Ride the Fire (6 page)

Zeus was restless, no doubt attracted to the mares, though neither appeared to be in season. The stallion stamped, snorted, dropped his phallus, his sleek body rippling with tension. He was unfamiliar with confined spaces, unused to the company of mares, though clearly eager for it. Nicholas led the stallion from his stall, knew it would not be long before Zeus covered both mares and mingled his more noble Arabian bloodlines with theirs.

“Behave yourself, boy. Mistress Stewart probably wouldn’t approve of what you’ve got in mind.”

By the time he had fed and watered the three horses, what little strength he’d had was gone. He walked slowly back to the cabin, cursing his weakness with each painful step. Only once in his life had he been so weak. No, then it had been far worse.

As soon as he opened the cabin door, the rich smell of fried pork made his mouth water and his stomach growl. How long had it been since he’d had a meal? She placed a wooden bowl on the table beside a spoon and a wooden tray of fried pork.

“It’s no’ much, but I thought it might help to build up your blood.”

Revived by a sudden onslaught of appetite, he sat, dug into the porridge, which was in truth but ordinary cornmeal mush. It was hot, almost too hot, but he was ravenous. Never had such simple fare seemed so delicious. He was aware of her gaze upon him as he ate. She watched him guardedly, stood well beyond his reach, as if she expected him to lunge for her at any moment. After what he’d done earlier today, he could not blame her. What had he been thinking? What had induced him to touch her? He emptied his bowl and ate several slices of pork before fatigue again began to overwhelm him. He swallowed his last gulp of tea, fought to stand. Then some part of him remembered his long-forsaken table manners.

“Thank you for breakfast, Mistress Stewart.”

He had just enough strength to spread his bedroll on the floor in the far corner before exhaustion claimed him. Bethie stopped to catch her breath, rubbed the ache in her back. The sky was clear blue, and the air held the first whispered promise of spring. In the forest, the beeches and maples had begun to bud. Soon cardinals, bluebirds and mockingbirds would return to nest in their branches and the forest floor would burst into flower. The long, cold winter was almost past.

She would need much more than this to see her through the night. She lifted another piece of wood onto the tree stump and swung the ax, let her mind wander.

A stew of rabbit and winter vegetables was cooking over the fire, the work of preparing dinner largely behind her. Master Kenleigh had caught the rabbit in one of his snares this morning, had dressed it and surprised her with it, handing it to her without a word.

Almost two weeks had passed since he’d arrived near death on her doorstep. He was getting stronger each day and would soon leave—and the sooner the better. Though he had not touched her again, his gaze followed her everywhere. She could feel his eyes upon her when she drew water from the well, cooked dinner, sat at her spinning wheel. Bethie did not like to be noticed by men. Nothing good ever came of it.

And although the two of them had reached a truce, it was an uneasy truce. They barely spoke a word to one another, yet she knew he wanted his weapons back, and he knew she was not going to return them until he departed. To his credit, he had not tried to take them from her, though she suspected he wanted very much to do just that. She had not really expected him to keep his promise.

He ought to be grateful. She had tended him, fed him, shared her medicines with him. What’s more, she continued to allow him to shelter under her roof. She might just as easily have forced him to sleep with his horse or demanded that he pack up his goods and gear and depart. Though he was still weak and sitting on horseback was painful for him, he’d not die from it.

Bethie lifted the ax, was about to swing again, when a sharp pain spread across her lower belly. She gasped, lowered the ax, pressed her free hand against the pain. Quickly the twinge lessened, began to pass.

Twas not yet her labor, at least she didn’t think so. She’d had pains like these before, though they were becoming more frequent now. Her mother, who had borne nine children, of which only Bethie had survived, had never shared with her the mysteries of birth, except to say it was a woman’s duty and God’s curse upon all women for the sins of Eve. And so Bethie did not know what to expect beyond great pain.

Without bothering to glance his way, she snapped at him.

“I dinnae fear hard work, Master Kenleigh.” She’d started to lift the ax again when his large hand closed over hers on the wooden handle.

The heat of his touch scorched her. She let go, stepped back, overwhelmed to be so near him. But when she looked up at his face, her breath left her.

He had shaved away his thick beard to reveal a face that was far bonnier than she could have imagined, with a strong chin, full lips and cheekbones that now seemed sculpted and high. His scar looked more prominent, a thin line of white that ran the length of his left temple and cheekbone. His blue eyes seemed larger, more penetrating. His hair hung damp and unbound to his waist, dark as a raven’s wing. He wore his new leggings and a fresh shirt of linsey-woolsey dyed a deep indigo blue. The ties at his throat were undone, exposing a sliver of tanned flesh and a mat of soft, dark hair. At his side in its sheath hung a knife—one she had not discovered among his possessions. She’d been afraid of him before, but now she was positively terrified. That was the only way to explain this strange and rapid beating of her heart.

Then it dawned on her. She felt her apron pocket. The pistol was still there.

“Aye, I could have taken it from you, but I did not.” He lifted a large piece of wood to the stump, lifted the ax, swung. The force of his blow split the wood cleanly in half, sent the pieces flying. “But an ax makes a deadly weapon, as well.”

He lifted another piece of wood onto the stump, raised the ax. Then in a blink, he turned toward her and hurled the ax end over end like a tomahawk.

Bethie gasped, heard it whistle past her, missing her by inches.

“I did not do this to frighten you,

Mistress Stewart, but to make a point. If I had wanted to kill you, I could easily have done so at any time—with the ax, the hayfork, the poker in your fireplace, this knife or my bare hands. It’s time you trusted me and gave up this foolishness.”

She looked up at him through terrified violet eyes, her breast rising with each rapid breath. Then color flooded her cheeks, and she seemed to find her tongue.

“L-let go of me!”

He released her, stepped toward the cabin, jerked the ax free from the log in which it was embedded. He had not intended to deal so forcefully with her, but the moccasin prints he’d discovered at the river, where he’d gone to bathe, had changed his mind. He needed his weapons back—for both their sakes.

“You’re lucky it was I who came upon you and not one of the Delaware warriors who just passed by a mile north of here. They had arrows, spears and rifles—more than a match for a woman with one pistol.”

She whirled toward him, both hands on her swollen belly. “You’re lyin’! You’re tryin’ to scare me!”

He smiled at her predictable reaction. “Why don’t you come with me? I’ll prove it. It’s a war party. They’re traveling fast and light northward, but it’s a good bet they know you’re here. I tracked them a short distance, far enough to be reasonably certain they won’t double back tonight.” He watched her eyes give play to her emotions—fear, suspicion, fury.

Nicholas kept the ax as he led her a short distance through lengthening shadows to the riverbank. Mindful of her condition, he asked her twice if she wanted to rest, but to her credit she shook her head and kept moving, pistol still in hand.

When he could hear the gurgling of water ahead, he motioned for her to stop and wait. Silently he moved through the trees, his senses alert for any sound or movement. He checked for new tracks, watching the riverbank beyond for anyone who might be lying in wait. Then he motioned her forward.

Though he could tell she was afraid, she quietly moved toward him.

He knelt, pointed to the overlapping tracks in the soft mud of the riverbank.

“About a dozen warriors,” he whispered.

“No women or children. A war party.”

She looked at the prints, looked at the moccasins on his feet. “How do I know you didna make those?”

Frustrated, he placed his right foot next to one of the footprints, placed his weight upon it. His footprint was much larger than the rest. “Satisfied?”

She shivered, pulled her gray cloak tight around her. He took her by the elbow, led her back to the cover of the trees.

“We need to get back before nightfall.”

She nodded, then turned toward him, held the pistol out to him. But fear and doubt lingered in her eyes.

“If you betray me . . .”

He took the weapon from her, checked the impulse to touch her cheek. “I gave you my word.”

Without speaking, they hurried back through the darkening forest toward the cabin. He stopped her before they reached the clearing in which it stood, made certain no one was hiding in the cabin or lurking in the barn.

“Get inside. I want you indoors in case I’m wrong and they come back this way.” He was surprised to hear himself speak such words. Since when had she become his problem?

“Master Kenleigh.” She smoothed her hands on her apron.

“Aye.”

“You’ll be sleepin’ in the barn from now on.” In a whirl of gray wool skirts, she turned and walked—or rather waddled—inside.

Nicholas grinned despite himself, amused. Then he looked down at the pistol, checked it, blew out a surprised burst of air.

The damned thing was primed and loaded.

Instead, she’d slept deeply—and dreamed of her real father. She’d seen his smiling face, had watched his callused hands as he made a doll of cornhusks for her, had heard his warm voice as he laid the doll in her arms.

That’s my good lass.

She stretched, yawned, wondered how much of her good night’s sleep was due to the presence of a certain armed and handsome Englishman in her barn—and not in her cabin. Having him out of the cabin had restored her sense of privacy. But hadn’t she also felt a wee bit safer knowing he was nearby?

She sat up, shook her head. That made no sense. He had frightened her out of her wits yesterday. Aye, he had. And in more ways than one.

When he’d hurled that ax, he’d moved so quickly she hadn’t even had time to react. She’d expected to look down and find its blade buried in her breast. But he hadn’t been aiming at her. If he had, she’d have been dead before she could scream.

Then, when the shock of it had turned her knees to water, he’d quickly wrapped a strong arm around her, kept her on her feet. The heat of his touch—and the way it made her feel—were as unnerving as any band of roving Indians. To think they had passed so close to her home . . . She shuddered.

Master Kenleigh had said he had been trying to make a point, and she’d believed at first that he sought merely to control her through fear. Then he’d led her through the forest to the riverbank, and she’d seen the truth for herself. He hadn’t been lying, at least not about that.

It was clear to her that he had spent much time living among Indians, had perhaps even been raised by them. She had never seen anyone move like that before—quiet and deadly as a cougar on the prowl. The sight of it had made her shiver, and she’d known she’d been right about him in at least one respect—he was dangerous.

She arose, feeling better rested than she had in weeks, dressed hurriedly in the chilly cabin, placed more wood upon the fire. She opened the door and was on her way to fetch water for washing and porridge when she found a bucket, already filled with fresh water, waiting outside the door.