Lovestorm (29 page)

Colin threw her an incredulous look. “Hide nor hair of
them.
Maybe the
In-di-ans
hiked up their pants and ran.”

“Shhh.” She gazed intently at the tree line. “You go to the back wall and watch,” she said. “In case they sneak up on us.”

He obeyed without a whimper, and a lump rose in her throat. Colin was only ten, but he was tough. Whatever happened, he would face the worst head on, eyes open, back straight. Papa would have been proud of you, she thought. You're a Gordon, through and through.

Christ's sacred wounds! Ten was too young to die. Too young to end up scalped or burned alive. If only Simon would come back—or some of his friends. She hadn't seen a hundred Indians out there, only a dozen or so. A few riflemen could drive them off before—

Suddenly, something white caught her attention. A brave stepped out of the woods waving a cream-colored deer hide. “Wife of Simon Brandt!” he called in perfect English. “Wife of Simon Brandt! This man, Fire Talon, would parley with you!”

“What do you want?” she shouted back.

“Surrender or we burn your house!”

Rebecca's mouth went dry, and she dug her nails into the musket stock. The brave was tall and muscular, not as tall as Simon, perhaps, but sleek as a mountain cat. He wore his hair long. Blue-black as the devil's own locks, it fell to his waist in shimmering waves.

He was too far away for her to see the color of his eyes, but she knew they would be black and cold as obsidian. His brows were slashes across a hawklike face; his high prominent cheekbones were marked with yellow and black war paint. He was half-naked in the cold; his chest was bare, adorned with heathen bear claws. A wide band of copper encircled one sinewy bicep, and a single eagle feather dangled from the back of his head to trail insolently against his naked shoulder.

His waist was as narrow as a girl's, his loins barely covered with a fringed loincloth. Leggings reached from mid-thigh to the tops of his moccasins. He carried no weapons, but she recognized him just the same. He was the first Indian she had seen splashing through the creek—the one she'd fired at from the top of the slope.

“Surrender, wife of Simon Brandt!” he thundered. “Surrender and you will not die this day!”

“Go to hell!” she replied, drawing a bead on the amulet in the center of his bear-claw necklace. Then she pulled the trigger, solidifying her position with a .75-caliber musket ball aimed two inches to the right, directly at his black heart.