Judith E. French (4 page)

The trapper lay on his back. A gash on his forehead was bleeding badly, and one arm was clearly broken. Fiona could see another wound just above his left knee. Nigel’s buckskin trousers had been torn, and the flesh was cut to the bone.

Fiona lifted the injured arm, feeling the extent of the break with gentle fingers.

“Stop the bleeding first,” Wolf Shadow said.

Her heart thudded wildly. She’d not heard him walk across the room, not seen him move from his position at the fire. Was it possible that he was a demon after all? She swallowed the lump in her throat as a prickly sensation ran down her spine. “Mother Mary protect me,” she whispered under her breath.

The Indian knelt by Nigel’s head and placed a handful of cobwebs on the swelling gash. “Bring snow,” he ordered. “We will pack the arm and leg to slow the bleeding.”

Fiona shook her head. “No,” she argued. “The bad blood must flow freely to cleanse the—”

“Do as I say, woman.”

She raised her eyes, and her gaze collided with his. The force of will was overwhelming, and her chest seemed suddenly tight.

Wolf Shadow had taken off the wolf’s head cape, and she could see that he was a light-skinned man in his prime. One muscular arm and sinewy shoulder were exposed through his hide wrap. A beaten copper armband encircled his bicep, and around his powerful neck hung a string of animal claws. His hawklike nose jutted between craggy cheekbones, and his compelling eyes glittered beneath brows as dark and sleek as a raven’s plumage. His upper lip was firm and thin; the lower one gave a hint of controlled sensuality. Thick, midnight-black hair was brushed back from a high, broad forehead to fall loosely around his shoulders.

He was beautiful ... and terrible .. and she was afraid.

Old Scat won’t come for you with cloven hooves and lashing tail
, her mother had warned. He’ll come in the
guise of a handsome man with a silver tongue and hands like silk.

Fiona wondered what that copper-gold skin would feel like if she touched it. The thought made her cheeks go hot and her nipples tingle against her coarse linen shift.

“Oh!” She gasped, clasping her hands together to keep them from trembling. The heat from her cheeks raced through her blood to cause the strangest sensation in the pit of her stomach.

What was wrong with her that she let this pagan savage affect her this way? Hadn’t she just seen him kill a man without the slightest remorse? Her mouth went dry. An hour ago she’d been in danger of rape and murder by the human beasts who lay on the cabin floor. Now she was safe from them, but her fate rested in the hands of a native barbarian. If Christian men could use her so cruelly, what could she expect from a wolf-man?

She had heard stories of Indian atrocities ... of scalping and mutilation ... of cannibalism. He’d told her he had come for her. Why would he do such a thing?

“The snow,” Wolf Shadow repeated, taking hold of her arm. “We must hurry before he awakens.”

His touch burned through her woolen sleeve. She pulled away, confused and more than a little frightened. As she glanced down at Nigel, the physician in her noted that the cobwebs had done the trick. The heavy bleeding from the cut on the trapper’s head had almost stopped.

Wolf Shadow regarded her expectantly, and she hurried toward the door. He began to cut away the buckskin around Nigel’s injured leg.

By the time Fiona had packed Nigel’s wounds with snow and heated more snow to make water, Wolf Shadow had pressed the trapper’s arm bone into place and bound it with cloth from Karl’s shirtsleeve. Fiona watched with approval as the Indian cut bark from the inside of the logs to use as splints. Then he tied Nigel’s ankles together and fastened his uninjured arm tightly against his waist.

“The wound on his head is not deep enough to kill him,” Wolf Shadow said. “He will be dizzy for a few days, but it will heal.”

“It should be stitched,” Fiona insisted. “If I had a needle and thread ...” She sighed. It was useless. There was nothing in the crude cabin that would serve to sew up the gash.

“To sew the edges together would make a bad scar,” Wolf Shadow said. “The cobwebs stopped the bleeding, and the snow cleaned the wound. I have bandaged it. For such as this one ...” He nudged Nigel with a moccasined toe. “We have done enough for him.”

Wolf Shadow had dragged Karl’s body to the far corner of the cabin, closed the trapper’s eyes, and covered him with a deerskin. Fiona rolled a fur and put it under Nigel’s head, then tucked hides around him to keep him from freezing. Nigel was semiconscious and alternately cursing and moaning.

Fiona was so tired she could hardly keep her eyes open. She felt light-headed, and her stomach growled from hunger. She couldn’t remember when she’d eaten last ... was it just this morning?

She washed her hands and face in some of the warm water and wrapped the blanket around her. There was no chair, and the only bench had been destroyed by the mules, so she sat as close to the fire as she could and leaned sleepily against the hearth. Her eyes seemed to have sand in them; the more she rubbed them, the more they stung.

“Sleep,” the Indian said, coming to stand beside her. “I will keep watch.”

“And who will keep watch on you?” she asked with more courage than she felt. The weariness dragged on her muscles and spirit. She covered her face with her hands. “I’m sorry,” she said. “You’ve done me no harm. It’s just that ...” Tears welled up and blurred her vision. “If you mean to ravish and murder me, could you do it and get it over with?”

He chuckled and sat down, legs crossed. He held out his big hands to the warmth of the flames. “For a wise woman, you do not listen well. I mean you no harm.”

She closed her eyes and heard the wind howling around the cabin. “What will happen to the mules? Will the wolves eat them?”

“Mules are tough.”

“But ...” Her eyes snapped open. “You were the wolves, weren’t you? You made the howling?”

He shrugged.

“And the snow ... the snow that fell down the chimney and put out the fire ... You did that too.”

He smiled, and she saw that his teeth were as white as sun-bleached clamshells. Good teeth were rare in men or women. It had never occurred to her that savages might have teeth so straight and white. She closed her eyes again to think of what she wanted to ask him, and when she opened them again, it was morning.

Nigel’s swearing woke her. Her neck and back were so stiff, she felt as though she’d slept in an oyster barrel. Absently, Fiona rolled her head to ease the soreness, then suddenly the memory of what had happened the night before flooded over her. She came to her feet and glanced around the room. The wolf’s head cape lay folded on the table. The Indian was nowhere in sight.

“Damn you to hell, bitch, let me loose,” Nigel demanded. He raised his head and strained against his bonds. “Let me loose before thet Injun comes back and scalps us both.”

As she stood there, not knowing what to do or say, the door opened. Outside, the storm had passed, and the sun sparkled off the new snow. Wolf Shadow stood in the doorway, one of the mules behind him.

“I found this one,” he said. “The others are long gone.” He knotted the mule’s rope to the door latch and entered the room. Slung over his shoulder was his musket. The mule moved sideways, and Fiona saw that the animal was loaded with several packs.

Wolf Shadow crossed to the table and picked up his wolf’s head cape, and Karl’s pistol and powder and shot bag. He tucked the pistol in his belt and pulled the cape over his head and shoulders. “It is time we left,” he said to Fiona. He held out a bronzed hand to her.

“Are you out of your mind?” Nigel screamed at Fiona.

Wolf Shadow glanced down at Nigel. “I will place a knife on the hearth. You should be able to cut yourself loose in time. I’m leaving you enough supplies to live on until your wounds heal.”

“You murderin’ bastard,” Nigel yelled.

Wolf Shadow raised his eyes to Fiona’s. “Come,” he said softly. “Trust me, Irish Fiona.”

She took a deep breath and looked at white man on the floor. Devil or savage, the wolf-man had treated her better than Nigel. Hesitantly, she took one step toward Wolf Shadow and then another.

“Your scalp will be hanging from an Injun lodgepole,” Nigel warned.

Fiona took another step and put her trembling hand in Wolf Shadow’s. “Be you Beelzebub himself, I’d sooner put myself in your care than his,” she said, indicating the bearlike trapper.

The wolf-man smiled. He tucked his arm in hers as smoothly as any highborn gentleman and led her out into the bright, cold morning. He lifted her up onto the dun mule between the packs, and Nigel’s and Karl’s muskets, then tucked the scarlet blanket around her. Taking the mule’s reins, Wolf Shadow led them off into the thick woods.

Fiona squared her shoulders and stared straight ahead ... never once looking back. “Better Beelzebub himself,” she murmured softly. And her heart leaped in her breast as she remembered the unspoken promises in the depths of his dark eyes.

F
or a long time the wolf-man led the mule silently through the stillness of the snow-bound wilderness. Giant trees reared from the forest floor to tower overhead in majestic grandeur, trees so thick and tall that they seemed to Fiona to be relics from the ancient days of the legendary Irish hero, Conn of the Hundred Battles. Sunlight filtered through the dry leaves and intertwined branches to glisten off the pristine carpet of white, drifted snow.

The glare hurt Fiona’s eyes and made her squint against the brightness. The air was so cold and pure that she could taste the bite of evergreen with every breath she drew. Her nostrils and tongue tingled with the scent and flavor of pine and cedar. Her head felt light, yet she continued to inhale the clean air deeply, letting the untainted forest purge her body and mind of the terror she had experienced in the trappers’ cabin.

Reason returned. Fiona fingered her amulet and murmured her mother’s words under her breath.
Any wish ... unto the power of life and death
. She sighed, wondering if the charm had saved her. She hadn’t wished ... not aloud, anyway. Did it matter?

The slightest sound escaped her throat, and her eyes opened wide as the wolf-man stopped and turned to stare at her. Her body stiffened, and her hands clutched the mule’s cropped mane. For an instant, the Indian’s gaze locked with hers; she felt her cheeks grow hot and lowered her eyes. His immobile expression softened, and he smiled at her. Without speaking, he turned again and began to lead the mule forward.

Ripples of fear ran up and down her spine. She caught her lower lip between her teeth and sucked on it thoughtfully. In her joy to be shut of Karl and Nigel, she hadn’t fully considered what danger she might be in now. Her skin prickled, and she felt the hair rise on the back of her neck. How could she have been so foolish as to feel safe with this savage? She was still a captive ... a prisoner of a man who wore the skin and claws of a wild beast.

“Am I?” she asked, unwittingly voicing her apprehension aloud. Her words seemed to echo in the hushed forest, and the mule gave a start and plunged ahead a few steps. The man never altered his stride.

“Are you what?” he asked softly.

Again, Fiona was struck by the precision of his speech. Where had he learned the King’s English? Shouldn’t a savage—even one who could communicate in a civilized tongue—sound like a barbarian? “Am I your prisoner?” This time, her tone was controlled. The mule flicked its long ears, but it didn’t shy.

The Indian made no answer.

She wondered if he’d heard her. “I’ve no money,” she continued, “and no rich kin to pay my ransom. It would be an act of Christian charity to let me ...” Her words caught in her throat as she realized her mistake. He wasn’t a Christian. Fiona knotted her fingers into the mule’s bristly mane and swallowed the lump in her throat. “An act of human kindness,” she finished lamely.

Her captor purposefully turned left at a pine tree which looked to Fiona like every other pine tree and led the mule up a slight incline.

“I think it’s only fair that you tell me what you mean to do with me,” Fiona insisted with a sudden rush of bravado. “By Christ’s tears, if I’m to be murdered, I need to make my peace with God.”

“If I’d meant you harm, I’d have left you with your own kind.” He didn’t bother to look back at her, but his tone conveyed his annoyance.

“How do you speak English so well?” she demanded.

“How do you?”

Fiona felt her cheeks grow hot. It wasn’t anger she’d heard in his voice, it was amusement. In his own subtle way, he was laughing at her. “It’s not the same thing,” she insisted..“I’m ... I’m ...”

He glanced back over his shoulder at her. “You are Irish, not English. You have made this very clear to me. The English and the Irish have been enemies for time out of time. Is this not so?” His dark eyes sparkled with intelligence, and she shivered under their scrutiny.

“Yes.”

“If you have learned the tongue of your enemy, then why shouldn’t I?”

“But you speak the King’s English better than I do,” she protested. “At least your speech is more formal than my own.” She raised her chin a notch. “Sure and it’s unnatural.”

“Like a talking crow?” he flung back.

“No, but ...” She drew in a deep breath as her thoughts tumbled wildly. Her tongue felt clumsy—somehow detached from her brain. She’d always been known for her quick wit, for the ability to give better than she got.
A witch’s tongue in an angel’s face
, her grandsire had said.

Damn, but this wolf-man would try the patience of a saint! She glared at him, then felt her will weakening under the sensual impact of his sloe-eyed stare. Half-naked native or not, he was a great broth of a man.

If it weren’t for his slanting almond-shaped eyes and the granite ridges of his high sweeping cheekbones, this wolf-man could have stepped into a public house in Galway and been served a pint of beer without raising a single eyebrow in the room. His bronzed skin was no darker than that of many an Irish fisherman, and if he was tall and broad with muscles that rippled beneath his deerhide clothing, she had seen one or two men in Dublin that were near his size and beauty.

Aye, she mused. Dress him properly and cut his hair, and a woman could find little fault in his looks.

Wolf Shadow broke into her reverie. “Men say I have a gift for understanding the words of strangers. I know the language of the Iroquois, the French, and the Cherokee.”

By Mary’s veil, he was still laughing at her, she realized. His eyes danced with mirth even though his craggy features remained immobile. Fiona’s temper bubbled up, smothering her fear and curiosity. “You’re avoiding my questions,” she snapped. He played games with words. Even when he talked, he told her nothing she wanted to know. “What do you mean to do with me?”

He shook his head, and a smile played across his lips. “You are bold for a white woman, but your manners are as bad as those of your men. Did your father teach you nothing at his knee? Is it not customary among the Irish to offer thanks to one who has saved your life?”

“I do ... I mean ... A gentleman would not ask for thanks,” she sputtered. “And no, my father taught me nothing.” Bitterness turned her tone to ice. “He didn’t stay long enough.” She scowled. “I’m grateful for your help, of course, but I—”

“Wolf Shadow is no gentleman,” he corrected. “The word is from
gentle.
I am a warrior of the Shawnee and a shaman—a maker of spirit medicine. No one who knows Wolf Shadow would call him gentle.” He folded his arms over his chest, and his lips formed into a thin line. His eyes grew hard. “It is not Wolf Shadow who is the problem, Irish Fiona. It is you who are the problem.”

She stiffened. “If you will just take me to the nearest white settlement,” she began, “I would—”

He uttered a low sound of regret that needed no interpretation. “No. I cannot.”

“Why not?” A rush of dread spilled over her. He did mean to hold her as his prisoner! She was no better off now than she had been with Nigel and Karl. “Why can’t you?” she cried. “You don’t have to take me all the way—just show me the right direction. You have to let me go! I’ll be nothing but trouble to you—I can promise you that!”

“You are already trouble for me.”

Tears threatened, and she blinked them away. “I’ve done nothing to you! Why won’t you let me go?”

“Where, Irish? Where should I take you?”

“Philadelphia—Annapolis.” She wracked her mind for the names of American towns. “Boston. I don’t know. Anywhere. Any English settlement will do.”

“Ah.” He lowered his arms and nodded slowly. “I see. I am to return you to the English.”

“Yes. Of course.” She leaned forward, knotting her small hands into fists. “I have nothing to pay you with now, but later—when I earn money—I can give you a reward.”

“And if I take you back to the English, you will be free?”

“Yes. Well, not exactly, but—”

Wolf Shadow seized the mule’s bridle, moving so quickly that he startled Fiona into crying out. “Do not lie to me, woman! Never lie to me.”

His eyes were like glowing coals. Gooseflesh rose on Fiona’s arms as his angry gaze scorched her bare skin. “I’m not lying,” she protested.

“Jacob Clough sold you to the white trappers, but they did not take your indenture papers. You belong to Nigel or to Jacob. You are not free. You are a bondwoman.” Wolf Shadow let go of the bridle, turned away, and began to lead the animal through the woods again.

“Yes, but-”

He kept his eyes on the forest ahead. “This indenture makes you a slave. Yes or no?”

She wilted under his attack. “I’m not a slave,” she argued. “It’s not—”

“A Shawnee woman is a free woman. No man tells her to come or go, to give her body or not. I will take you to the Shawnee. There you will see what freedom is, Irishwoman. There you will know the difference between the Shawnee world and the white.”

“I don’t want to go with you,” she insisted, leaning forward over the mule’s bony withers. “If you take me south—to the Chesapeake—no one there would know I was indentured. I could change my name. Start a new life.”

Wolf Shadow quickened his pace, and the mule broke into a trot. “The English law will follow you,” he insisted. “Jacob Clough will declare you a runaway. You cannot hide your hair or your face. You say that you know medicine. How many red-haired women apothecaries are there? The law may not find you in the turning of a moon, or in a season, but they will find you, Irish Fiona.” He stopped and whirled on her. “They will take you back to Jacob Clough in chains, and he will give you to a man like Nigel again. Is that what you want?”

“You can’t hold me against my will! I’ll take my chances with—”

The mule suddenly threw up its head and snorted. It opened its mouth to bray, but Wolf Shadow caught the animal’s nose and mouth between his broad hands. He clamped down hard, cutting off the mule’s breath. Eyes rolling, the mule struggled to get free, throwing itself back on its haunches.

Fiona tumbled off into the snow, gasping as she got a mouthful. She scrambled up to see Wolf Shadow drawing his knife along the inule’s throat. Covering her mouth to keep from screaming, she watched, horrified as great gouts of crimson sprayed the white snow. The animal’s front legs buckled, and it went down, eyes already starting to glaze over.

“Why?” she managed. “Why did you—”

Wolf Shadow silenced her with a dire glance. The bloody knife flashed again, cutting free the guns and a pack containing powder and shot. “Come!” he ordered, extending a hand stained red with gore.

Fiona shook her head. Her knees felt as though they were made of water. Her lips formed the word no, but no sound came from her throat.

His fingers clamped around her wrist, and he brought his face so close to hers that Fiona could feel the heat of his breath on her cheek. “Run or die,” he whispered harshly, pulling away her red blanket and tossing it into a snowdrift.

She ran.

Her feet flew over the crusting snow as they sped downhill away from the dead mule. Leaping over fallen logs and ducking under branches, they fled through the still forest. Wolf Shadow never loosened his grip on her wrist as they ran. Despite the weight of the guns and pack he carried, Fiona could barely keep pace with him.

Run or die. Run or die.
His words thudded in her head like the ring of a blacksmith’s hammer on a steel anvil. Heart pounding, she ran until her side cramped, until she thought her lungs would burst. Her breaths came in rasping gasps, and no matter how hard she tried, she was lagging farther and farther behind.

Without warning, Wolf Shadow stopped. Too exhausted to think of the consequences, Fiona dropped to her knees and sucked in deep gulps of air. He let go of her wrist, and she stared up at him in confusion. Why had he changed from the hero who had rescued her to a madman? Why had he butchered the mule and started this mad dash through an endless forest? She had seen nothing, heard nothing that could cause him to take leave of his senses!

“Stay where you are,” he ordered. “Don’t move.”

She watched as he began to step backward in his own tracks, retracing their path for a hundred feet or more. Then he seized an overhanging cedar branch and pulled himself up into the tree. Astonished, Fiona waited, not daring to move from her spot.

There was a slight dusting of snow as Wolf Shadow made his way up into the cedar, and then the movement of the boughs showed him coming down. He lowered himself feetfirst from a branch and dropped to the ground. As he came toward her, Fiona could see that he had left the pack and one of the muskets behind in the tree.

He approached, and she noticed that he was still carefully walking in his own footprints. When he reached her, he offered his hand. It had been wiped free of blood. “Come. We must go.”