In horror, Bethie watched as the Indian gave a hair-raising cry and rushed in on Nicholas, war club in one hand, knife in the other. He swung the club, aimed for Nicholas’s head.
There was a crack of steel on wood as war club met rifle.
Nicholas deflected the blow, leapt neatly back to avoid the knife.
And then she saw.
The fifth man, the man she had forgotten, the man with the scalps, stalked Nicholas from behind.
He stepped out from behind a tree. Raised his rifle. Cocked it. Took aim.
Nicholas!
Another shot rang out.
Isabelle screamed.
Below her on the hillside, Bethie saw the man with the scalps crumple, fall to the ground, slide lifeless down the hillside in a flurry of leaves.
Nicholas stared up at her, surprise and fury on his face.
So did the remaining Indian.
Only then did Bethie realize the shot had been hers.
Nicholas wrenched his attention off Bethie, back to the surviving Delaware, took advantage of the man’s distraction to deliver a skull-crushing blow with the rifle butt.
The man fell to the earth, as good as dead.
Nicholas retrieved his pistols, pulled his knife from its temporary sheath deep in one man’s chest, wiped it clean on the man’s breeches. As the rush of the fight began to fade, his anger fused to a sharp edge.
She had defied him. She had fired the rifle, given herself away, put herself and Isabelle in danger. Had he not been clear with her? She was only to fire to save her own life, not to protect him. He could protect himself.
He found her sitting beneath a tree, a crying Belle clutched tightly to her breast.
She met his gaze, her violet eyes bright with unshed tears. “She willna quit cryin’. I’ve tried nursin’—”
He reached down, took Bethie by the shoulders, pulled her to her feet. “What in the hell were you doing? You could have gotten yourself and Belle killed!”
She blinked the tears away, glared at him. “I had to stop him. You didna see—”
He felt the last thread of his temper snap. “I told you to fire only to save your own life! If you hadn’t hit him, I’d have been dead anyway—and those two men would have known you were here! They’d have come for you, Bethie, and there’s no way you’d have been able to reload fast enough to hit them both! Don’t you understand?”
“L-let go of m-me!”
Whether it was the tremulous note in her voice or the strange look in her eyes, something broke the force of his anger. Then he noticed things he hadn’t seen in his rage. She was trembling from head to foot, her legs so wobbly she’d have likely fallen if he had released her. Behind her tears, her eyes held a haunted, tormented look he’d never seen there before. But it was a look he recognized, a look he’d seen in countless young soldiers’ eyes.
She was in shock.
She had killed a man, and her mind was struggling to cope.
Anger turned into a fierce protectiveness. Nicholas pulled her into his arms, careful of little Belle, who was still crying, and pressed his lips to her hair. “You foolish, brave woman. I know men who couldn’t have made that shot. You’re a lot stronger than you seem.”
“I—I dinnae feel very strong.” Her voice was thick with tears.
He stepped back, cupped her face in his hands, wiped her tears away with his thumbs. “Strong isn’t about how you feel, Bethie. It’s about what you do. It’s no small thing to take a man’s life, no small thing to risk your own. You just did both.”
“D-did you feel this way, too, the first time you...”
