut beneath the thin fabric of her sarafan. She strained toward him and felt a hard yet gentle hand slip beneath her bodice. Fire raced through her as she sought to fullfill her newly aroused hunger. She arched her back, and soft moans escaped her as she felt the hardness of his manhood against her thigh. Katerina felt herself soar as her breasts fought and strained against the fabric that held them prisoner. Her inner heat threatened to consume her until in the dim recesses of her mind, she heard her name being called. She tore her mouth from Yuri's, her eyes glazed and full of wanting. “I . . . I have . . . I have to . . . go back.” Turning, she tripped and ran, her body welcoming the light breeze that wafted about her. “Oh, what did I do? How did I . . . I just saw him for the first time . . . oh, God! . . . I don't care,” she cried as she raced indoors and slammed the door behind her, her hands clapped to her flaming cheeks.
Yuri, his chiseled features calm, watched as Katerina raced back to her father's house. The disturbing ache in his nether regions stayed with him. When it became a violent pain, he would do something about it. For now, it wasn't so uncomfortable that he couldn't live with it. The promise of exquisite release would soon be his.
The meal was silent. Katlof Vaschenko ate the thick cabbage soup without lifting his eyes from the bowl. When he finished, he wiped his mouth on the sleeve of the coarse tunic he wore. He leaned back and eyed the Russian with open suspicion. “There was no need for you to make the journey to this village. The Czar was aware of my demands and agreed to them at the time the mares were bred. When you return to your post to report to the Czar, you will deliver a message . . . from the Kat. No more visits. The horses will be delivered on schedule. For many years now, all of Russia has tried to steal our horses, tried to steal our breeding secrets. I'm the only one who knows the secret,” he lied, “and I will carry it to my grave. The crossbreeding of the Cosars has been our livelihood for centuries and will never be divulged to anyone, and that includes the Czar. The stallions are not kept here on the steppe; after they impregnate the mares they are taken away. I'm telling you this so there won't be any need for you to creep among our people, as the last man did, to try to learn by deceit and trickery what isn't to be told. There aren't any stallions here except those that have been castrated,” he lied. “Tales of your ferocious Czar have filtered here, and it would be wise if you tell him that the Don as well as the Terek Cossacks are not happy with the tales of his mass murders of people and his lunatic ways. For now, his only thought is to have my Cosars. If it weren't for my horses, he wouldn't have a cavalry. Remind him of this matter when you return.”
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