1
SEPTEMBER1814
ROCKYMOUNTAINS, RUPERT’SLAND(CANADA)
Another ten paces and she’d have to shoot.
Brielle Durand steadied the arrow fletching against her cheek, then pushed her body farther into the bow to draw the cord tighter.
The man in her sights rode calmly forward, his breath blowing white in the early morning air. The mount beneath him snorted, releasing its own cloud as it bobbed against the bit. The animal must sense the nearing danger.
In truth, the beast had more intelligence than its rider. As was usual in the ways of animals. Especially when compared to an Englishman like this fellow appeared to be.
Five more strides.
She narrowed her gaze, focusing on the point of aim so her arrow would hit his midsection. Should she give him warning? Perhaps the cry of a mountain lion would plant fear in his chest. She caught her breath, preparing to make the fierce scream she’d practiced so oft.
But the man spurred his horse faster, as though eager tocharge through the opening in the rock. Surely he couldn’t see the sheltered courtyard just beyond. The place forbidden to outsiders—especially Englishmen.
She locked her jaw to steady herself. Since her eighteenth birthday, when she’d finally been allowed to fight with the warriors, she swore an oath each morning to protect their village. Never again would an Englishman enter their inner circle unhindered. Her people had learned the terrible lesson well the last time. Memory of her mother’s lifeless eyes tried to surface, but she pushed the distraction away.
Pressing against the bow, she took a final breath to aim, then let the arrow fly.Guide its path, Lord.
A roar broke the morning quiet, radiating from the rocky cliffs like the bellow of a wounded bear. The man doubled over, wrapping his arms around his middle. The long slender shaft of her arrow extended from the leathers that clothed him.
She inhaled a steadying breath, then released it. She’d done what she must to protect her people. Now came the time to uncover his reason for approaching the circle. Her home.
The safety of her people.
Evan MacManus gripped the arrow shaft with both hands, forcing his body to draw in air despite the agony in his gut.
He’d not even heard the Indians’ approach. Not noticed any quieting of the forest creatures. He must be losing his instincts, and this arrow served as grave proof of that fact.
He reined Granite into a cluster of trees, where the trunks might shield him from another arrow. Precious little time remained to extract the point before the Indians would be uponhim. His hammering pulse only made each breath harder to inhale. He had to push aside the pain and focus on what must be done.
Feeling for the solid thickness of the arrowhead to make sure the iron hadn’t sunk completely beneath his skin, he clenched his jaw at the cramping in his gut. Best to get this over with.
The arrow pulled loose from his flesh in a clean motion—maybe it hadn’t sunk deep enough to damage any organs. The tip snagged on his buckskin tunic, and he wiggled it loose but stopped himself before hurling the wicked thing into the woods. With a hand pressing his undershirt against the wound to staunch the bleeding, he tucked the arrow in his musket scabbard and peered around the trunk of the tree nearest him. He could investigate which tribe had made the weapon later. If he survived this attack. At the moment, he had to find a way to ensure he didn’t get a more personal introduction to whoever shot him.
No movement flashed in the morning light beyond the trees. Only a cluster of scraggly bushes marked the other side of the trail. But the warrior had likely been shooting from farther ahead, maybe even from the bend in the path, where the bases of two mountains met to form a narrow opening between them. The gap created a natural gateway where an enemy could find cover and wait.
A spasm seized Evan, doubling him over as he fought to stifle a groan. He had to keep breathing, or this lightness in his head would take over.
“To the ground. Now,” barked a voice behind him. The tone held an accent, but not any Indian tongue he’d ever heard.
Evan twisted, biting back a grunt as he tried to focus hiswavering vision on the figure standing not five strides behind his horse, bow and arrow at the ready. He had no doubt that second arrow would find its way into his flesh if he didn’t obey the order.
Pressing a hand tight against his wound, he clutched his saddle horn with the other and eased himself to the ground. He didn’t release his hold on either the saddle or his gut as he tried to settle the spinning in his head. Had he lost so much blood already? The warm liquid coated his hand, which meant he wasn’t staunching the flow. Yet he shouldn’t be this lightheaded so quickly.
Ignoring the thought, he squinted at the bundle of furs before him.
“To the ground, I said. Or it’s another arrow you’ll meet.”
That was no Indian’s speech. Certainly not broken English, but the words contained a lilt only a Frenchman could master.
Blast. How had he stumbled upon the enemy all the way out here? He’d hoped—prayed—this territory was too far west for him to meet one of the Canadians they were fighting.
“Who are you?” He knew better than to argue with a man pointing a weapon, but the cramping in his gut made his thoughts swim in a disjointed flow.
