In her dream, she was running. Fast and hard while water drums sounded a fearful pulsing, and turtle shell rattles hissed like snakes. Jeering voices filled the air. The Gagonsa, the False Faces, with their grotesque masks painted black and red, chased her from the village. But when she looked back over her shoulder, blue-coated white soldiers pursued her. The Gagonsa and all The People were gone. The village was on fire.
She ran until she could run no farther. Then Nichus, her-husband-no-longer-her-husband, came to her. Nichus led her by the hand to a hole in the earth.
“The witch Jiiwi is no more,” he said gently, and he pushed her over the brink.
Like Iagen’tci, the Sky Woman of legend, she fell. She fell through a dark abyss. And a great white bird came to her.
“Are you afraid?” the bird asked. “Are you afraid of being cast out like this?”
“Yes,” she replied, “I am afraid.”
“You need not be frightened any longer,” the bird said, and it transformed itself into a man who supported her in his arms, and descended with her into the light.
* * *
Zara opened her eyes in the dark and found herself in a strange bed, surrounded by strange yet pleasant scents. A mound of furs and blankets warmed her, but the chill, deep within, felt unnatural. It hurt to breathe. Her back burned with unremitting pain.
She moaned.
She raised her hands slowly and viewed them in a dim flicker of firelight. Tentatively, she touched herself—her face, neck, shoulders, breasts. Reassured, by the feel of flesh and the bone beneath the skin, that her spirit yet remained within her body, she sighed.
She had received a message vision. Of that she was confident. She had not crossed over to the Spirit World. Like Iagen’tci of legend, who was cast from the Sky World, she, too, would accept her fate.
Tahahiawakon! Holder of the Heavens! I thank you for the gift of life and of vision.
But a disconcerting heaviness suffused her, body and soul. Eyes closed, she tried to recall why the slightest of breath and movement felt like a knife turning inside her.
Rufus Grey! Tears filled her eyes as the memory flooded her thoughts, inciting a quiver of fear around her heart. And she heard the strangled sound of her own sobbing, even as she buried her face in the pillow.
“It’s all right.” The soft, deep voice of a man filtered through her grief.
She felt a hand, lightly on her hair, and she turned, startled by the touch. In the warm glow of firelight, the man leaned toward her from a chair by the bedside, his face in shadows. His shirt glowed luminous in the scant light, the soft whiteness of the white birdman in her vision.
He must have seen fear in her face, for, with hands upraised, fingers spread wide, he stood slowly and stepped away to regard her from a safer distance. She sat up warily, holding the blanket to her neck.
A dark man, he wore his dark hair tied back in the manner of the white man, and his dark eyes glimmered in the fire’s glow. Tall and lean, broad through the shoulders and chest, narrow in the hips. A pleasing face, angular and close shaven. She had seen this man before. He had given her a ribbon of many colours. She had not forgotten the way he had watched her from the road—with sad eyes, but openly and without judgment, unlike the others with their covert looks veiled in hatred and suspicion.
But how had she come to this place? She strained to remember. Nothing about the peace and comfort of the cabin looked familiar. Not the meagreness of the crude furnishings, nor the pleasant smell and the warmth emanating from the hearth, all giving off an aspect of peace and comfort.
She could not allow herself to trust her senses. As much as she desired comfort and wellbeing, she would maintain her vigilance against this white man and his comfortable lodge. Just as she had kept within herself at her uncle’s home, she would remain on her guard. She turned her head away.
“It’s all right,” he said. “This is my house. You’re safe here.”
He drew close again, and she peered indirectly at him.
“You had an accident,” he said, his voice deep and pleasing. “Do you remember? You ran out onto the ice. I called out to warn you, but I reckon I startled you instead.”
She remembered the ice. Ice too thin to walk upon. How it had splintered beneath her. The shock of cold that took her breath away and paralyzed her limbs. How she had fought against the current. But weariness had overcome her—a weariness of the soul. She had grown weary of the struggle, tired of running. She had readied herself for the release of her spirit. After that, she remembered nothing.
His gaze settled on her hands clutching the blanket to her breast. “Are you cold?”
Suddenly, she became uncomfortably aware of her nakedness and the thought of him…undressing her.
“Your clothes are dry now.” He indicated her longblouse, skirt, and leggings hanging from a peg near the hearth. “I mended them as best I could. I…that is…you were drenched to the bone and so terribly cold. I had no other choice but to…” He cleared his throat. “I just want to assure you that I’ve honoured your…. That is, I….”
He glanced awkwardly in her direction and regarded her with a look of indecision. Then he strode to the other side of the room and returned with her clothes. He laid them across the bed.
Something in his discomfort reassured her, his air of consideration and well-intentioned restraint. She recognized the sincerity in his voice.
“I hope you’re feeling better now,” he said quietly after a short silence.
Zara gazed at him in question, careful not to raise her head for fear of directly meeting his eye. Such conduct was rude in an Onatowa’gah woman.
“Do you speak English?”
She did not attempt a reply but continued to regard him obliquely.
“Do you understand?”
He waited for a moment. When he spoke again, a hint of anger edged his voice. “That was a fool thing you did, running onto the ice. Though I reckon you weren’t thinking too clearly.” A look of contrition passed over his face, easing the harshness of his features. “But you must be hungry!” His long-legged stride carried him to the fire.
“I made some broth last night.” He bent over the blackened pot hanging from a jack high above the flames. “It’s hot and will do you good.”
She watched him ladle a portion of the steaming liquid into a wooden bowl, her stomach rumbling at the savoury smell. She could not remember how long it had been since she had tasted food.
He turned back to her, his brow dark with uncertainty, before striding to the bedside with a show of confidence. Again he sat in the chair by the bed and extended the bowl to her. She stared at it with longing, but could not bring herself to accept it.
“Take it,” he said softly, as if cajoling a frightened animal to eat from his hand. “It’s good. I had some myself.” He smiled.
Zara glanced up at him. His face appeared honest enough, but she did not trust him. Nor would she accept his offering. As kind and considerate as he appeared, he was a white man and she had yet to determine what he wanted of her. Looking down at the bowl, she hesitated, then leaned away.
“Here…. Look.”
She peered at him edgeways and watched him tilt the bowl to his mouth.
“Good!” He held the bowl toward her.
His voice held a comforting openness, and his eyes never left hers. Still, she could not accept his offering. Her stomach growled in protest.
He laughed. “After what I went through, fishing you out of the creek, the least you can do is have a taste of my broth. I risked my death for you! Now, why in God’s Name would I want to do you harm?” Again he flashed her a gentle smile.
Plagued with doubt but placated by his voice and his smile, she hesitantly took the bowl and lifted it slowly to her lips. She paused to cast him a wary glance, and then took a small sip. Closing her eyes, she savoured its warmth going down, appeasing the emptiness in her stomach. She drained the bowl, too intent on its warmth to mind its tastelessness. It filled her hollow stomach and chased away the last of her chill.
Careful to avert her eyes, she extended the bowl toward him. His fingers, long and well formed, grazed hers as he relieved her of the vessel. She flinched from his touch and turned away into the shadows.
He leaned toward her. “Please, don’t be afraid. I would never hurt you. I want you to believe that.”
Truly, she wanted to believe him.
“I know,” he continued, “you’ve got reason enough not to trust me…after what you’ve been through with Rufus.”
She winced at the mention of her uncle.
Suddenly a note of angry passion invaded his tone, even though his voice remained low. “Lord, when I saw what he did to you, I wanted to…
“Oh Hell, you don’t understand a word I’m saying, do you?”
The chair creaked as he rose. He moved across the room to the washstand. She watched him pour water from the pitcher into the basin. At the table, he rummaged through the contents of a small metal box, his face grim with purpose in the flicker of firelight. When he found what he was looking for, he strode back to the bedside, a wide strip of clean linen and a towel tossed over his shoulder. She turned away to the wall.
“Your back needs tending.” He extended a small earthen pot so that she could smell the aromatic salve and understand his purpose. “Balm of Gilead.”
He settled on the edge of the bed. His closeness enveloped her like an embrace. The warmth of his body radiated around her, oddly calming. His scent, deep and pleasing, wafted over her senses like a soothing ointment. Yet she stiffened in anticipation of his touch.
He paused. “I’m sorry, but I need to…” Gently, he pulled down the blankets.
She flinched.
He withdrew his hands.
Willing herself to remain still, she closed her eyes and waited for him to continue. He swept her hair away from her back so that it fell over one shoulder and across her breast, exposing her back to the light.
He caught his breath. “Good Lord! Someone ought to give that man a hiding! I’m afraid this is going to hurt.”
She heard the sound of water being wrung from the towel and splashing into the basin. The wet cloth on her back cooled the fire in her wounds. He patted them dry with the same firm, gentle touch.
Talking quietly as he worked, he soon dispelled the coldest of her misgivings. “But how white you are!” he whispered. The air tingled around her, his breath rustling like a warm breeze on the back of her neck. “White as a lily, soft as silk…”
He spread the ointment over her wounds, his fingers light and skillful on her raw skin. As he mollified the stinging pain, the feel of his large, strong hands, the deep, rich quality of his voice, and his warm closeness silenced the deepest of her fears. The tension drained from her body as she surrendered herself to his ministrations.
She heard him tear the linen into strips, then sensed him hesitate before reaching around her to pass the bandage across her chest. “I need to…” In an awkward move, his fingers brushed the tip of her breast.
A fiery tingle spiraled through her, and she gasped in surprise at the pleasure in his touch.
“Forgive me.” His whispered words fluttered with butterfly lightness on her skin. As he finished tying off the ends, she felt him tremble.
The hearth fire sputtered and hissed, weaving patterns of light and dark across the ceiling. His shadow on the wall melded with hers, and, in the intermittent flicker, she saw by their shadows that a stillness had overtaken him. His hands lay motionless on her shoulders, and a sudden, inexplicable pang pulsed between her thighs, sending a flash of heat coursing through her.
She turned her head to him. She could not help herself. The tone of his voice, deep and gentle, had moved her with its sincerity. Far more than his voice, his face pleased her, and she derived a curious satisfaction in the simple act of looking at him. An uncontrollable urge rose inside her to touch his mouth with her fingertips, to trace his lips. She wanted to run her hand across the sculpted contours of his cheek and brow, to weave her fingers through his hair.
His dark eyes sparkled with warmth and tenderness, urging her to trust him.
She needed to trust. The need hung like a weight upon her heart, exhorting her to open herself to him, to expose her fears and her wants. She needed to feel a sense of security. But at what cost?
She had felt that need before. Upon her return to the world of her white mother and father, she had innocently placed her trust and reliance in Rufus Grey, a man who had claimed a kinship of blood, and whose aim had been to exploit her for some devious purpose.
This man was a stranger. She would need absolute assurance before she would allow herself to trust him, let alone open herself to him, body and soul.
He met her eyes with a steady look of patient longing, as if he understood her need and waited for her to unburden herself, as if waiting for an invitation to take her into his arms and satisfy her yearning and alleviate her doubts.
It took only a slight effort for her to turn away again, pretending that his voice and his closeness and his scent had not affected her. She hurt all over, and she was unbearably tired. Suddenly she wanted nothing more than to sleep.
* * *
She awoke with a start to a darkness permeated by a fragile light from the hearth. A subtle glow brightened the oilcloth window, announcing the approach of dawn.
A damp chill permeated the air. It lay like a sheet against her face, even though she was warm and snug beneath the blankets and more than content to lie there. But she knew it was a deceptive comfort, for the warmth of the man’s bed had lulled her into a false sense of serenity. The time spent indulging herself in rest and comfort would be better used putting distance between herself and Rufus Grey.
And yet she delighted in her comfort, tenuous though it was. She basked in the untroubled peace of the early dawn, so unlike the ruffled quiet in her uncle’s home, where even sleep was never restful. She reveled in the tranquility of her own body, free of tension for the first time since she had been forced to leave her home with The People.
But she knew the peace would not last. Her uncle would come for her. She needed to move on.
The man lay asleep on the floor by the hearth. She listened to him breathing in the quiet and she smiled sadly at the thought of him. Although reluctant to drag herself from the bed and its warmth and comfort, she knew she could not stay. As she hurriedly dressed in the brightening morning, the memory of his voice and his honest face preyed on her conscience. The feel of his hands, the warmth of his closeness filled her with a longing for the kind of contentment she had prepared herself against ever knowing again.
She knelt over him where he slept in the pale glow of embers, her eyes flooding with unbidden tears at the sight of him and the memory of his touch, his warmth, the smell of him. Her heart thundered in the silence. She touched his cheek, a feather touch of fingertips, and lightly brushed a dark curl from his forehead.
No, she could not leave. Not yet. Not in the dark, stealing away like a thief. Not after he had saved her life.
Swiftly, quietly, she built up the fire in the hearth, exhausting the supply of wood. She would need to bring in more. Fresh water, as well. The thought of being useful coaxed a smile to her face.
She looked around in the brightening cabin for a bucket and something with which to carry the firewood. The heavy wooden pail stood in the corner by the hearth. A length of rope would have to suffice in the absence of a burden strap to haul the wood. She coiled up the rough hempen rope and placed it inside the bucket.
A noise from behind prompted her to turn with a gasp. She had not realized how skittish she had become, how her senses responded to the minutest of sounds with expectations of danger. How her heart raced.
A wave of relief passed over her as she watched the man stir, a surge of light and warmth illuminating his face. He stretched his arms, yawned, and turned on his side, gathering the blanket more closely about him. For an endless interval, she waited, afraid to move or to breathe.
Suddenly, as if he had been startled by a sudden noise, he opened his eyes. With the heaviness of sleep still upon him, he sat up. In the wavering firelight he scanned the room, his jaw tense, fingers tight on the edge of his he blanket.
She stepped out of the shadows by the hearth. “Nya-weh-skennoh,” she whispered, forcing a smile. Good to see you are well.
Blinking in confusion, he stared, as if he failed to recognize her. Then, a look of concern transformed his face. “Is something the matter?”
Again she forced a smile to reassure him that nothing was amiss.
“Can’t you sleep?”
His gaze settled on her, fully dressed, and his expression darkened. “But you’re not leaving? It’s not yet light and…” Fumbling with his blanket, he struggled to his feet. She edged away. He stepped back, giving her a wider berth.
“You don’t need to run away,” he said gently, using the same cajoling voice with which he persuaded her to eat, “not from me. You’re safe here.”
The deep, mellow tone of his voice sparked the memory of his closeness. She imagined his heat radiating through the sleep-rumpled linen of his shirt and the whisper touch of his breath on the back of her neck, his fingertips brushing her breast. From where she stood, she could almost smell his deep, sleepy warmth. An uncomfortable fire rose in her face.
She cast him an anxious sideways glance. “Nawhkwa.” She lifted the heavy bucket by its rough corded handle. When he regarded her in question, she nodded slowly, willing away the odd weakness in her knees. “Nawhkwa. Ohnaykawnos.” She indicated the bucket and mimed the act of drawing water.
His eyes brightened. “Water? You want to get water?”
“Wa-ter…ohnaykawnos. Ekawtaweh.”
“Ekawtaweh?”
She set the bucket on the floor and knelt before it, dipping her hands inside. “Ekawtaweh…” Pretending to watch the water run from her cupped hands, she glanced up at him and smiled shyly before miming a bath.
“You want to wash!” The revelation dispelled the tension in his face. “I thought for a moment that you—” He stepped toward her and stretched out a hand as if to relieve her of the bucket. “Wait here, I’ll—”
“Neh!” She snatched the bucket from his reach and edged away toward the door, emphatically tapping her chest with her free hand. “Awkay-yehawh!”
He threw up his hands in compliance and allowed her to pass. She made a wide circle in front of him and backed away toward the door, casting him a wary glance before stopping within an arm’s length of the latch.
“Eswenawkayat.” She pointed to the chair at the table and motioned for him to sit.
He gazed at her in question, then reluctantly did as she requested. “I’ll wait here, then. You will come back?”
“Eswenawkayat,” she repeated quietly and slipped outside.
* * *
She was gone.
He would never see her again.
The longer he sat, the more restless he became. Despite his attempts to win her trust, she would not be swayed, for whatever her reason. He reckoned her experience with Rufus had provided her with reason enough to flee him.
He had heard of white captives who, having lived among the Indians for even a short amount time, resented their return to the civilized world. At the first opportunity they ran away, back to the very people who had wrought devastation on their families, destroying hearth and home. Inconceivable as it seemed, it was true. He had known of white captives who had shed all trace of their former selves, becoming as wild as their captors, becoming, in essence, white Indians. He had seen one or two in his time. Men whose blue eyes and fair hair were all that remained distinguishable under the paint and other adornments.
But she was not like that. In his mind, he saw her as she appeared in the dry goods shop. Her alluring wariness. Her body, lithe and responsive despite her fear. How she had reached inside him, touching off a startling sense of longing, a desire to take her in his arms and root out that fear. To protect her. To love her, in spite of his own misgivings.
What did he expect? Perhaps he had been blind, seeing only that which he wanted to see in her—a woman who would fill a void in his life, a woman who would accept him without question. Perhaps he was unprepared—or unwilling—to reciprocate in kind. Perhaps he had overlooked one significant detail. Or perhaps he simply did not want to see.
But she was gone…and in a way he breathed easier for it. For as much as he desired and wanted her, he also feared her. He feared that his perceptions had failed him, that her obvious feminine charms had clouded his reason. And yet, in a way, the knowledge and acceptance of her flight left a curious emptiness inside him.
The fire needed replenishing. His traps had gone unattended for longer than he liked. The work would do him good. It would help put her from his mind. He’d be better off without her.
He put on his jacket and went outside.
With the sun’s ascent, the morning mist had burned away, and the air was warm despite a cool breeze. Shouldering his ax, Ethan started toward the wood shed when a sound stopped him in his tracks. Halfway between his cabin and the shed, he paused to listen.
A strange, atonal sound—not altogether unpleasant—rose up from the ravine behind his cabin. To his ear it was more reminiscent of an incantation than it was of singing. In another time and place, it might have unsettled him with its primal rhythms and baffling words. Even now, a ripple of dread pulsed through his blood. But it passed in an instant.
Light and buoyant, the voice on the breeze held a pleasing essence, childlike and filled with a natural exuberance. A cheerful sound, it replaced his dread, causing his heart to race with unexpected joy.
Engrossed in her work, Zara didn’t notice him standing in the thicket on the crest of the slope. She seemed not the least bit daunted by the weight of her burden or the slant of the hill, which she attempted to climb. Rather, she seemed to take delight in it…or so the lilting cadence of her song and her lively manner led him to believe. Even as the bundle of wood appeared unwieldy enough, she stopped from time to time to gather more kindling, managing both the bundle and the bucket of water with amazing dexterity.
Ethan could not help being amazed. Her size, though hardly small, was far from robust. She was of middling stature, slender but shapely, with well-formed limbs, and fine boned, yet she carried her burden with astounding ease and agility.
She had bound the enormous pile of twigs and kindling with a length of rope, which she had braced against her back, the bulk of its weight supported by the rope slung across her forehead. To counterbalance the load, she walked bent forward at an angle. This too she took in her stride, not once faltering, her step as sure and as nimble as if she walked unencumbered. All the while she sang her cheerful song, repeating the passages over and over, as if they served as the wellspring of her surprising strength and skill.
Halfway up the slope she paused to adjust the load and rest against the trunk of a large oak. A look of pain passed over her face. Pale from exertion, she breathed with an effort, and slumped under the weight that had seemed so insignificant only a moment before.
A jolt of fear stabbed him, and he ran toward her.
At the unexpected sight of him tearing down the hill, a look of alarm flashed over her eyes. She tensed, then relaxed in an instant. Then, smiling the smile of a child who had been apprehended in the act of doing something forbidden, she wagged a finger at him in mock reprimand. As he started to speak, demanding that she give up her load, she burst into startled laughter, and raced past him up the hill.
She paused again near the top and cast him another smile. He pushed himself hard to overtake her. To his surprise, she did not run but set the bucket on the ground and sank down in a pile of windblown leaves, as if her strength had completely failed her. He drew alongside her. Hanging her head, she avoided his gaze.
Ethan looked down at her, pondering whether it was appropriate to sit beside her, whether he should attempt to speak, or let the silence between them communicate his good intentions. As the silence lengthened, he decided to make the first move, and sat in the leaves by her side.
How he wanted to touch her! To feel the smoothness of her cheek—flushed with warmth—to brush the inside of her elbow with his lips. The pale sunlight shimmered golden in her hair, on her skin. But he dared not move for fear of being misunderstood. He wanted to speak, but he knew not what to say. He wanted to look at her, but she had averted her face.
“Perhaps it’s best not do too much right away,” he said quietly. “It’s only natural to feel weak after what you’ve been through. You don’t want to risk opening those wounds again.”
She shifted her body to face him. Still she said nothing, nor made any indication that she understood what he had said.
“Here…. Let me….” He leaned closer. She smelled like the air following a cleansing summer rain. Air and earth in a heady mixture that took him by surprise and overwhelmed his senses. He sucked in a steadying breath.
Slowly, carefully, he slid the rope from her forehead and eased the bundle of wood from her back. A red line creased her brow where the rope had left its impression. He lightly traced the line with a fingertip. She closed her eyes as if in enjoyment of his touch. In the brief moment before she turned away again, he thought he saw a tear in her eye.
As he suspected, her recovery was far from complete. Her sudden lethargy confirmed it with greater clarity than even her strained breathing.
“Maybe you should go back inside and rest,” he said. Still, she gave no indication that she understood. She swiped at her face, wiping away the tears. “I wish I knew what you were thinking.”
She turned slowly and eyed the bundle of kindling with a look of frustration. When she lifted her gaze to his face, he sensed a straining within her, and he waited, hoping that somehow she would speak to him in words he could understand.
Her mouth trembled, and she caught her lower lip between her teeth. He could almost hear her thoughts churning. Eyes flickering with uncertainty, she raised her hands palms up and clenched her fists, as if trying to grasp the means to unburden herself of the turmoil raging within her. She sighed.
And then, without warning, she jerked away, her attention fixed on listening for something far in the distance. Senses bristling, like a deer alerted to an approaching sound or an encroaching smell, she listened to the stillness that had settled around them.
“Koo-weh!” Her voice was a hoarse whisper, her eyes wide.
“What…?”
And then he became aware of the sudden flight of starlings that had been roosting along the path to the south. Then he heard it—the sound that had disturbed the calm of the morning, the sound that alerted her to the possibility of danger. Horses on the wooded trail to the south. The approaching sound of a man’s voice in the distance. It was not long before he recognized the voice and heard it call out his name.
Four men on horseback entered the clearing in single file. Levi Sparks, Otis and Jedediah McLaren, and the mixed-blood, Billy Summer Tree leading a riderless pony behind his mount. All were well armed, with pistols in their belts and muskets in their bedrolls, and enough gear to indicate that they had planned on being abroad for some days. Sparks wore his officer’s sword smartly at his side. Billy Summer Tree carried a woman’s tattered cloak slung over his shoulder. Ethan recognized it at once. Zara’s cloak.
A knot seized his stomach.
Ethan took her by the shoulders and forced her to look at him. “Don’t move,” he said tightly. “Stay here. Do you understand? I’ll see what they want.”
He prayed she understood. There was no time for lengthy explanations. But she knew as well as he that the men had come looking for her. He saw it by the fear in her eyes.