The cavalry would come? In time to save her? She doubted it. Still, her threats were keeping her alive. But to what purpose? If she stalled them this minute, they would slay her the next!
“God damn you. I will come back myself from heaven or hell!” she breathed, then inhaled, desperate for more breath to continue her tirade.
And in that second, she saw his eyes.
Strange eyes for an Indian brave. Green eyes. As deep and dark as the trees from which the Black Hills had drawn their name, yet distinctively and decidedly green.
Did it matter? Some white blood had ventured into this man’s past, leaving behind a legacy of green eyes. Would that save her life now? She doubted it.
She sucked in more air, fighting the tears that stung her eyes. “Bastard!” she shrieked again. “Get off me—kill me or get off me!”
Oddly enough, in those seconds while she had stared, thoroughly startled, into his eyes, he had somewhat relaxed his grip upon her. With a wild, frantic effort, she freed her hands, managing to pummel his chest and swipe one set of nails acrosshis cheek. A deep, rich, savage sound came from his lips, a sound so fierce it seemed to knife into her soul itself. He caught her hands again, this time leaping from her with swift agility and dragging her up along with him. She thought that she had found a new freedom with which to fight, but before she could begin a new onslaught in any way, she found herself thrown over his shoulder as he walked for his pony. The dusty remnants of her bonnet were left behind on the dry earth. Her hair, a very deep, rich honey blonde that fell past her waist in heavy waves—once a great pride to her but soon to adorn various teepees as trophies—fell free from the last of the hairpins that had held it regally in place just moments before. She gasped deeply as it tangled around her face. She twisted, freeing herself from the cloud of it, and struggled to rise against his back. As soon as she achieved enough balance to slam a fist against his back, she was lifted again and thrown belly down over his pony’s flanks. And before she could rise from that position, he had scissored his legs over his mount’s haunches and sat bareback astride the animal. Desperate, she struggled to rise against the pony’s flanks, only to find him kicking the animal into motion while delivering a strike both painful and humiliating upon the region of her derriere, despite the black taffeta bustle that rested there.
Dirt spewed up from the earth. She coughed and choked, then ridiculously found herself clinging to his knee in fear that the sudden speeding motion of the horse would send her hurtling down to the ground to be trampled. She didn’t know how far they rode or for how long. Time and space lost all meaning during the reckless race they seemed to take against the wind. When he drew the horse to a halt at last, the daylight had waned. They had left the dust, flatlands, and rock behind and climbed into the hills. When he dismounted, dragging her numbed body from its precarious perch atop the haunches of thepony, a pale red glow of sunset was settling over a copse of trees and the small cabin that stood within that copse.
He set her upon the ground. For a moment she merely stared at the cabin and wondered when he had murdered the people who had once dwelled within it, for it had obviously been the small home of a white man, a trapper, perhaps. Maybe even that of a schoolmarm who had been dedicated to teaching the children of the scattered white homesteaders, miners, bankers, ranchers, and farmers. Some light glowed from within the cabin, as if a fire burned within a hearth, a fire to welcome home the weary.
She was free she realized. The Indian had led the pony into a small paddock that flanked the cabin, taking the bit and bridle from its head so that the trusty creature might munch freely on the hay that brimmed from a feeder.
The man’s three comrades had ridden on elsewhere, she discovered with amazement.
She turned to run downhill, into the darkness, into the copse, into the night.
From there, where?
It didn’t matter in the least. She had taken no more than three flying steps before she shrieked out with pain and stopped in her tracks as the Indian’s fingers wound into her hair, dragging her back. “Damn you, damn you!” she cried out, trying to pummel him with her fists as he swept her up. She wound up face down over his shoulder again, swearing and fighting as he made his way to the cabin.
Once inside, he set her on her feet. She tried to run around him, determined to reach the door. But he caught her hair again and this time kept his grip within it, moving her deeper into the cabin where he forced her down upon a bed covered with a blanket of rich, warm fur. She grasped for his wrist, trying to claw his flesh, anything to force him to relinquish his hold on herhair. He did release her hair but only to pull a rawhide strip from his legging and bind her wrists together.
“No, no, no!” she told him, her voice rising as she struggled to keep from being bound.
It did no good. Down on one knee before her, he quickly and efficiently tied her wrists so that she could barely move her hands. Then he rose, leaving her seated there upon the bunk, moving to warm his own hands at the fire within the hearth.
“You must have murdered these poor people a while ago!” she cried out. Why was she taunting him? Wasn’t she going to die an awful enough death as it was? Why was he waiting? He should kill her, have done with this torture! Yet as she lived, hope lived. She should keep silent. Humor him. Humor a savage who didn’t understand a word that fell from her lips? No! Keep talking, keep fighting in spirit, pray that there would be one second when he would truly let down his guard!
“Quite comfortable here, aren’t you, you goon?” she cried out. “Right at home!”
He didn’t seem to hear her. He stared into the flames. She tossed her head, looking about the cabin. It was a one-room dwelling, and surprisingly, it appeared to be inhabited. Beneath the fur cover, she could see that the bunk was decked in cotton sheets as well. The pillow was covered with a clean matching case. There was a table before the hearth, and simple curtains hung at the four windows. A hip tub sat to the right of the table, near the hearth, and behind that, there was a wooden counter for food preparation, and within it, a pump that was surely attached to an outside well. There was a wardrobe against the wall behind the bunk, and a clothing trunk lay at the foot of it. A huge leg of ham and several pounds of cheese hung from pegs above the counter area, while shelves were filled with what appeared to be containers of preserves, bottles of wine, and evencanned goods. It was a modest place, clean and neat. For one person or a young couple, it would make a cozy home.
Startled by the sound of water being poured, she looked quickly back at the Indian. He had taken a huge, steaming pot from atop the hearth and dumped the water from it into the hip tub. Her jaw dropped as she realized he was stripping down from his scant clothing to nothing at all. He stood naked, his back to her. Still stunned, inhaling a ragged breath, she seemed unable to do anything other than stare, her heart hammering fiercely. He was a very tall man, more imposing than she had realized in all her terrified struggling. Every inch of that height was savagely muscled. His shoulders were very broad, his back was long, his buttocks were as hard muscled as his sturdy, well-shaped legs. Even from the back, his arm muscles rippled.
She quickly averted her eyes, looking toward the cabin door as he stepped into the tub.
He lay back comfortably.
And sighed.
She stared at him at first, incredulous. She had read accounts of Indian captivity. Accounts of Sioux raids, encounters in which survivors were sometimes shot even as they assumed they were being taken hostage, encounters in which men, women, and children were taken for slave labor and used brutally.
But a savage warrior opting first for a bath did not quite seem to fit well with any previous account she had come across.
She couldn’t see much more than the power of his shoulders and the sleek wet darkness of his hair as he sat in the tub, for he faced away from her. He seemed to be scrubbing himself furiously, removing his war paint. Why?
Would he paint himself differently to murder her? One set of colors for the capture, another for the kill?
Perhaps she was to be some kind of ritual sacrifice. Killed in a very specific way.
Oh, God!
