Seneca Surrender (27 page)
Luckily, there was a full moon this night. It lit their path, but it didn’t allow Sarah to see the changes in the elevations of their path ahead of time, and she found herself stumbling more often than not. There was nothing for it, however, but to pick herself up and match her pace as well as she was able to with White Thunder’s. She couldn’t see as well as she ought in the dim, silvery light cast here and there by the moon, and the stark tree branches caught at the sleeves of the shirt that White Thunder had loaned her. Sarah’s own petticoats snagged on the stickers, further tearing her underclothes.
Above her the sky was black, with contrasting light from the full moon and stars, but so fast was their haste, Sarah didn’t dare spare more than a quick glance upward. Instead she concentrated on placing one foot in front of the other, and keeping herself upright and on the tail of White Thunder.
The atmosphere of the forest was oxygen filled at this time of night, she noticed; its fragrance was uplifting to her spirits. It was as though the forest itself were lending the two of them a helping hand. Even the wind conspired to aid in their escape, for it was at their back.
But what circumstance were they escaping? Or who? And why were they hurrying? Weren’t the Ottawa dead?
The question, though an urgent one in her opinion, went unasked, simply for lack of the opportunity of posing it.
Sarah was out of breath when White Thunder at last broke his pace and settled into a trot. Simply because she couldn’t run as fast as he, Sarah had drawn a ways back from him. With his slowdown, at last she had an opportunity to catch up with him.
As soon as she came into view of him, however, they pressed forward yet again. And though the trot was more to her liking, she still lagged far behind.
At last, they came to an open meadow, and White Thunder stopped at the edge. He was gazing out at it, looking as though he had been frozen in his tracks.
Sarah was breathing hard and fast as she drew level with him, and now that she had come to a standstill, she observed her breath was mirrored on the air. Interestingly, the cold air, usually intolerable to her, felt good this night.
As soon as she caught her breath, she asked, “Why are we running?”
He brought a finger to his lips.
Immediately she ceased not only all talk, but all movement, too. But she couldn’t help wondering what was wrong. Were there other enemies about? She hadn’t seen any.
But then, she might not be aware of them. For good or for bad, Sarah was more than sadly aware that her experience in the woods left much room for improvement.
And then, without saying a word to her, White Thunder indicated that she was to follow him. They crept low, skirting the woods on the edge of the meadow. They stopped at each moonlit shadow and darkened silhouette.
But at last, he seemed satisfied, and he signaled to her that she was to follow, and do as he did. That he then came down onto his belly and forearms was almost asking too much of her, she thought. However, he was already crawling across the meadow. She was supposed to do the same? In petticoats?
Sighing deeply, Sarah realized that she had no option. Not if she wished to keep up with White Thunder. Coming down onto all fours, she fell onto her belly, her elbows taking the brunt of the weight of her body.
The fresh scent of grass, dirt and the nightly dew that covered everything felt lightweight on her lungs as she inhaled several deep breaths. Though they were long since ruined, Sarah realized that her petticoats would be forever grass-stained.
It was slow going, but at long last, they had crossed the meadow. Once they reached the other side, and were again within the shadowy midst of the forest, White Thunder came up to his feet, and struck out, again at a maddening pace. Sarah followed. Tired though she was, her legs still kept sending her forward. Somehow she made them obey her desire to hurry.
It was practically dawn by the time they stopped. Exhausted, Sarah fell to the ground and probably would have slept right where she had dropped had White Thunder been of a mind to let her.
Indeed, at first it seemed that he might. He let her rest while he constructed another one of his temporary shelters, made from logs, branches and leaves that were strewn on the forest floor. Sarah watched him with tired eyes as he landscaped around the shelter, fixing a log here, a branch there, so that to the untrained eye, their abode would be unseen. Then coming back for her, he bent to pick her up, straightening her hair back from her face as he brought her into his arms.
He said naught as he lay her down on their bed within the shelter. It was a bed that he had fashioned from nothing more than fresh pine boughs and the grasses of the forest, with a blanket thrown atop it. But to Sarah, the bed felt as if she’d sunk into the most comfortable featherbed she’d ever known.
He kissed her; she smiled and then, no sooner had she rested her head against the blanket than she fell to sleep.
Amazingly, her rest was dream free. And if not for the warm arms that held her securely all the morning through, she might have thought she was back in Albany, alone in her bed, and that none of this had ever happened.
They slept from morning ’til dusk that first day. Then, after a snack of dried meat, water and a few shared kisses, they again slept through the night and on into the next day. Indeed, when Sarah at last awoke, the sun was in the western sky and was showing off its artistry over the land in pinks, blues and oranges. Scents of moss, pine, twigs and dead wood assured her that she was still on the run, not back in Albany in her lonely, yet safe bed.
She awoke with a start, immediately anxious. If not in Albany, where was she? Had she and White Thunder escaped into safety? Were there still enemies hunting them? Looking up, she stared straight into “rafters” of twigs, and branches of maple, oak and birch. Nothing unusual there. These were the common “ceilings” of the temporary shelters.
Why this sense of turbulence? Was it because of Miss Marisa? Sarah hadn’t forgotten she couldn’t rest until she found Marisa and if possible warned her of the danger awaiting her in Albany.
Or was it? … Her stomach dropped. The memory of an Ottawa warrior, with black-painted face, white teeth and an evil smile, threatening to murder her in the worst possible way, stirred in front of her, as though he were here now haunting her. She almost screamed, but she curbed the instinct. Never again would she cry out without knowing who or what was around her.
She lay perfectly still, afraid to move. Eventually, however, when nothing untoward happened, she chanced to stretch. That’s when it became very apparent to her that something else was very wrong: She was completely naked beneath this covering.
She didn’t remember having gone to bed in the nude. Tired, she most definitely had been, but she was certain she would have remembered removing all of her clothes.
Where was White Thunder?
Most likely, he was the one responsible for her state of undress. But why? Sitting up as quietly as possible—for there wasn’t the room to stand—she brought the blanket up with her, wrapped it around her and sat forward to peer out through the cracks in their shelter. Was it safe to leave?
While she sat debating the pros and cons of “stay” or “go,” she caught sight of White Thunder, who was climbing up from a ridge below. Were they camped on a hill or mountaintop? Now that she thought of it, she had noticed as they had fled over hill and dale last night that the terrain had sloped gradually upward.
He was shirtless, and despite her anxiety, she took several moments to admire this very handsome man. His chest was broad and muscular, as though he were used to the hard work of carrying game for miles on his shoulders. His chest was also wet, Indeed, he was wet all over, and she wondered where the stream was that he had used for bathing. Sniffing the air around her, she was well aware that she needed to visit that stream, also.
Beneath the pale rays of the setting sun, his figure took on the appearance of being engulfed in a mystical kind of haze, and she spent several moments watching him, her spirit full of silent admiration. He wore skin-tight leggings, she noted, which accentuated the muscular beauty of his legs. Those leggings were also thigh-high, exposing the upper part of his thigh and the outline of his buttocks to the fancy of her feminine eye. And she did look.
Those leggings were tied at the knee with strips of red-fringed cloth, and they fell down and covered a good portion of his moccasins. A breechcloth of navy-and-red cloth fell down in front of him and in back, and it served two purposes that she could see: support and masculine modesty.
His figure exuded male beauty, despite the fact that his chest and arms displayed several red, blue and black tattoos in designs of circles and straight lines. His stomach was flat, and tied around his waist was his belt where hung his tomahawk, ax, war club and several knives. In his hand was his ever-present rifle and strung around his shoulders crisscross over his chest were belts and bags for his powder horn and ammunition. His arms were muscular, and except for two bands that spanned his forearms, they were bare.
His hair was clipped close to his head, with a longer strip of hair that ran down the center of his head, much like the men’s mohawk style, except that he wasn’t bald and this man’s hair was exceptionally long in back.
He looked incredibly dear, sexy and handsome, and something very warm stirred within her. This was the man who had saved her life three times now; the same and only man to whom she had ever given her complete devotion. And she wouldn’t have been quite human had she not wished to give him everything that was in her to give. But what?
He demanded so little of her.
At present, he appeared to be at his ease, which prompted her to think that perhaps they were in a safe place. On the chance that this might be so, she poked her head out through the entry flap and said, “Hello, sir.”
He looked up at her and smiled. “Hello,” he responded warmly as he climbed the rest of the way to the summit where he had set up their camp.
She said, “Mr. Thunder, do you know what has happened to my clothes?”
“I washed them,” he replied. “They are drying.”
“
You
washed them?”
You
washed them?”
“
Nyoh
, that is so.”
Nyoh
, that is so.”
Sarah was taken aback. Having spent most of her life as a maid attending to others’ needs, she tried to recall if anyone had ever washed her clothes for her. If it were so, she couldn’t remember it.
“I also mended your blouse.”
This last had the effect of startling her. What sort of a man was this, who not only rescued a maid from certain death, but then mended the clothing that had been torn in the process?
She said, “Thank you, sir, that was kind of you. But unnecessary. I could have taken care of it myself.”
“True,” he replied, “but you were sleeping and I didn’t wish to disturb you. Your clothing, however, needed attention.”
Remembering the fact that her captors hadn’t allowed her the decency to relieve herself privately, she was well aware of this fact. For a moment, embarrassment consumed her, realizing that he was probably understating his case.
But she had a question, and she asked, “How did you accomplish mending my bodice? Did you bring needle and thread with you?”
“
Neh
. However, I always carry sinew and a sharpened tooth for poking holes. It is a necessity, since one often needs to repair or make new moccasins when traveling.”
Neh
. However, I always carry sinew and a sharpened tooth for poking holes. It is a necessity, since one often needs to repair or make new moccasins when traveling.”
An emotion, similar to gratitude, but all mixed up with respect and love, gripped her and was threatening to engulf her completely. For a moment, she felt overwhelmed. Indeed, tears filled her eyes, and a knot seemed to have developed in her throat. Immediately she was gripped by the realization of how kind this man was. Yes, he was a toughened man, he was a warrior and he had shown his ability against great odds. But she thought that this one trait outshone them all. He was kind.
“Come here,” he said as he squatted in front of their entrance and pushed back the pine boughs that they were using as an entry flap. “I have something to show you.”
“Is it safe, sir?”
“It is.”
Other books
Lor Mandela - Destruction from Twins by L Carroll
El miedo de Montalbano by Andrea Camilleri
Strum Your Heart Out by Crystal Kaswell
Songbird by Julia Bell
The Forgiving Hour by Robin Lee Hatcher
Dictator s Daughter by Angell, Lorena
The Comeback Challenge by Matt Christopher
Ties That Bind by Natalie R. Collins
Her Last Breath: A Kate Burkholder Novel by Linda Castillo
Waiter Rant by Steve Dublanica