Elizabeth Lane - Shawnee Bride

Far ahead now, he saw her stumble and go down in a patch of bog. His breath caught as she clawed her way upright then paused to glance back in his direction, her hair whipping the pale oval of her face. Her head went up sharply, and for an instant Wolf Heart thought she might have seen him. But then, just as abruptly, she wheeled and floundered on as before, dripping mud as she fought her way through the briars and willows that rimmed the flooded river.

The girl had spirit, he conceded. She was chilled, sore, exhausted and probably half-starved, as well, but she had shown no sign of flagging. Spunk and grit, combined with a healthy dose of fear, were driving her on, step by struggling step.

But for all her courage, Wolf Heart knew she could never make it back to her world alive. The journey was too long and too dangerous.

On impulse, he paused to examine her tracks in the mud. Crouching low, he traced the shape of one narrow imprint with his fingertip.

Where her foot had pressed, the damp brown earth was stained with blood.

Clarissa plunged along the bank of the river. Her ribs heaved painfully beneath the constricting stays of her corset. Her heart exploded with every beat, hammering the walls of her chest as she ran.

She had seen one fresh track. How many others had there been? How many pairs of savage eyes were watching her, even now, as she fled like a hunted animal.

A gust of wind whipped her long hair into her eyes, half-blinding her. She swept it back, only to feel the tangled ends catch on a low-hanging tree branch. A vision of the biblical Absalom, hanging lifeless by his hair, flashed through her mind as she jerked to free it. Any second now, she would feel the fatal thrust of an arrow in her back or, worse, the roughness of brown hands seizing her waist, dragging her off to an end so horrible she could not even imagine it.

She would die fighting, Clarissa vowed as she splashed through a patch of flooded willows. Whatever happened, she would not allow herself to be taken alive.

As she mounted the bank once more, pain shot through the ball of her left foot. She remembered, however dimly, stepping on something sharp earlier, but she had not dared to pause and investigate. Now the injury was getting worse. Her right sole, as well, had grown so tender that every step was agony. Sometime soon she would have to stop and wrap her feet, perhaps with strips of her petticoat. If only she knew where—

Clarissa’s thoughts ended in a gasp as her toe stubbed against something soft. That same gasp exploded in a stifled scream as she looked down and saw the body of a man, clad in waterlogged buckskins, lying facedown in the long grass.

Her stomach convulsed as she recognized Maynard.

Her first impulse was to run, but when he did not move she swallowed her fear and stood staring down at him He’s dead, she thought. He can’t hurt anyone now.

Flies swarmed around a blood-encrusted gash on the man’s temple, but there were no other marks of injury on him. Most likely he had struck his head when the flatboat capsized, drowned while unconscious, and finally washed up here on the bank.

Clarissa battled waves of nausea as she crouched over the inert form, steeling herself to touch him. Maynard had been armed with a hunting knife. If that knife was still on him, and if she could get it, she would no longer be helpless prey. She would have a weapon to defend herself.

Maynard’s dirty, wet buckskins reeked in the morning sun. The stench swam in Clarissa’s nostrils as she bent close, seized his arm and dragged him over onto his back. Yes, the knife was still there, large and evil looking, laced into the scabbard that hung from his belt. All she had to do was reach out and—

She froze as Maynard rolled his head to one side and groaned.

Panic seized her, and for an instant all she could think of was running away. But she needed the knife. She would have to get it now, before Maynard came fully awake.

She made a desperate lunge for the weapon, her fingers clutching at the leather-wrapped grip. For the space of a heartbeat, she had it. Then his sinewy hand closed around her wrist, twisting so hard that she cried out and dropped the knife.

“Well, hang me for a horse thief!” He grinned up at her, his small eyes glittering. “Heaven don’t get no better than this!” He rolled to a sitting position, his free hand darting out to grab the knife from where it had fallen. A single joint-wrenching move spun her against him with the blade at her throat.

“You and me got some unfinished business, girl,” he rasped against her ear. “And we’re gonna finish it here and now!” His hand released her wrist and slid upward to fondle her breast. “Treat me nice, and you won’t get hurt Hell, you might even get to like it.”

Clarissa struggled to keep her head. “We’ve got to get out of here,” she whispered, her throat moving against the razor-sharp blade. “Indians-I saw moccasin tracks-”

“Nice try, girl.” Maynard’s arm tightened around her. “But I know this country, an’ there ain’t no Injun towns anywhere near these parts. An’ even if you did see tracks, hell, plenty of white men wear moccasins, too. Now quit stallin’, you little bitch, and git down on your back!”

The broad steel blade caught a glimmer of sun as he jerked her around and slammed her onto the wet grass. Clarissa lay rigid and trembling, praying for an instant’s distraction when she might be able to catch him off guard. Maynard, she calculated, was capable of killing her, or carving her up so hideously that she would no doubt wish herself dead. If her timing was off, she would not get a second chance.

He was breathing hard now, muttering curses as he used his free hand to tug at the lacing of his breeches. The water had caused the leather ties to swell, and the knot was too stubborn to yield to Maynard’s one-handed fumbling. Clarissa tensed as he grew more and more impatient. At last he spat out an oath and tossed the knife, point down, into the grass.

In a flash she was after it, twisting sideways, stretching to seize the weapon where it had struck. But she was not fast enough. With blinding speed, his hand had clamped hard around her wrist.

“Stupid little bitch!” he cursed, twisting her arm so viciously that Clarissa felt her bones begin to separate, and she whimpered aloud in spite of her resolve. “So help me, I’ll fix you good!” he rasped, snatching up the knife and raising it high for a slashing blow. “I’ll show you who’s boss if it’s the last thing I-”

Maynard spoke no more. She saw him stiffen and arch as if struck hard between the shoulder blades by some invisible force. Only as he pitched forward did she glimpse the arrow point protruding through the front of his buckskin shirt, right where his heart would be.

Clarissa’s fear exploded into all-out panic as the lifeless body collapsed, still twitching on top of her. She thrashed and kicked in a wild struggle to throw off the horror, wanting only to be free of Maynard’s smothering weight.

Seconds passed, each one a small eternity, before she realized that her ordeal of terror was only beginning.

The knife—it had been in Maynard’s hand. She had to get it before it was too late. Her fingers groped desperately along the wet ground where he would have dropped the weapon. Her heart convulsed as she felt the tip of the blade, cold and sharp against her fingertip. Gasping with effort, she stretched to reach the handle. Her fingers touched it, almost clasped it.

Then the weight of Maynard’s limp corpse was snatched off her as if it had suddenly sprouted wings.

The morning sun struck Clarissa fully in the eyes. Dazed and blinking, she lay sprawled on the ground, her muddy skirts ruched up to her thighs. She was aware that Maynard’s body had fallen to one side, but that was no longer a concern. Her full attention was riveted on the masculine figure who loomed above her, his features silhouetted by the blinding light.