Wind Dancer (4 page)

Samuel held out his hands. “I'd be happy to oblige your questions, miss, but could we dispense with the weaponry? I'm not generally given to harming women.” He looked questioningly at the Indian, who nodded his agreement. Julian and Quiet Fox
lowered their weapons but kept them easy and ready at their sides.

Isabelle kept the weapon trained at him in silent challenge. For a long, quiet moment, they just stared at one another. Finally she shrugged one shoulder and lowered her weapon. Then she laughed. “But you'd harm a man, I dare say.” She stared at him, her chin poking out defiantly as she brazenly teased in a low voice, “You have harmed more than few men, I would guess.”

He only stared back. This man would not be the easy conquest of a few batted eyelashes. Here was someone with more substance. How much more was still to be discovered, causing a thrill to rise inside of Isabelle at the thought of it.

He took a step closer to her. It was as if they were alone and neither of them could tear their eyes off the other long enough to see the reactions of those with them.

In a deep voice he responded to her needling. “Stories that would curl your toes, miss. Maybe you will be able to coax them from me … someday.”

A slow smile spread across her face and coursed all the way through her body. “Perhaps our acquaintance will lend itself to such discourse, sir. Perhaps not.”

Before he had time to respond, Julian interrupted their banter. “Isabelle, you have only just met the man.” Stretching out his hand toward Samuel, he said, “Julian Renoir. We travel west from Vincennes to Kaskaskia on a mission of old books. Please excuse my sister's brazen manners. She is spoiled, I'm afraid. And you, sir?”

“Samuel Holt. Traveling to Kaskaskia also.”

He shook hands with her brother, who was looking at the big man with the wide-eyed beginnings of hero worship. When Mr. Holt turned toward Quiet Fox, he paused. Isabelle looked back and forth between them. Their guide had gone very still
and did not look Mr. Holt in the eyes. Did they know each other? Samuel seemed to recover first and turned toward her expectantly, as if waiting for her to explain her mystery further.

Isabelle had no such intentions. Let him wonder … and wait. But she relented enough to give up her name. Reaching for his hand as her brother had, she said, “Isabelle Renoir.”

She found herself holding her breath as he reached out toward her. His handshake was firm, his grasp wrapping warmly around hers, making her feel small and trapped. She let go, wanting to break the contact, and stepped back from him. “If you are heading to Kaskaskia, then we should travel together,” she said despite her misgivings.

Samuel seemed to consider her words, then replied in a voice so deep she felt it more than heard it. “Yes.” He nodded. “I think perhaps we should.”

In the aftermath of the storm, the air was mercifully cooler, the light kind and soft with the promise of summer's twilight. The four fell into line—Samuel leading, the Renoirs in the middle, and Quiet Fox, a brooding frown in his eyes and a tight grip on his rifle, taking up the rear. Julian trailed behind Samuel's long-legged stride, matching it the best he could with shorter legs and untried lungs, the combination of which quickly put an end to the questions he had attempted to ask Samuel when they started out. It was soon clear to all of them that Samuel moved faster and more efficiently than even Quiet Fox, who seemed to be stumbling along behind them.

Isabelle studied Samuel Holt with growing interest. He was dressed in the lean manner of the frontiersman, a loose-sleeved, linsey-woolsey shirt hanging with effortless grace from his broad shoulders. A slim cord of leather around his neck disappeared beneath the open collar of his shirt, hiding whatever hung on the end. Honey-colored buckskin leggings clung to his thighs and blended into buckskin boots, like long moccasins that graced his feet and calves. Weapons and ammunition hung everywhere
on his person. A long, wicked-looking knife was tied down to his right thigh; another smaller one on his right calf was attached by a scarlet ribbon. A tomahawk was slung from his belt, which also held a water cask. To complete the picture was the Kentucky long rifle grasped like an extension of his right hand and appearing to weigh no more than the powder horn slung across his chest which hung to one side just above the shot pouch.

She couldn't pull her gaze from the way his body moved over the land, supple muscle climbing, striding, vigilant and protecting, pushing through the dense marshland in front of them, showing the way. But there was more to this man—some indescribable quality of strength that, for the first time Isabelle could ever remember, made her see him as more than a match for her own abilities. She was shocked by the thought, but instead of resenting him for it, instead of wanting to prove herself against him like any other man of strength she had met in the past, she wanted to trust in it, simply to rest in the knowledge that he went before. She found it … oddly comforting.

She smiled a little, her breath measured to match her footsteps, pacing her strength for this long endurance race, wanting to impress Mr. Holt. But she also knew that the moment she said she needed a rest, he would stop.

As they walked, every so often Samuel turned his head as if to judge how his traveling companions were keeping up, and at times his gaze would meet hers. She could sense in his eyes the same feelings she was experiencing, the interest and admiration. But something else lay deeper in his gaze—a disquiet, an old wound. Then he would turn from her and face the wilderness again and a danger known.

Just as darkness was settling over them they stopped. With trembling in her legs and a great sigh of relief, she sank down against the smooth, white bark of a sycamore tree. Samuel had
pushed them until they found this small circular clearing and a wide stream to refresh them a short distance away.

Isabelle closed her eyes, breathed deeply of the moss-moist air, and allowed her thoughts to wander randomly over the events of the day. She drifted off, the feel of fringed buckskin almost real against her hand. The next thing she knew, Julian was waving a piece of jerked beef beneath her nose and saying in a singsong voice, “Wake up, sleeping beauty. 'Tis time to cook for us.”

Isabelle slapped away his hand and the awful smelling meat, but a smile hovered around the corners of her lips. “In truth you are a better cook than I am, and you know it, Julian. Let me rest.” But she opened her eyes a crack and studied the activities of the others. Samuel was building what looked to be a lean-to out of thin branches, some from the ground, some recently cut from surrounding birches and hickory trees, the leaf-filled limbs of which would create a break against the night air. Quiet Fox had still not returned from the stream, but Isabelle was used to his sudden disappearances and thought little of it. Someone had set up a trivet over a small cooking fire, and suddenly eager for some honey-sweetened tea and a hunk of crusty bread, Isabelle rose and dusted off her skirts.

Soon the three of them sat around the fire, eating the mostly cold supper, passing around a loaf of bread, some jerked meat, and chewing contentedly. Isabelle's tea was finally ready, and as they only had two cups between them, she offered hers to Samuel.

Samuel smiled up at her as she held out the tin cup. “There's plenty of fresh water at the stream. You keep it.” He patted his water canteen. “I need to fill up anyway.”

Isabelle shook her head, insisting. “I'm good at tea.”

Samuel considered her offer for a long moment, then nodded, a smile in his eyes, taking it from her hand and draining it in one
long gulp. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then grinned at her, handing the cup back. “It's good. Thank you.”

Isabelle frowned, a line pressing between her brows. “You couldn't possibly taste it like that.” She took the cup out of his hand and walked away, hearing Samuel's small chuckle dog her heels. She refilled the cup from the small pot by the fire then walked back to him, sinking down in front of the frontiersman, the edges of her skirt covering his feet.

“Like this,” she promised with a sly smile. She put the cup to her mouth and inhaled the steam. Looking over the metal rim, she tilted the cup slowly back, tasting the sweet honey, the rich, black tea her father had brought back from New Orleans just for her. She tilted her head back a little more with the next sip, showing him the long column of her throat. Then she lowered the cup and gave him a slow smile.

“You see?” She feigned sudden innocence as she held the cup out to him. Who had taught her this? She didn't know.

Samuel looked to be torn between trying not to laugh and remembering to breathe. He nodded at her though, took the cup in his hand, sniffed at the steam, and then took a giant gulp, nodding. “You're right, miss. That was much better.”

She made an irritated noise and pressed her lips together, considering him with her head tilted a little to one side.

Samuel grinned suddenly and grasped her hand. “I'd rather watch you drink it.” He said it in that voice—that low, silky voice that made her knees go to water. She found herself blushing, something she couldn't remember ever doing in her life.

Isabelle pulled her hand from his grasp, turning brisk. “Well, as you're such a slow pupil, I'm afraid the lesson was lost on you. You are a hopeless … male.” She stood, wishing to retreat as quickly as possible.

Samuel nodded and grinned, biting off a hunk of the dried
beef she had given him. “I surely must be, miss, as you are the best teacher I have ever seen.”

He was making fun of her! She turned her back on him and stalked over to her forgotten plate. Every time she glanced in his direction, he was staring at her and smiling.

“It is good. Did you dry it?” Samuel shouted over to her, holding up the beef.

A memory of her mother and Julian working in the smokehouse flashed through her mind. She had been target-shooting at the time. “I believe Julian helped dry that batch. I only brought home the buck.”

Humor lit his eyes. “A worthy contribution.”

She smiled back, softening a little. Not many of her acquaintances would praise her for that particular skill.

She covertly watched him finish his meal, watched him take long pulls on his water cask and wipe his mouth with the back of his sleeve, watched him brush away imaginary crumbs, then stand and stretch. He helped clean the dishes and pack them away, then directed Julian as to the finishing touches on the lean-to.

It was full dark when she decided she would speak to him again. “I am going to the stream. I could refill your water.”

Samuel nodded while unwinding the leather strap from his belt. “Have a care. The woods are full of the spying ears, British and Indians alike.”

She nodded, taking the strap tightly in hand with the two she already carried for Julian and herself. She picked up her long rifle and looked at him over her shoulder. “I can take care of myself.”

* * *

AMID THE SURROUNDING stillness of night, the water tripped lightly over the river rock, each trickle melodious and calming.
Isabelle crossed, barefoot, to the grassy bank, then the water's edge. A nearly full moon reflected yellow on the rippling surface.

Squatting down, she submerged Samuel's cask, allowing it to bubble and fill, closing her eyes, enjoying the cool night air and the musical water. A song hummed inside her, growing, then straining to get out. Giving into it, she began to hum softly as she filled the other two casks.

It happened like this sometimes, rare moments that she treasured. She rose, the canteens forgotten on the bank, beauty bursting inside her. Swaying to the sounds of the water and the sounds within her head, she smiled and allowed the feeling to encompass her. The music soon took over, making her forget where she was and what she was doing. Eyes closed, head back, her hair heavy on her back, she drank in the wind song, the tree song, the water song, the song of living things, harmonizing with the rich tones coming from her throat. Her arms twined over her head, her hips swaying gently. Her feet moved with the natural, sweeping grace of a world-class ballerina.

Words came, unbidden. Words of praise. Words of wonder for the beauty of the night and the joy she felt within. “
O Holy One
,” she sang, her feet flying, then her back bending until she faced the sky, her arms upraised, her hair touching the ground behind her. It was almost as if she could see the angels as they looked down from their place in the heavens. She could just imagine their voices joining in, giving her words and then taking them, taking her earthly attempts and combining it with their higher heavenly sounds to make beautiful incense that she imagined would rise up into the very throne room of God. Never did she feel so fully alive and complete.

It swept her away into another world, a world that she touched only on rare occasions such as this.

So she danced. In the light of the moonlight, in the reflection of the water and the moon. In the thick, heavy air of God's glory.

* * *

SAMUEL WAS ARRANGING his bedding crossways at the entrance to the lean-to where Isabelle and Julian would sleep when a sudden foreboding crept into his consciousness. He looked up from his squatted position into the trees, squinting his eyes, searching everywhere for the source of his uneasiness. He didn't know how or why he sensed these things, but he trusted his instincts. Standing, he noted Julian already asleep inside his bedroll to one side of the lean-to. The boy was worn through. Quiet Fox had wandered off without a word to anyone and still had not returned. Isabelle had not come back from the stream. He had assumed she had personal needs to attend to aside from filling up the canteens, but she had been gone much longer than that should take.

While he was taking in the surroundings, his hands were feeling for his weapons, finding his tomahawk on his belt, his knife sheathed against his thigh. Picking up the long rifle, he headed into the woods toward the sounds of the water.

He heard her before he saw her.

Was that singing? Slowing, he approached the bank, alert for danger but finding nothing. As he broke free of the woods, he saw her. There, in the pale glow of the moon, she twirled and sang, her arms upraised, her feet flying. There were wet tracks of tears on her cheeks, reflecting silvery in the moonlight. She was so engrossed, so … free. Samuel had never seen anything like it. What kind of woman was this? Nothing like Sara, that was for sure.

A crashing noise broke from the trees to Samuel's right. His senses, so caught up in Isabelle, took a moment to comprehend what was happening. A wolf, snarling and grunting, had leaped from its hiding place and was bearing down with full force on the dancing woman. She stopped suddenly, facing the animal, comprehension dawning on her face in stages, turning from rapture to alarm.

Without thought Samuel raised his rifle, aimed, and shot. A yelping sound tore from the wolf's throat, but it kept moving toward her.

Unable to reload in time, Samuel dropped the weapon and sprinted toward the now-enraged animal. He grasped the hilt of his knife as he ran, knowing he would not reach her in time. Knowing that the wolf had every intention of killing her.

He watched, as in a daze or a dream, as Isabelle crouched down, wondering why she didn't run. His throat wanted to yell, “Run!” but no sound would come. As in a nightmare, he watched as the bloody animal leaped several feet through the air to land on top of the woman. He heard a great cry tear from her throat.

As he came upon them, Samuel plunged his knife into the side of the animal's belly but quickly realized that the wolf was already a limp pile of dead carcass. Isabelle rose from beneath it, like an Amazon, a Joan of Arc, a legend of old. She kicked the carcass off her, yelling and bloody. As she heaved the animal over, Samuel saw to his amazement another knife sticking out from the wolf's chest. She had stabbed it.

She stood over the animal, shaking and wild-eyed, her breathing fast and hard. “Is it—is it dead?”

Samuel went to her and grasped both her arms, wanting Isabelle to focus on his face so that he could calm her, all the while checking for injuries. It was hard to tell with the wolf's blood smeared all over her dress and face.

“Yes, it's dead. Are you hurt?”

Isabelle stared at him. He could see reality return, taking the place of the shock as she stared into his eyes. Suddenly, she was laughing. Small and low, then building into a deep laugh. It was a victor's laugh. With a whoop she threw herself into his arms and against his chest. “I killed it! I did. I did it!”

She turned her face up to his, then grew suddenly serious. “We are meant for each other, you know.”

Samuel gazed into her blood-smeared face and knew fear like he'd never known. His heart had yet to stop the wild pounding that had begun when he first saw the wolf. Now, as he looked down into her fierce countenance, he wondered if she wasn't a little mad.