Elizabeth Lane - Shawnee Bride

Wolf Heart raised an arm and waved. A lone paddler in one of the canoes waved back and, in a moment, the narrow craft had broken away from the others and was angling across the current, moving toward the bank.

Clarissa remained silent, her heart a pulsing knot of dread. Wolf Heart had not spoken to her in minutes-had not, in fact, even looked at her. He was all Shawnee now, every remnant of Seth Johnson buried beneath the visage of a warrior.

The canoe glided into the shallows. Its bow nosed up to the bank and crunched onto the sand. The brave wielding the paddle paused to rest, a grin spreading across his lean, pockmarked face.

“Tap-a-lot brother!” He greeted Wolf Heart, but his curious eyes were already devouring Clarissa in fascination. “You told us you were going to hunt bear. Is this a new kind of bear you have taken alive? No, it looks more like a fox! How splendid that red pelt will look on your bed!”

Wolf Heart scowled, his gaze flickering to Clarissa. She could not understand a word of what Cat Follower was saying, of course. But in the hours to come she would be the butt of many such good-natured jokes, and he silently ached for her. Yes, he lashed himself, he should have let her go while there was still time. Now it was too late.

“And what has become of your canoe?” Cat Follower’s grin widened, showing the gap of a missing tooth. “You look very wet, brother, as does your fox. Could it be that she spilled you both into the water? What a shame!”

“Never mind that,” Wolf Heart retorted a bit sharply. “It’s a long walk back to the village. Will your canoe carry all three of us?”

Cat Follower chuckled, one hand indicating the empty hull. “As you see, this was not a good day to go hunting. But my bad luck is your good luck. Since I have no game of my own, there is room for you, and for your whiteskinned fox, as well.”

“Then I owe you my thanks.” Wolf Heart nudged Clarissa toward the canoe. His fingertips brushed her back, feeling the fear in her taut muscles. This time, however, she did not try to fight or run away. She had no strength left.

He seated her in the prow of the canoe, then, pushing the craft off the sandbar, he slipped into place behind his friend and took up the spare paddle. Clarissa sat in rigid silence as the canoe glided into the current, her hair fluttering like a flame in the afternoon breeze.

Cat Follower’s wiry muscles rippled beneath his pockmarked skin as he guided the canoe. Years ago, his family had taken in a French trapper who had stumbled, delirious with fever, into their camp. The white man had recovered and moved on, but the sickness he carried had swept through the small Shawnee village. Only Cat Follower, then a youth of sixteen summers, had survived.

“What do you plan to do with her?” He was staring raptly at the play of sunlight on Clarissa’s hair.

“That is not for me to say.” Wolf Heart spoke around the painful tightness in his throat. “You know our law as well as I do. It is for the council to decide.”

“That will mean the gauntlet.” Cat Follower glanced back at Wolf Heart. “The council will demand it.”

“Yes, I know.”

“This one is not strong, brother. Look at her. She is as thin as a willow.”

Wolf Heart heard the note of caution in his friend’s voice, and he knew it was meant for him. Even for a man, the gauntlet was a brutal test. He could hardly expect a fragile, city-bred girl like Clarissa to weather such punishment.

Even so, as he watched her lean into the wind, her hair flying like a banner, Wolf Heart knew he could not abandon hope. “A willow bends,” he murmured quietly, “but it does not break.”

Clarissa heard the low voices behind her, speaking a tongue as alien as the chatter of wild geese or the baying of a wolf pack. The two men were talking about her—of that much she was certain. But maybe it was just as well she didn’t understand what they were saying. She was frightened enough as it was.

Her hands gripped the sides of the canoe as the slim craft sliced through a stretch of white water. The spray was cool on her skin, the canoe’s wild, careening plunges strangely exhilarating. Clarissa allowed herself to savor the moment. Soon, perhaps forever, all such pleasures would end.

With two paddlers, the canoe soon gained on its mates. Clarissa sensed the excitement among the other young braves as they turned to gaze at her, staring openly at her russet hair and pale skin. Resolving to be bold, she stared back at them. This, at least, gave her the opportunity to study her captors.

Earlier that day, she had observed that Wolf Heart, with his black hair and sun-burnished skin, could have passed for a full-blooded Shawnee. Now she saw how wrong she had been. He was far too large, for one thing. The Shawnee braves were compact and wiry, without an ounce of extra flesh on their bones. The rich coppery hue of their skins could never have come from the sun alone. The color seemed to glow in them, like light flickering beneath the surfaces of their bodies. For all the terror their sharp gazes struck in her, Clarissa had to admit that these Shawnee were beautiful people.

One of the braves called out, laughing. Wolf Heart’s reply was brusque, almost angry. What had the young man said? Had it been something about her?

She risked a glance back at Wolf Heart. He was sitting in the rear of the canoe, the muscles rippling in his arms as he drove the paddle into the water. His hair streamed back in glossy waves from his impassive face. What was he thinking? Why wouldn’t he look at her?

Fear tightened its cold grip on Clarissa’s throat. Her eyes gazed out at the sun-sparkled water. Her ears heard the laughter of the paddlers and the squawk of a passing crow. It was a sham, all of it, she knew. Death and danger lurked beneath the peace of this golden afternoon. Wolf Heart’s face had told her so.

The three canoes had drawn abreast now, and suddenly a shout echoed across the water. The braves leaned vigorously into their paddles. The canoes surged forward with a swiftness that made Clarissa gasp. It was a race! A race to the village!

She strained forward, caught up in spite of her fear. The canoe in which she was riding carried the most weight, and thus rode lowest in the water, but this handicap was balanced by the power of its paddlers. Even Wolf Heart had flung his strength into the contest, his mouth tightened in a grim line as he drove his paddle into the water.

The speed of the canoes became more labored as they turned into a narrow tributary of the Ohio. Now they were moving upstream. The bronze limbs of the young Shawnee gleamed with sweat. Their backs rose and fell with the strain of fighting the powerful current.

Just when it seemed they were all beginning to flag, the pockmarked brave behind her—Wolf Heart’s friend—started to sing. Clarissa felt the hair rise on the back of her neck as his thin voice rose to a high-pitched wail then dropped abruptly into a guttural, rhythmic chant that the other paddlers swiftly joined. The canoes surged ahead with renewed vigor, driven by the throbbing beat of the song.

Glancing back over her shoulder, Clarissa saw that even Wolf Heart was singing, although not with any great enthusiasm. She watched him furtively, her own spirit reflecting the blackness that had settled over him with the arrival of the canoes. If only she could talk with him, but that, she knew, would no longer be possible. He had withdrawn into his Shawnee self, and even now he was far beyond her reach.

Turning away from him, she gazed ahead to where the river curved and vanished behind a low, wooded bluff. A fresh breeze cooled her face. She inhaled deeply, flooding her senses with the faint but unmistakable aromas of wood smoke, roasting meat, tobacco and hominy.