Through the Fire (Native American Warrior series)

Through the Fire--Part Two

Mild breezes caressed Rebecca’s face, wafting the tang of wood smoke and the meaty aroma of roasting venison, nudging her from a place of no dreams. Spilling water gurgled. She must be near a stream. Earthy humus cushioned her beneath, and a woolen blanket covered her. She traced the cloth with her fingertips.

Her head ached. Groaning softly, she opened her eyes. Why was she lying sore and bruised on the forest floor? Perplexed, she stared at the branches of a great oak silhouetted against the saffron glow of the setting sun.

Men’s voices drew her. When had they made camp? She strained to understand their words. Why were they speaking in a foreign tongue?

Bewildered and frightened, she shifted gingerly onto her side, peering through smoky shadows at a series of campfires. Dear God. Warriors encircled each blaze. Memories of the ambush rushed back as she covered her mouth in a futile effort to stifle a cry.

All heads turned, and a host of dark eyes glinted in the firelight at her. So many, and they’d heard her now. She went rigid with dread, her heart pounding wildly.

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.”