Dream Walker
by Velda Brotherton
Chapter One
Early evening shadows sent long, dark fingers across the alley at the back of Stirman’s Mercantile. Rachel crouched behind a stack of wooden crates, breath catching in her throat.
If Doaks found her he would drag her back to that filthy shack to cook and clean and God knows what else. She covered her mouth, held her breath against a threatened cry. Tears of anger, sorrow, and raw fear flooded her cheeks.
He was coming, him and those drunken friends, making no effort to silence their approach.
“Come out of there, ye dirty heathen savage. Come out and maybe I’ll not beat ye half to death.”
The worst he’d ever done to her was fling her across the shack when she displeased him, but that whip he carried coiled at his hip frightened her into thinking he might do worse. She cringed and tried to make herself smaller.
Doaks kicked aside the crates, crashed through them with a splintering of wood, and grabbed her up by the back of her shirt like a kitten. She kicked and clawed, but he only laughed and held her out of harm’s way.
“Mangy little wildcat. Spit and claw all ye want. And then settle yourself down. Paid good money for you, ain’t letting you loose, so you might as well stop fighting me.”
The hot stench of his sour whiskey breath washed over her and she gagged and went limp. He was a huge man and could do a lot more to her if he took a notion. There’d be other chances to get away.
She let him drag her from the alley like a gunny sack filled with feed. Even though she had quietened, he kept her at arm’s length and stayed out of her reach. Recollecting her earlier escape probably made him more wary, for he carried the bloody marks of her nails along one cheek.
From out on the street, someone hollered, “Sic her, you old drunk.” Another voice answered, “Ain’t gonna let that skinny Injun get away, are ye?”
The crack of a distant shot cut through the crisp spring evening.
Roaring in victory, Doaks hauled his prize into the street, bellowing curses.
Grim and silent she hunkered on hands and knees and glared at him. The men who had gathered to watch only laughed and continued their sport, stomping the packed earth and egging on the trapper in his game.
If he came too close she’d bite his dirty ear off. The chance didn’t come, for he was too quick and kept her out of reach of his vital parts. And so she waited, bided her time, and glanced up and down the street drenched in early twilight.
Surrounded by the rowdy men, Rachel and her captor squared off, he almost too drunk to stand upright, but still much the stronger. He laid a hand on the whip, flicked the long leather tail out across the hard packed earth of the street. His bleary eyes gleamed. She hunched her shoulders, covered her head with both arms, and waited for the first sizzling lash of the burning whip. She would grab it and choke him to death.
“Don’t you kill her now, you old fool,” someone shouted with glee. “Even red Injuns is good for something, ‘specially female ‘uns.”
“Hear that, Injun,” Doaks snarled. “They don’t want me to kill ye. What do you think?”
She wanted to cry out that she was as white as she was red. White like her father. It would mean nothing to these men. To them it only took a drop of her mother’s blood to make her a filthy Injun. Instead she steeled herself to take her punishment from Doaks. This time she had gone too far and he would probably beat her. But not much, because he enjoyed her waiting on him hand and foot. She would get back at him sooner or later. The chance would come, he would have to sleep. When he did she would cut off his privates and feed them to him for breakfast. Fried.
Doaks grumbled and flicked the whip so that the end popped above her. “That brother of yours is counting his money, I would ‘spect, while I’m dealing with a crazy savage. Ought to have knowed myself better than to dicker with ‘em. Red bastard sold me a lazy, good for nothin’ runaway. Ain’t even purty.” He leaned down, jerked up her chin.
Choked by the sour whiskey on his breath, she gulped down bile and kept her eyes closed tightly. She loved her brother with all her heart. He had kept her alive, carried her at times till his feet were bloody during the removal. What had happened to him brought her great sorrow. One day perhaps she would understand why he had sold her to this terrible man. But she knew for sure, Eagle must have had no choice.
Doaks squeezed at her jaw until her ears rang. “You know that, gal? You ain’t even purty. And what do I have to show for my trouble? Paid good honest money and what do I have? Nothin’ but trouble, that’s what. I git through with you, you’ll damn well know how to pleasure a man.”
He staggered backward on the slope of the street, feet tangling. His grip loosened. She doubled both knees into her chest, kicked out, and caught him hard in the stomach.
He let out a tremendous whoosh and doubled over.
She bounded away, drinking in fresh air. Free.
Behind her he retched, the others whooped and hollered. She chose a route that would take her up the hill onto the square and raced through the dusky dark. Rounding a sharp curve in the road, she caught a second wind and took off, only to slam broadside into the haunches of a plodding horse. With a gasp she bounced off and landed flat on her backside. Momentarily breathless, she managed to roll over and scramble to her hands and knees. In another instant she had vaulted once more to her feet.
The rider, a big man dressed in buckskins, dismounted agilely and headed for her. “Here now, what’s your hurry?”
A quick glance over her shoulder told her that the drunken crowd was fast approaching.
The man’s silver eyes glittered, he breathed the stench of whiskey over her. Was there nowhere to go, no escape from such men?
He had a hold on her and she jerked to get away. “Let me go, you pale-eyed snake.” Switching to Cherokee she spat quick, insulting words at him, but he wouldn’t turn loose.
Daniel held onto the ragged Indian girl while he eyed the passel of men charging up the hill. Didn’t seem like too fair a fight, all those men against one scrawny girl, even if she did act wild as some cornered mountain cat.
The worst of the lot shouted, “She belongs to me, mister. Grab her ‘fore she runs off.” Wrapped in a badly cured fur skin and stinking like a skunk, the man lurched forward, knocked Daniel aside, and grabbed the girl.
Dispirited by the entire episode and not too steady on his own feet, Daniel raked his glance down past her flashing eyes to her unsightly garb, men’s pants hitched up with a piece of rope and a ragged linsey shirt. He let her go, turned his back on the foray, and walked off. This sort of nonsense was exactly why he stayed away from towns, from gatherings of humans. None of his damned business what happened.
He’d drunk too much, should have stayed in the wagon, gone to sleep. Let this go on without him seeing it. Wouldn’t know the difference then. He ground his teeth, shut his eyes. Girls died. Innocents died every damned day, and he couldn’t do a thing about it.
The whip cracked behind him, the girl screamed, and he hunched his shoulders against the vivid images that engulfed him. A dead girl’s head lolling over his arm, her long black hair matted in blood hanging down into the mud. The stench of gunpowder and fear, and screams, dear God, the screams. Tearing at his gut, rendering him nearly helpless. The burning Mexican village, children running and crying, soldiers scooping up the women and riding off with them. Screaming, screaming, killing, killing.
With a roar he suppressed the memories and swung around. He yanked a long-bladed Bowie from his belt and leaped on the fur-clad man before he could swing the whip again. He sank the weapon deep into the enormous dirty thigh.
The man bellowed like a raging bull, but the knife buried to the hilt in his flesh didn’t slow him down much, it just turned his attention toward Daniel. Smelling blood, the other men closed ranks. Daniel sent a quick glance toward the girl, who knelt in the dirt, a bloody slit across the back of her shirt. He damn well ought to have stayed out of this, but with the trapper lunging at him, it was way too late.
“Run, girl, run,” Daniel shouted, and took the brunt of the man’s attack. The two of them went down in the dirt, the trapper’s thumbs locked into Daniel’s throat, his bulky, stinking weight smothering him.
Daniel gasped, grunted, freed his hands, and popped the man smartly on the ears with the heels of both palms. The thumbs buried in his gullet loosened momentarily, and Daniel grappled for the handle of the knife sticking out of the man’s leg just below his hip.
Darkness closed in as he ran out of air to breathe past the choking fingers. He grabbed the Bowie and yanked with all his might, twisting the blade as he did so. It was too much for the wounded trapper. He turned loose of Daniel’s throat to paw at the leg and shriek.
With a final jerk Daniel freed the knife. Blood spurted from the wound, the man rolled away, eyes glazed. Daniel came to his feet, gesturing with the bloody blade.
The deadly calm of his voice caught the bleeding man’s attention. “Leave her be, sir. Leave her be.”
Daniel shot another quick look over his shoulder, hoping to see the Indian girl gone. She remained there in the street, both hands over her mouth, shoulders heaving.
He waved an arm at her. “Git to hell and gone, I said.” But she didn’t move, just blinked and stared.
One of the men in the crowd spoke up. “He ain’t gonna do no more harm, mister. Not tonight, he’s done for fer the time being. But was I you, I’d look to my back when he heals. Ain’t no one wants to make an enemy out of Jasper Doaks, not unless he’s looking to meet his maker.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Daniel said, and bending over, wiped the gory knife blade on Doaks’s disgusting fur wrap, reversed it, and cleaned the other side.
Doaks muttered “Bastid,” and spit, but that took the remainder of his energy and his eyes rolled up in his head as he sprawled backward.
The girl remained in one spot, entranced. She had the eyes of a frightened doe who knows it should bolt but can’t move.
Daniel gestured at her. “Git. Git on out. He won’t come after you now. Go on, git home.” He started toward his piebald mare. Up the street a ways the animal waited patiently, reins twined on the ground.
Full darkness crept lazily along the winding byways of the mountain town. Broad bands of light from the saloon pooled on the dirt street. Rachel dragged in a deep breath, studied the beaten trapper for a moment, then turned to follow after the man on the horse. She had no place to go, no bed or board. Maybe she wasn’t any better off now that she was free of Doaks. At least with him she’d had a roof of sorts over her head, and game he killed and partially cooked over an open fire. What would she do now?
The man she trailed after looked like a trapper or hunter, dressed in buckskins, moccasins, and a wide-brimmed felt hat that he had resettled firmly on his shoulder-length sandy hair after the battle. But he didn’t talk like a man used to living alone in the mountains. It wasn’t the words so much as the way he spoke, like her friend Alice Sturdivant who attended Miss Sawyer’s Seminary right here in Fayetteville. They used entire words, not just bits and pieces like most of the natives.
Up ahead the mare broke into a canter and Rachel picked up her own pace. She’d always been a good runner, and she wasn’t hurt badly. The wound across her back stung like fire, but it wasn’t deep and she could manage it. While living in the Nation, running had been a way to free herself of the sorry circumstances of her life. Sometimes she thought she could run all day and into the night without ever stopping. But no matter if she did, she still couldn’t escape the existence forced on her people by the greed of the white man.
Darkness lay heavy as wool over the wagon yard, but she had no trouble keeping up with the man as he rode to one of the covered wagons and slid down off his horse. When he did so, he kept right on going down on his butt. He was full of whiskey, just like Doaks had been. She waited awhile to see if he stirred, but he lay where he had fallen and pulled his knees up to his chin.
The mare nosed around at him awhile, then shifted a hind leg and relaxed. The poor animal must be used to his kind of treatment, but Rachel didn’t like the idea that it would have to stand there all night tightly cinched by the saddle, the bit clamping her teeth. Once she was sure the man was truly out, she crept to the horse, making soft soothing noises so as not to startle her. She loosened the cinch, slipped the saddle and blanket off and dropped them to the ground. A rope hung on the wagon, and she eased the bit from the mare’s mouth, looped the rope into a loose halter, and led the animal to a corral where other horses drowsed.
After she had taken care of the man’s mount, Rachel drank long and deeply from his canteen and climbed into the back of his wagon to bed down. The single slash across her back stung, but it could have been worse. The drunken fool had barely grazed her. She was grateful for the white man’s interference, but had no desire to take up with yet another white man. She would just sleep there the night and steal away.
Gingerly she pulled the shirt away from the wound. Bright shards of light spiraled through her vision and off into the darkness. She sucked in air through gritted teeth and waited for the pain to ease.
Instead of falling asleep she got to thinking about going to California. From the trappers who ran with Doaks she’d heard about the Fayetteville Gold Mining Company and the new trail they planned to cut. A group of Cherokee businessmen had actually organized the trip, many of them would be going along.
That’s what all these wagons were camped here for. People were gathering to join the wagon train going to California to strike gold. Was this man one of them? He had saved her from Doaks’s viciousness, maybe he would take her along. She could work for him, cook, carry wood, wash and mend his clothes. It would be no better or worse than being with Doaks and she could get away from the poverty of the Indian Nation once and for all.
The western Cherokee had lived in Arkansas before the removal, and liked it here still, even though their land had been stolen by the white man just as it had been in the Great Smokies.
Imagine riding all the way to California in one of these wagons. What sights they would see. She remembered hearing the name of the man who had been chosen to head up the train. Captain Lewis Evans. The notion of gaining passage herself sent quivers of excitement through her. Maybe in California nobody would care that she was part Cherokee and part white. Her hair wasn’t the raven black of the Cherokee, but rather sheened with the red of fire. She looked out at the world through brittle blue eyes just like her father’s, but her skin was too bronzed to ever be mistaken for white. She had the broad forehead and high cheekbones of generations of proud Cherokee women, but her mouth and nose were finely chiseled like the Irish ancestors of her father. What she looked like probably didn’t matter. She had a hunch even money wouldn’t secure her a place on the train.
Maybe the man wouldn’t notice her here in the back of his wagon all burrowed down under a pile of buffalo skins, and she could just stay there until they were too far away from Fayetteville for him to throw her out. She finally fell asleep dreaming of all the wonderful possibilities of traveling west to California, even if she did have to go with a white man.
Something crawled up over Daniel’s nose, rousing him from his whiskey slumber. He brushed at the intruder, snorted, and shifted on the hard ground. One eye sneaked open and stared at a chunk of sandstone. A rock poked into his butt, leaving a sore spot.
Where in the hell was he? He shivered and wrapped both arms around himself. Damnation, it was cold. Frost had formed in his hair and along the curve of his buckskins. He snorted again and got up, setting off a volley of gunfire in his skull.
With a dry-throated moan he staggered along the side of the wagon, hanging on to keep from pitching onto his face. He struggled and grunted and finally climbed over the rear tailgate and dropped inside. Iron gray light touched the sky to the east, horses snuffled, a rooster crowed. He’d slept on the damned bare ground all night. That was enough to make a man stiff for a month.
He tried to remember the previous evening, but drew a blank. The mare Rhymer stood in the corral, hipshot and obviously sleeping. At least he’d put the poor old horse up before passing out. With an enormous effort he dragged himself into the nest of robes inside the wagon and pawed around for cover. His hand landed on a warm, soft body, and when it did, a banshee came up clawing and screaming, batting at him, kicking, scrabbling, making the most godawful noise he’d ever heard.
“Holy Hannah,” he shouted and protected his head and ears with both arms. The blows continued, thunder pounding in his brain. He saw stars and his stomach lurched. Summoning the very last of his strength, he caught hold of the flailing limbs, wrapped both legs around the creature, and wrestled it into submission. Somebody had turned loose a blamed wildcat in his bed. Who would think that funny?
The animal spat and yelled at him and tried to get loose, but he had it, every inch of it, wrapped up tight. One hand clutched a firm, naked breast. Good God almighty, it was a female. But who, and what was she doing in his bed? Surely he hadn’t … no, that was one thing he wouldn’t do.
After he caught his breath and swallowed his indignation, he spoke. “Who in thunderation are you, and what are you doing in my wagon?” The effort drove daggers through his skull.
Immediately the wild woman he had trapped went totally limp. Well, she couldn’t fool him, he wasn’t about to turn her loose and let her have at him again.
“I will leave if you let me go,” she said into his ear. “I am sorry, it was cold and I have no place else to go.”
He tried to concentrate on the meaning of the words. The last of his whiskey thoughts boiled around in his head, then cleared, and he remembered the slight Indian girl he had rescued the night before. But what he couldn’t remember was bringing her home with him.
In the time it took him to consider all the possibilities, he kept his hold tight. If this wildcat got loose she’d make mincemeat out of him.
Evidently reconsidering her earlier offer to slink away, she hissed, “Let me go or I will make a woman out of you.” That sweet little voice had gone as hard-edged as the steel in his Bowie.
He laughed. He couldn’t help it. “You mean, after I let you go.”
She thought about that awhile. “Maybe a long time after you let me go, but I will.”
“Then why should I let you go?” The skin of her cheek was silky soft against the stubble of his face.
Another long silence before she replied. “Because it would not be wise for both of us to lie here like this until one or the other died of starvation.”
Daniel chuckled and unlocked his legs. Just in case, he kept one arm wrapped around her torso in case he had to get the hell away if she exploded again. This one certainly didn’t talk like the ragged Indian girl he remembered from last night, but she blamed well acted like her. Perhaps this was someone else, which would indicate he’d been very busy in his nightly prowling.
“Who are you?” He released her with a great deal of care, shoving her up against the side of the wagon and scooting out of reach.
She grimaced, and edged away from the sideboards. “I am Rachel Keye. You saved me from a whipping last night, do you remember?”
He nodded, dumbstruck. “I thought you were an Injun.”
“I am half Cherokee, half white. My father was a trapper, his name was Josiah Keye.” She glared at him, crouched like a cat about to pounce.
He held up a hand. “That doesn’t explain what the hell you’re doing in my bed.”
“Sleeping.” She clammed up after the sullen reply.
“Look, if you want to stay here, do. But leave me alone. I’ve got to get some sleep.”
“I’m not sleeping with you. I don’t even know your name.”
“Hell, if that’s all it takes, I’m Daniel Wolfe. You’re Rachel? Hello, Rachel. Now shut up and let me get some sleep.”
He burrowed into the furs and let out a long sigh.
She remained on her knees, watching him while dawn sent slivers of pale gray into the darkness around them. He was not much, this rescuer. But he had a wagon and he was going to California to hunt for gold. It was decided. She would go with him, one way or another.
Lying in a tight little ball as far away from his still form as possible, she dozed off once again.
Daniel shouted himself up out of a hideous dream splashed with the gore and blood of war. Breathless he threw off the buffalo robes and scrambled outside into another day. The night terrors bled away, and he settled some, rubbed his eyes with stiff fingers, brushed back his hair, and shook himself like a great bear.
Last night’s whiskey coated his tongue with a disgusting fur. He found his canteen and drank the last of the water. The barrel on the side of the wagon needed filling as well.
If he didn’t get himself in hand he wouldn’t make it into the Indian Nation, let alone all the way to Oregon. Damn the whiskey . . . damn the memories.
A more recent one pricked at him. The girl in his wagon. He stood on the frame and peered in cautiously. He hadn’t forgotten her temper and didn’t want to get hit with a keg of crackers.
She lay on her stomach, tangled hair spread around her head, a streak of dried blood across the back of her torn shirt.
“That son of a bitch,” he muttered, then went to fetch some water. When he returned she was awake.
“Brought you some water and a rag. Thought we could clean that up.” He gestured toward her back.
“I am all right. Go away.”
“Can’t.”
She shot him a dark look.
He shrugged. “My place. The way it works is, I stay here, you go.”
“Inadu,” she spat out.
He knelt there looking at her, silver eyes almost opaque. She thought she saw something sorrowful deep in there, but he quickly disguised it with anger.
“If that means son of a bitch, you’re quite correct.” He slammed the pan of water down and started to back away.
“I can’t reach it,” she said in a voice softer than she had used to him so far. “Snake. It means snake.”
“Yea, well that too. You want me to wash . . . ?”
“Never mind, I will just leave. It will be all right, I am sure.”
“Oh, hell.” He moved toward her. “Turn around, take off the shirt.”
Silently, slowly, she fumbled open the buttons and bared her back.
He gasped at the slash across the smooth, golden flesh. Damn that bastard to hell and back.
Pieces of shirt clung to clots of dried blood and he soaked the material with cold water. She dragged in a harsh breath but didn’t say anything. Under his callused fingers her skin felt soft and downy. He pushed tangles of dirty hair out of the way. Lips pinched, he cleaned the long wound that ran from her right shoulder blade diagonally across her spine to the curve of her left hip.
It wasn’t a deep cut, but it must have hurt like hell. She uttered no sound, just remained on her knees, head and shoulders drawn down.
Deep inside, the muscles of Rachel’s stomach quivered with each touch of the cold, wet rag. How gentle he was for such a man, yet the fierce pain was like a flame searing her skin.
“I have salve,” he said finally, “but I’ll have to find it in the grub box.”
She nodded and waited, arms hugging herself to stop the shuddering.
When he turned from the wooden box in which he’d stored all the necessities of daily life on a wagon trip, he caught a glimpse of the sensual curve of her breast and halted. He’d thought he had himself a child here, for she appeared small in the ragged, loose clothing, but this was a full-grown woman. Those curves were what he had felt earlier when, half drunk, he’d wrestled her down. He had thought himself dreaming that part, for the desire to have a woman in his bed always died a quick death. He imagined the reaction when he awoke screaming and battling the demons that haunted his nightmares. Any woman would be off and running if she didn’t shoot him dead first.
Closing off his yearnings, he lathered the salve over her bowed back, gave her one of his shirts to put on, and sent her on her way because he could do nothing else.
She paused at the tailgate, outlined in bright sunlight. “I do not suppose you would take me to California, would you?” The request came in a small voice.
“Wouldn’t even if I were going there. I’m going to Oregon.”
She lifted her other leg over the gate and slid down out of sight. “Well, then. Good-bye, Daniel Wolfe.”
A pang of regret hit him and he crept to the opening to watch her small figure dart away among the gathered wagons. He almost called her back, but what would he do with a scrawny Injun woman anyway? Even if she did have a set of exquisite breasts and a curvy body.
As morning broke and the camp came to life, Rachel moved stealthily from one wagon to another. Three Cherokee men, one just entering manhood and much younger than her eighteen summers, readied a large, well-equipped covered wagon for the trip. She glanced quickly into the back. Supplies nearly filled every available space. Barrels and bags, crates and crocks lined both sides and were piled four and five deep up front. Surely there was a nook or cranny in which she could hide out before the train got underway. She marked the position of the large wagon in relation to the others, then drifted away from the yard.
In town she managed to salvage some food from the back of the hotel where the cafe workers threw out their leftovers for the dogs. The April morning had dawned brisk, but as the day wore on the temperature warmed. By early afternoon, she picked her way down to the branch that ran off the rim of the hill to the north of town. Stripping, she sat in the cold water and washed as best she could, keeping the wound dry. After a while her flesh grew chilled and she crawled out to lie naked in the sun, soaking in the pleasant golden warmth. The filthy pants she had rinsed and spread out to dry beside her. They were still damp when she slipped into them. The shirt smelled like Daniel Wolfe. How odd that he would have the name of the clan of her brother and other father’s people. Perhaps there was some hidden meaning there. She threw away the possibility, for she no longer believed in such nonsense. It was simply stupid Cherokee superstition.
She had no idea how long she must wait before the train pulled out. It would be best to remain close by and await an opportunity to hide away. Most of all, she had to be very careful that someone didn’t spot her and tell Doaks. He did, after all, still own her, if he could catch her and keep her. With luck he would be laid up with the knife wound until the wagons pulled out.
Daniel brooded about the girl Rachel. Looking into her face brought to mind crisp mornings and winter-shorn hills. Her eyes were the color of bright, dazzling blue chicory flowers, and they were made even brighter by the bronze shade of her lovely skin. Her hair reminded him of the copper leaves of the oak just before winter struck, leaves that always managed to cling stubbornly to their branches despite the wildest north winds. She had that kind of tenacity, both fragile and durable at the same time.
He tried to forget the warmth and softness of her lush breasts, the smell of her skin, her breath mingling with his in the heat of their struggle in his bed. She would get to California without any help from him. Damn! He had to stop thinking about her. Life had been very lonely since he’d come home from the war in Mexico the previous year, but that was the way he wanted it.
That night as he lay in his own cozy bed, he found himself wondering where the girl was sleeping, what she had eaten. Aloud, he cursed himself for being foolish.
And he dreamed again of the child he couldn’t save. She and her kind had been the enemy, trampled under the booted feet of the marching armies. He may not have killed her, but he felt as though he had had some part in it.
Odd how growing up he’d always admired the warrior, the mighty and the strong, and had wondered what it felt like to stand for a cause, be brave. Man was meant to do battle. But not with women and children. They should be spared, kept somewhere safe, away from the ravages of man’s fierce folly.
As always the girl lay across his arms, head hanging so that her ebony hair spread in the bloody mud where he knelt. Through tear-drenched eyes he gazed into her face, clutched her to his chest and rocked. A soldier’s weapon had found its mark, had killed this innocent one, and he could scarcely bear it. Abruptly her features shifted, changed into those of the Indian girl. Eyes opening to accuse him in their crystal sharpness.
And then the child’s hand flashed upward, fading light caught at the steel of a blade and she plunged it into his throat.
He awoke choking, gagging, his eyes watering. Sweat poured down his body. He loosened the shirt, skinned out of it, and sat there a moment, chest heaving. Cool night air dried the sweat, chilling him. Moonlight splashed through gaps in the wagon tarp. He traced a trembling finger through a golden puddle.
Daniel had killed bear, buffalo, and on one occasion a mountain lion with his bare hands, but he had never been as frightened as he was of the memories that came to him at night. And he was ashamed because that fear made him feel less of a man. He wanted no one to ever witness that weakness, most especially a beautiful Indian girl who had enough spunk to stand up to a man with a whip.
Unable to sleep, Rachel trailed listlessly among the silent wagons, her way lit by moonlight. A terrible guttural noise caught at her senses. An animal of some sort? Or someone in pain? She stopped to listen, then moved toward the low keening sound until she found herself outside Daniel’s wagon. It shook and creaked.
With an eye to a gap between the tarp and the high sideboards she peered into the darkness. Inside the tossing form wrapped in buffalo robes sat bolt upright, cried out. She jammed a fist in her mouth to keep from responding in kind.
He yanked the buckskin shirt off over his head, tousling his long hair. It tumbled like a curtain over his face and around his naked shoulders. Fingers of moonlight caressed the bare skin. Darkness cloaked his features, his breath rasped harshly.
She wanted to run, but remained frozen as he scampered like a panicked animal up and over the tailgate, landing so that he couldn’t help but see her.
Like a flash his hand clamped her arm, swung her around with a strength she couldn’t overpower. Fright dried her throat and left her speechless.
“What in damnation are you doing, girl?”
He held both her wrists and pulled her in close. The smell of whiskey poured over her. She shook her head and tried to break free, a weak cry escaping her mouth. As he shifted, moonlight gleamed in tear-washed eyes. How could that be? He was a big man, a strong hunter, why would he be crying?
Would he kill her now? Or would he take her into his wagon first? She hardly knew which she feared the most. Abruptly he let her go, rubbed the back of one hand along her tingling flesh where he’d gripped her so tightly, and gazed down into her eyes as sadly as one who has lost all he holds dear.
“Get on out of here, now,” he said. His voice rasped hoarsely. “And don’t come hanging around me anymore. Girl, what’s wrong with you?”
She wondered the same thing. There was no reason for her to be here. This man was dangerous and didn’t want her around. Why had she come back?
Still, despite his outburst they remained facing one another. The broad muscles across his chest and shoulders rippled as he once again raised his hand toward her. She didn’t flinch, but waited, holding his gaze with her own.
He cupped the side of her face tenderly, slipped his hand slowly down the length of her loose hair, and took a strand in his fingertips. His tongue ran over his lips, and unconsciously she licked her own.
Then he pulled away and turned from her. But this time when he spoke, it was with gentleness. “I’m sorry I can’t help you. Go back to your people where you’ll be safe. Go on now.”
A smoldering coal deep in the pit of her stomach came alive and licked upward. Its fiery trail hardened her nipples until she wanted to cup them in her hands to ease their need to be touched.
“Good-bye, Daniel Wolfe,” she whispered and stepped from the embrace of his terrifying, spiritual fire, then turned and ran.
