Sundancer's Woman

by Judith E. French

  “It’s my life, Hunt Campbell. I’ll decide what’s right and what’s crazy for me.”

  “You’re not thinking straight. You’re tired and upset. You’re—”

  “Stupid? A woman? What is it that makes me unfit to make my own decisions?”

  He sighed. “I was paid to bring you back to your daddy in one piece. And, by God, I intend to do it, with or without your consent.”

  “No matter what I want?”

  “No matter what you want,” he said brusquely.

  “Then sleep with one eye open,” she warned. “Because I intend to go back, around you or over you. It’s up to you.”

  “We’ll see about that.” Turning abruptly, he grabbed up his torch, lit it from the open flame, and stalked down the dark tunnel.

  “I mean it,” she cried after him. “Yellow Drum couldn’t get the best of me, and I surely won’t let you. I won’t ...”

  Her words echoed through the cavern—I won’t ... I won’t ... I won’t—until the sound faded, and Elizabeth could hear nothing but the rasp of her own harsh breathing.

  Chapter 5

  Rachel swayed gently as the late afternoon breeze stirred the cradleboard hanging from a tree branch. Elizabeth knelt a few feet away, grinding corn with a stone pestle and humming an old English lullaby. Rachel giggled as she passed a red cardinal feather back and forth between one chubby, starfish hand and another. Elizabeth had greased Rachel’s hands so that the feather stuck to her palms, an Indian trick for soothing children that an old Seneca woman had taught her.

  “I see you,” Elizabeth cried. “I see Rachel.” She covered her face with her hands. “Where’s Rachel? Where did she go?” She parted her fingers and peeked through at the baby. Instantly, Rachel’s snapping black eyes sparkled, and she squealed with delight.

  Rachel was small, too young to walk, perhaps eight months. She was bound so tightly in the beaded doeskin cradleboard that she couldn’t kick; only her hands were free, and she waved those gaily in the air. Her little face was as round and brown as a nut, and when she giggled dimples appeared on both cheeks.

  “Sweet girl,” Elizabeth murmured. “Mama’s sweet girl. ”

  Suddenly clouds covered the sun, and the breeze began to blow harder. The shadow of a bird fell across the stone mortar. Elizabeth looked up to see a huge raven swooping down toward the baby. “Go away!” she cried. “Go away!” She tried to leap up to grab the swinging cradleboard, but her legs wouldn’t respond.

  Rachel wailed and rocked violently from side to side. Elizabeth could feel the wind caused by the flap of the bird’s wings. “No! Go away!” she screamed. The raven’s ivory talons dug into the beautiful cradleboard and the lovely beading began to fall away, bead by bead.

  “No!” Elizabeth opened her eyes with a start and pushed away the blanket. Her heart was racing, her body covered with perspiration.

  “Oh,” she murmured, still caught up in the awful nightmare. Elizabeth hadn’t remembered falling asleep or even lying down by the fire, but she knew she must have. She suppressed a shudder and tried to push away the terror, as memories of where she was replaced those of the dream world.

  Clearly, she’d slept. She took a deep breath and tried to clear her mind.

  She glanced cautiously around the stone chamber. The room was roughly double the size of Raven’s hearth claim in the Seneca longhouse, with smooth walls and a level floor. Overhead, the shadowy ceiling of the cavern loomed; somewhere far off, she heard the rhythmic drip of water.

  The wood in the fire pit had burned down to glowing coals, and the odors of bread and cooked fish lingered in the still air. Instinct told her that she wasn’t alone. Sure enough, when she sat up, she could see a shaggy form on the far side of the fire. This time she didn’t mistake the curly pelt for a bear; there was no heavy carrion scent in the air, and no one who’d ever come close to ogh-kwa-ri, the bear, could forget the musky stench. No, this was Hunt Campbell, wrapped in his strange cloak and—she hoped—sleeping soundly.

  She swallowed, trying to moisten the inside of her mouth as, slowly, her accelerated heartbeat returned to normal. She’d been afraid to sleep for fear of being molested by this enigmatic woodsman, but he was here and he hadn’t hurt her when she was asleep and most vulnerable. Not only that, he’d obviously taken the trouble to cover her with a blanket.

  She took another breath. The dream had seemed so real; if she closed her eyes, she could still see the cradleboard swinging. Rachel. A pang of regret pierced her to the quick. I’ll get back to you, sweetheart, she vowed silently. I will.

  She glanced over at Hunt and tried to remember what she’d said to him earlier. She must have been suffering from the effects of cold and exhaustion to reveal so much of her private thoughts. It had been a fool’s action to trust a man she barely knew, and one she might regret. It would have been better to pretend meek gratitude for his rescue and lull him into believing she would obey his orders without question.

  Now she had more immediate needs. Hunger gnawed at her vitals, and she suffered from a raging thirst. She wondered how long she’d slept and how long they’d been in the cave. They were deep inside the earth; she could tell by the constant temperature. It was as quiet as a tomb and much warmer than it had been in the forest.

  Dozens of questions rose in her mind. How had Hunt Campbell found this cave? How far had they come from the Seneca village? Was it day or night? She wanted to know all those things and more, but most of all, she wanted to get away from him.

  She looked at him again. He hadn’t moved. If she listened carefully, she could hear his slow, deep breathing.

  She located her moccasins and pulled them on, one at a time. Then she rose and crept past the fire toward the tunnel entrance. Gravel scraped under one foot; she stopped short, waiting to see if Hunt reacted. When he didn’t, she took a few more steps.

  Now that she could think, it was obvious what she must do. She had to go back to the village. The awful dream she’d just had could be a warning that Rachel was in danger. The raven in her nightmare stood for Yellow Drum’s wife; she didn’t need to be a shaman to guess that. Rachel needed her; both her children needed her.

  But how could she go back?

  Hunt had bought her from Raven. If she returned of her own will, she reasoned, it would be as a free woman. The Seneca might let her stay. She wouldn’t rejoin Yellow Drum’s household as his slave, but as long as she was in the camp she could see her children. In time, she might find a way to escape with them, or ...

  She might take a Seneca husband. The Iroquois were not all bad people, and more than one man had smiled at her when no one was looking. She couldn’t say with honesty that Yellow Drum had gone out of his way to be cruel to her. He’d never tortured or starved her. Many of the Seneca had shown her real kindness, especially since the birth of her son. As a wife, she would have status, and no one could beat her.

  Life among the Iroquois was not one she would have chosen, but she would sooner endure a harsh existence in Indian country than desert her children and become the pampered wife of a rich white man. Elizabeth Anne Fleming was dead. She could be Ugly Woman of the Seneca, but she could never abandon Rachel and Jamie, not for all the riches of all the ships in Charles Town Harbor or all the plantations in the Carolinas. She loved her family, but she loved her babies more, and there would be no place for them in English society. She had learned nothing among the Seneca if she hadn’t learned to accept reality.

  Elizabeth took another step and peered down the narrow tunnel. She was afraid to take the torch. She would have to find her way by feel once she was beyond range of the fire. Breathing a sigh of relief as darkness closed around her, she hastily donned her outer garment and then moved farther from the dwindling source of light. On her next step, she felt a slight barrier at ankle level, and heard the loud tinkling of hawk’s bells.

  “Going someplace?” Hunt sprang up and leaped after her.

  Elizabeth gave a cry of alarm and started t
o run. She hadn’t gone more than ten feet before she bumped into an overhanging ledge and nearly knocked herself senseless. Before she could regain her equilibrium, he had her.

  “Not so fast, Mistress Fleming.”

  She threw up her arm to ward off the blow she expected to fall at any second. She knew it was useless to fight, but she wouldn’t submit to a beating without trying to defend herself. She kicked hard at his kneecap and punched him in the throat with her fist.

  Her surprise attack momentarily stunned him. She twisted away, dodged the outcrop of rock, and fled down the black passageway.

  “Elizabeth, stop!” he shouted.

  She struck her shoulder on a protruding section of wall, stumbled, and slammed into an unyielding barrier. Tears of shame and fear spilled down her cheeks as she scrabbled blindly ahead of her, only to find the way completely blocked by a cascade of boulders.

  “Elizabeth.” His voice echoed through the tunnel, harsh and angry.

  She flinched when his fingers closed around her arm.

  “Elizabeth,” he repeated. “Listen to me.”

  She trembled under his touch, waiting for his fist to smash into her face . . . waiting to feel the full force of his rage.

  “Come back to the fire,” he said. “There’s no way out here.”

  Walking stiffly in front of him, she tried to regain her composure. Smothering disappointment crushed her, making her chest so tight that she could hardly breathe. Words of protest rose in her throat, but she couldn’t utter a sound.

  “Sit,” he ordered, pointing to a spot beside the fire.

  Am I a dog to be ordered so? she screamed silently. Her muscles locked. He could kill her, but she’d not bend her knees for him.

  “I said sit.” He looked into her eyes. “My patience has come to an end, Elizabeth. Sit down, please.”

  The word please hit her with the impact of an icy downpour. Her legs buckled and she would have fallen if he hadn’t caught her.

  “What kind of man do you think I am?” He turned away and fumbled in his hunting bag, leaving her shaking with an inner chill, one that had nothing to do with cold. Seconds later, he lifted a tin cup to her lips, and she choked at the sharp smell of rum. “Drink,” he ordered.

  She took a sip. The strong liquor burned down her throat.

  “Again.”

  She tried to turn her head away, but he caught her chin between his fingers. His grip was firm but surprisingly gentle, and again, she felt that odd sensation of butterflies in her belly.

  “Just another swallow,” he urged.

  She did as he bid her. The rum stung her broken lip, but the heat warmed her insides and stopped her shaking. He downed the remainder of the liquid himself.

  “All right,” he said. “Now listen to me. Stop acting like a panicked doe in a forest fire and think. I know you’re not stupid. Are you trying to commit suicide? It’s snowing like hell out there.” He motioned with his chin. “We’re having a blizzard. You wouldn’t last fifteen minutes. Do you want to die?”

  She shook her head.

  “You’ve got to trust me, woman.”

  She raised her head and looked into his face. Her eyes were full of tears and his image wavered, but she noticed for the first time that he no longer seemed like the enemy. She sniffed and dashed away the hateful tears with the back of her hand, then stared at him intently.

  He still wore the azure, quill-worked tunic, stretched over broad, muscular shoulders. His black hair was pulled tight against his head and tied decently into a queue at the back of his neck with a beaded leather band, adorned with hanging eagle feathers. A single silver hoop dangled from one ear, and a fringed loincloth covered his manparts. His leggings were beautifully sewn of elk skin, his moccasins stitched with magnificent geometric designs in intricate beadwork that must have taken some skilled woman weeks to complete.

  But even in these clothes, she could see something different about him, a gentleness that she’d not guessed at back in Yellow Drum’s camp.

  “You are a white man,” she stammered.

  “What have I been trying to tell you?”

  She blinked and covered her face with her hands. Every word that came out of her mouth made her sound like a half-wit. His tale of being an Irishman who’d lived among the Indians had seemed too far-fetched to accept, but now ...

  She’d not realized before how young he was—hardly much older than her own twenty-three years. But his eyes ... his eyes were those of a man who had traveled far and seen much. They were shrewd and full of wisdom. And for all Hunt’s pretense of tender concern and gentle manner, his eyes glowed with the watchfulness of a mountain cat, revealing an innate capacity for sudden and deadly violence.

  “What did that bastard do to you, woman?” he asked.

  She shrugged. “It’s done with. No good will come of reliving what can’t be changed.”

  “Keep that foremost in your mind. Put your time with the Seneca behind you. You need rest and food.” He rubbed his throat. “But you do swing a mean right hook.”

  “I’m sorry I hit you,” she lied.

  “I’m sure.” His expression said that he didn’t believe she was sorry. “I thought you might try to leave.”

  “So you strung a trap for me.”

  A hint of a smile curved his lips. “It worked perfectly, didn’t it?”

  “You didn’t think I might trip and break my neck?”

  He chuckled. “It was a length of fishing twine. I knew the string would break before your neck would.”

  She eyed him warily. She’d obviously gotten in a good lick with her fist. Was it possible he didn’t intend to punish her for striking him? “I wasn’t running away,” she lied. “I ...” She looked down at the fire, pretending embarrassment. “I needed to pee,” she said in Iroquoian.

  He scoffed. “And you didn’t think you’d just keep going?”

  She feigned indignity. “I’ve been here for hours. Do you think I have no natural—”

  “I think you’re a clever liar.” He took the torch, lit it, and handed it to her. “Follow the tunnel straight to the dead end. I’ll give you your privacy for a reasonable time.”

  “I’m thirsty,” she declared.

  “You tend to nature. I’ll fetch water from the spring. But don’t try any tricks. I know only a few of these passageways. If you get lost, you could wander until the torch burns out. Then ...” He left the rest of the threat unspoken.

  I would die alone in the dark, she thought with a shudder. It was an unpleasant prospect. “I won’t wander off,” she assured him. “Just be certain you don’t get lost on the way to the spring.”

  “I’ll try not to. On second thought, I’ll wait until you get back with the torch. I don’t like walking in pitch black either.”

  She was back in minutes, as she had promised. Again he left her by the fire and set out uphill toward the surface. He paused for an instant to retrieve his line and hawk bells, then retraced his steps through the winding corridor. Soot stains on the walls at eye level, made by countless Indian torches, showed which tunnels to take, but there was no need for Elizabeth to know that. He’d never have found the cave, or known about the many passageways, if it hadn’t been for a map a Delaware friend had made for him. Using that knowledge, he’d stopped here and cached precious supplies on the way to the Seneca village.

  When he reached the spring, he continued on until he could hear the roar of the falls. The chill grew greater as he continued uphill. Once he could see daylight through the tumbling water, he left his torch and went to the edge of the wet rock. A break in the seething, icy cascade showed a world white with swirling snow. It was impossible to judge the time of day accurately; sometime near noon, he guessed.

  Satisfied that no Seneca patrols would be searching for them in this storm, he turned back. At the pool, he filled his waterbag, washed his face, and drank. He’d presumed that getting Elizabeth Fleming free of the Iroquois village would be the hard part of this
job. Now he wasn’t so sure. She was a hellion, certain to cause him a passel of grief in the next few weeks.

  And she could kick like a mule.

  He grimaced. Elizabeth had bloodied his nose in the Seneca camp, and she’d been battering him ever since. That behavior would have to end. He’d never been a man to strike a woman, but neither would he be beaten. Unless she learned to show him a fair measure of respect, traveling together would be unpleasant for both of them.

  She was fully dressed and crouched beside the fire when he returned to the camp. She looked up as soon as she heard his footfalls on the loose gravel, and for an instant, fear played across her features, and a feeling of protectiveness swept over him. Anger against the Seneca made Hunt sorry he’d been able to buy Elizabeth. He’d never considered himself a violent man, but Yellow Drum had greatly wronged her, and now he was profiting from his evil. It was unfair, and Hunt wished he could have had the satisfaction of giving the Iroquois a taste of his fist.

  “Are you hungry?” he asked.

  “I need to wash first.”

  He handed her the waterskin. Hesitantly, she took it from him and walked to a corner of the cave to pour off a little water to rinse her hands. Then she lifted the container and drank deeply.

  “Thank you, Hunt,” he prompted.

  She averted her eyes. “Thank you,” she repeated, and flashed him a shy smile.

  “You’re a fair sight when you smile,” he said. She looked down again, in the modest gesture he’d seen Indian girls make a thousand times.

  Was that why he was so drawn to her? he wondered. White women always seemed such an enigma to him, but Elizabeth—for all her protests—was strangely familiar.

  “It’s still snowing,” he said as the silence grew between them. He uncovered a grilled fish and two corn cakes. “Here.” He offered them to her, then sat in silence while she ate.

  She had finished every bite of the fish and had eaten half of the last corn cake when she suddenly stopped and glanced up at him. “Have I eaten your breakfast as well?”