Was he not pleased? How could he respond to so simple a question when his mind whirled with concerns of far greater consequence? Whether or not he was pleased to see her seemed trifling in light of the deeper questions that cried out to be addressed. In the crackling silence, she fixed her hopeful gaze on him.
“It’s not that I’m not pleased to see you,” he said softly, looking up from the tabletop. The expectancy with which she regarded him took him aback. “Surprised more like. I thought you’d be long gone by now.”
“No need go.”
“No need…?”
“Ethancaine say…no…be afraid. Ethancaine say trust him.”
Entranced by the strangely exotic sound of his own name, he could not help smiling. “Did I say that? I reckon I must have said all sorts of foolish things when I supposed you didn’t understand.”
She furrowed her brow and laid a hand over her chest. “Ethancaine’s words come from his heart. Not foolish.”
A part of him rebelled at the notion. He felt as if she had deceived him with her seeming inability to understand. But a more rational part of him understood her need to protect herself. Defenceless as she was, she had used the only means at her disposal to determine his intentions and sincerity. He hardly blamed her for that. Equally so, he could not dismiss from his mind the gnawing doubts of her own trustworthiness.
“I reckon I meant everything I said, but it was foolish all the same. You were a fool to mind me. You should have gone when you had the chance.”
A look of distress crept over her eyes. “Ethancaine…want me to…to go away?”
“That’s not what I meant! I’m saying you’d have done well to leave.”
She pondered his words, her face calm. She answered simply, “Have no place to go.”
“And if you had?”
She smiled her shy smile. “Have no wish to go.”
Her candor unsettled him. “Those men who came earlier today…”
“Ethancaine tell them go. Otghnaw nyaw…. I…thank Ethancaine.”
“You know what they wanted, don’t you?”
She glanced down at her feet. A long moment passed before she spoke haltingly in a choked whisper. “I think they…come for me.”
“Why?” he pressed. He did not care that his voice had taken on an unmerciful tone. “For what reason did they come for you?”
“Rufus Grey…”
A pang stabbed him in the chest at the sight and sound of her distress—or was it guilt pricking at her conscience? Either way, he could not allow it to interfere with his quest for the truth. “What about your uncle?”
“He…bad man!” She swiped vainly at the tears that flooded her eyes. Her mouth grew taut, and she trembled. “He hurt me. I…not…wish go back to him.”
“You won’t be going back to him, whether you wish it or not.”
Her eyes brightened with hope. “Ethancaine tell those men I stay here?”
“I told them nothing.” He paused so that his words would have the desired effect. “Your uncle is dead.”
All expression melted from her face. Only her eyes, tear-filled and sparkling in the warm glow of firelight, reflected the confusion that spread over her like an encroaching shadow.
Her reaction surprised him, but it was not enough to be totally convincing. He eyed her closely. “You mean to tell me you didn’t know?”
She shook her head slowly. “Awkaysehay…” Her hands worked the air as she struggled for words. “Sorry for his wife. Sorry for Jabez.”
“Those men who came…. They were looking for you. They believe it was you who killed Rufus.”
“Neh!” Her expression transformed into one of outrage, her hands tensed. “I not kill him.”
“They said you carved him up with a sickle.”
“They lie!”
He slammed his fist onto the tabletop and stood to confront her. She took a step back. “But you’d have liked to see him dead, wouldn’t you? Admit it! You’d have liked to kill him!”
She eyed him warily, her distress mounting. “Maybe I wish it. Wishes do not kill.”
“But he’s dead all the same.”
“Not by my hand!”
“They said you were seen running from the shed on the night he was murdered.”
“Is true…I run!” Tears streamed over her face as she met his gaze, her mouth quivering. “He…beat me. He hurt me. He…he try to…” Closing her eyes tight, she shuddered and shook her head, as if to relieve her mind of all recollection.
Images of her torn flesh flooded his mind, filling him with an overpowering desire to protect her, to take her in his arms and soothe away her fear and anguish. He reached out to touch her, to offer comfort, but she was beyond his outstretched hand. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to accuse you. I…”
She sucked in a deep breath and raised her eyes without lifting her head. “I not kill my uncle, Ethancaine.”
The artlessness with which she met his wavering doubt caused his heart to ache for her. There was something almost childlike in her manner, in the oblique way she regarded him, in the earnestness in her eyes.
Vacillating between a natural skepticism and the desire to believe her, he considered Levi Sparks’s warning, There’s some would take the law into their own hands far as this woman is concerned. They’re saying a rope’s too good to waste on hanging her…
For them, there was no question. Her guilt had already been decided. It hardly mattered whether he believed her or not. He was neither judge nor jury, and where she was concerned, his judgment was already seriously impaired.
“Ethancaine troubled?”
Her voice, soft—no more than a whisper—shattered his thoughts like a cannon blast.
He stared for a moment and took a deep breath. “You can’t stay here.” The moment he spoke, he knew he should have phrased his thought differently.
Crestfallen, she inclined her head to observe him in her indirect way. “Ethancaine…not want me to stay?”
“What I mean is, it’s not safe for you here. There’s a chance those men will be back. If they find you here, they’ll take you back to Englestown and hang you for your uncle’s murder.”
A momentary panic passed over her eyes. She swallowed hard. “But I did not kill him!”
“It doesn’t matter to them whether you did or not. I think they mean to hang you all the same.”
She considered his words and looked him squarely in the eye. “I speak true, Ethancaine. I not fear them.”
He had no words to refute such confidence. Her naiveté astounded him.
Sitting at the table, he watched her resume her work at the fire. She brought him a bowl of steaming stew and set it before him, her face a mirror of hopeful anticipation as she waited for him to sample the fruit of her labours. Though he had no appetite, he lifted his spoon.
“It’s very good,” he said in surprise.
She averted her face as a pale smile flickered over her lips. Then she returned to the fire, where she once more took up her weaving, singing under her breath.
In the relentless disquiet of his thoughts, her softly voiced song provided a startling counterpoint to his uneasiness.
Sitting in the warm glow of the hearth, she appeared free of all tension, her voice light and sweet, without the slightest trace of strain. Even her hair, golden in the firelight, seemed suffused with a glimmering aura. The light caressed her, lending her an almost childlike aspect of innocence.
By her words and actions, she considered the matter closed. Where she was concerned, a simple declaration of her innocence was more than enough to remove all doubt from his mind…and the minds of those who would bring her to justice. To her mind, her word provided sufficient proof to counter accusations of even the most heinous of crimes. It was unthinkable for her to conceive that her word might very well mean nothing to a hostile mob in need of a scapegoat. It was simply beyond her understanding.
But he knew better.
“What’s that you’re making?” he asked in an effort to clear his head of disturbing thoughts.
She turned, blinking away the effects of the close work, and smiled her little transparent smile. “Ethancaine’s rope no good for carry things. I make nawsawta…burden strap. Make easy for gather wood.” A troubled look passed over her face. “Why you not eat? Ethancaine not like?”
He had fully forgotten about the stew before him. “I like it fine. I reckon I’m not very hungry, is all.” And then he realized that she had served him but had taken nothing for herself. “Why aren’t you eating? Aren’t you hungry?”
She cast him one of her oblique looks. “I eat when Ethancaine finish.”
“But that’s nonsense!” He rose from the table and snatched a wooden bowl from the open cupboard. “I don’t want you to feel that you—”
She turned away from him and continued her work. Ethan paused in the act of reaching for the ladle. “You’re my guest. I want you to join me at the table. We’ll talk while we eat. There’s much we need to…”
She vehemently shook her head.
“Then I’ll bring my bowl over here and we’ll eat together on the floor.” He filled the bowl, set it on the hearthstones, and returned to the table for his. He sat down cross-legged across from her.
“Is not right,” she said softly, her head tilted away.
“What’s not right?”
“I wait. You eat.”
“I don’t understand. Why isn’t it right for us to eat together?”
“Is the way.”
It had been easy for him to overlook. Despite her quilled deerskin longblouse, broadcloth skirt, leggings, and moccasins, with her strange way of talking and the curious way she avoided direct eye contact, he saw her as a white woman. With her honey-coloured hair and deep green eyes, with her fair skin bearing the faded traces of summer bronze, little on the outside suggested that she was anything other than what he wished her to be. He had pushed the obvious from his mind until he became oblivious to it.
He had to remind himself that there were things about her that went deeper than physical traits, deeper than hair and eye colour. Qualities that made her different. Qualities that might ultimately be her undoing.
“It’s not my way,” he said gently. He knew he could never be comfortable abiding by her rules, even out of fear of losing her trust. “If you plan on staying with me, you’ll have to learn my ways.”
She looked at him askance. “White ways?”
He nodded.
Taking her lower lip gently between her teeth, she pondered. “I wish you…teach me. Much I need remember. Ethancaine show.”
“Pick up your bowl.”
“Neh. Show something else.”
He slid the bowl toward her. “We’ll start with this.”
She pushed it away. “Is no good!”
“Then we’ll compromise.”
She looked up at him with hopeful eyes. “Com-pro-mise?”
“We’ll find a common ground.” He handed her his bowl and spoon and took hers.
She cast him a quizzical look as he shifted to his knees before her. Following his lead, she did the same.
He ladled up a spoonful of stew and offered it to her. “Now, open your mouth.”
Zara eyed him sceptically and then she laughed. Such spontaneity surprised him. He had not thought her capable of such a show of merriment. With growing amusement, he watched her try to scoop up a spoonful from his bowl and raise it to his mouth. But, convulsed with laughter, she spilled the stew on the hearthstones.
“Your com-pro-mise too hard.” Bringing her laughter under control, she slid his bowl to the side. Her eyes sparkled in the firelight as she averted her face and covered her mouth with her hand.
“You must concentrate,” he urged, unable to prevent a smile from stealing across his lips. “I’ll go first. Open your mouth.”
She did as he asked, and allowed him to feed her.
“There,” he said, his smile broadening, “that wasn’t difficult, was it? It’s your turn now.”
He watched her swallow with some difficulty, then she set her jaw against the laughter that rose in her eyes and threatened to erupt anew. Again, she covered her mouth with a hand and averted her face until the moment had passed. Once again, she dipped his spoon in the bowl.
Having successfully discharged her task, she cast him a smile. “Is like to feed a baby!”
“Now it’s my turn again.”
Sucking in a quick breath, she met his gaze and opened her mouth. All at once he was struck by her lips, moist and glistening in the glow, so unbearably tempting. And her eyes…. They overwhelmed him with an irresistible force, a searching, trusting gaze that sent a quiver of heat through his blood, a throbbing ache through his groin.
What was she doing to him? In spite of the many times he had cautioned himself against such involvement, he suddenly found himself unable to resist the longing that rose in response to those eyes.
His hand faltered. Her laughter and all trace of her smile evaporated. The air between them quivered with palpable tension. The fire flared.
He lowered the spoon, pushed aside her bowl, and tentatively raised his hand to her face. She winced almost imperceptibly in anticipation of his touch, emitting a startled little gasp as he skimmed the backs of his fingers over her cheek.
For an uneasy moment, she held his gaze, then yielded to the contact, pressing her cheek into his palm as he traced the smooth, fine line of her mouth with his thumb.
And before he could stop himself, he leaned close and pressed his mouth to hers.
Her lips, soft and compliant, parted at the touch of his. Her mouth was warm and sweet. He drew her into his arms, and savoured the pleasing earthy smell of her—of smoke and air and autumn leaves, mingled with her own singular sweetness. Her hair, sleek and smooth and fine as silk, brushed against his cheek. Her breath, a whisper on his throat.
“No,” he breathed, his senses whirling with her closeness, “you didn’t kill Rufus. I don’t believe you could kill anyone. Any fool with eyes in his head can see that!” And he added even more softly, “Either that, or I’m the one who’s blind.”
She skimmed his face with her fingertips, guiding his mouth once again to hers.
Ethan shuddered with the feather touch of her lips on his. Her scent was an elixir to his senses. Her warmth and supple strength, her fingers twined in his hair clouded his reason. Another moment and he would lose all control. He could not risk it.
Gently, he drew away from her lips and pulled her close against his chest. He whispered into her hair, “Lord help me if I’m wrong. But I’ll be damned if I let them take you. I’ll be damned.”
Even as he spoke, he wondered if his words might prove to be prophetic.