Their survival depended upon him.
It was nearing midday, and panic had begun to build in her belly. She kept her gaze off the dark wall of forest beyond, but still the weight of the wilderness pressed in on her. She was utterly alone. No food. No shelter. No weapons. No clothing. Even if she’d had all those things, she’d have faced a struggle to survive. Good heavens, how would she be able to keep both herself and Belle alive without them?
And yet she had no choice but to try.
Fighting despair, she found a small outcropping of rocks and set up a little camp on the leeward side. She knew she should move on. She needed to find food and shelter. Although there was grass and water aplenty here for the stallion, it was too early for wild berries, and she had no means to kill or capture game and no way to cook it. Until she found a trading post or a family that would take her in, there would be little more than wild greens and roots for her to eat, barely enough to keep up her milk for Isabelle. Besides, the nights were still cold, the forest alive with wild animals and even wilder men. Alone in the forest wearing little more than her skin, she was naked and defenseless.
But where could she go? She had no clear idea where she was. Oh, aye, she knew she was on the opposite bank of the Ohio River, but the Ohio was long and winding. That the stallion had covered so much ground so quickly still astonished her. The mares could never have run so swiftly.
Nicholas must have known that. He must have chosen—
Nay! She could not do this. Nicholas had died giving her and her baby a chance at life. And so she must pull herself together. She must survive.
She swallowed her tears, forced her grief-weary mind to think. She supposed she should follow the river until she came to Fort Pitt, but how long would that take? Weeks? A month?
She could not expect help. In this country, there were few women, and the men would be more inclined to take advantage of her plight than to help her. Those who weren’t the sort to rape or kill her outright would likely expect something in return for aiding her.
And when she reached Fort Pitt...
Surely the officers would not let their men prey upon a woman with a baby, a widow, no matter how she was dressed.
She jumped down off the rock, walked over to check on Isabelle, found her sound asleep in the shawl, which Bethie had hung between two branches to make a sort of hanging cradle. Then she reached for the saddle blanket to see whether sunlight and fresh air had dried it; she found it still damp.
Her gaze drifted to the opposite shore for what must have been the thousandth time.
He was not there. He would never be there.
She forced herself to look away, fought to keep her mind on the task at hand, off the regret and sorrow she knew would overwhelm her if she let them.
Water. Food. Shelter. A way to protect herself.
She needed some kind of weapon. She picked up a few stones, placed them beside the tree that sheltered Belle. Then an idea came to her.
She sought among the piles of driftwood, gathered a handful of sturdy sticks, took up a sharp stone, began to hone one of the sticks to a point. It would not be the same as a blade of steel, to be sure, but it might be enough to save her life and Isabelle’s.
She had just completed her first improvised dagger, when Zeus whickered. Ears up, the stallion stomped impatiently, whinnied.
From nearby came an answering whinny. Then another.
Her heart slamming in her breast, Bethie jumped to her feet, sharpened stick in one hand, a rock in the other. Whoever they were, they knew she was here. The stallion had given her away. She fought the urge to run and hide, forced herself to stand on watery legs and face them. She wouldn’t let them hurt her baby.
The moment stretched into eternity. She heard the roar of her pulse in her ears. The distant cry of a hawk. The dull thud of horses galloping over sand and stone.
Nicholas!
From around the bend he appeared, riding bareback on one of the mares, the other following obediently behind bearing his gear. Clad only in his leggings, soot smeared across his chest, his dark hair blowing in the breeze behind him, he was the most welcome sight she had ever seen.
Dizzy with relief, she gaped at him, unable to believe her eyes.
He is alive.
She dropped her makeshift weapons and ran to him. “Nicholas!”
He slid off the mare’s back, crushed her to him, pressed his lips against her hair. He smelled of smoke and forest and sunshine. “Bethie, love! Thank God, you’re safe! Where’s Belle? Is she—”
“She’s fine. She’s asleep over—”
But before she could finish, his fingers had fisted in her hair, and he captured her mouth with his. This was not like the restrained kisses he’d given her in the cabin. This kiss was scorching, desperate, almost savage—a kiss of release, a kiss of death defeated, a kiss of life renewed.
