Elizabeth Lane - Shawnee Bride

Time passed, how much time Clarissa could not be sure, but all at once she was startled into full alertness by the rustle of the hide that covered the hut’s entrance. Firelight glimmered through the narrow opening, silhouetting a low figure that had come inside and was moving toward her.

“Wolf Heart?” The words strangled in her throat. This was not Wolf Heart. It was not anyone she knew.

Clarissa shrank into the darkness, muscles tensed to spring at the first sign of attack. “Don’t come any closer!” she hissed at the hunched, shaggy-looking form that was edging toward her. Her broken fingernails clawed at the hut’s earthen floor, scraping out a handful of dirt. It wasn’t much of a weapon, but tossing it at the intruder’s eyes might at least give her the advantage of surprise.

She was reaching back with her arm when she heard a thin cackle of laughter. In the next instant, the mouthwatering aroma of roast meat and vegetables assailed her senses. Her hand unclenched, releasing the dirt back to the floor. Wolf Heart had said she was to be given food. This creeping presence who had frightened her so was nothing more than an elderly woman bringing her a meal.

Still wary, Clarissa edged deeper into the shadows. The crone spoke to her in Shawnee, her ancient voice raspmg like the stone wheel of a scissor grinder. “We-sah,” she said, thrusting out a bowl made from a hollowed gourd. “We-sah!”

The old woman did not appear dangerous, or even unfriendly, but Clarissa had endured a long and dreadful day. Famished as she was, she could not bring herself to reach out and take the food from the gnarled hand. She cringed like a captive animal, refusing to move.

Only when the woman had backed out of the hut and gone, leaving the bowl on the floor, did Clarissa summon the courage to creep forward. The stew, or so it appeared, was still warm. Its fragrance floated into her nostrils, triggering hunger pangs so intense she almost moaned out loud.

Her hands groped for utensils in the dark space. Finding nothing, not even a napkin, Clarissa managed an outraged little sniff. How on earth did these people expect her to eat? With her fingers?

Apparently so.

Salivating in spite of herself, she poked a tentative fingertip into the stew and licked off the juices that clung there. The earthy taste was so rich it made her head swim.

She used her thumb and forefinger to pick out a small chunk of meat and taste it. Venison—she had eaten it before, at the fort. And here was corn, onion and a slice of vegetable that smelled like squash…

Suddenly she was picking up the bowl, tilting her head back and scooping the stew into her eager mouth, making tiny animal noises as she chewed and swallowed. Clarissa had never been so ravenous. Only the fear of getting sick again kept her from bolting it all down at once like a hungry dog.

Within minutes she had finished off every morsel and cleaned the bowl of juices. Abandoning all pretense of manners, she licked her fingers and wiped them dry on the ragged remnants of her skirt. Crawling forward, she pushed the empty bowl under the deerskin flap. She did not want to give the old woman an excuse to come in and startle her again.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.