Sundancer's Woman

by Judith E. French

  Elizabeth gave a tiny sigh and turned her face away from the firelight.

  Hunt bit back an oath. Being near her was disquieting; having her under him and being unable to do anything about it was enough to drive a man to strong measures. Elizabeth might be innocent, but no woman who’d lived with a man and borne his children could be that innocent. He couldn’t shake the feeling that she was playing with him like a bear with a beached trout. For a few seconds, he toyed with the notion of tomahawking the Iroquois and returning to Elizabeth’s arms to make love to her with as much tenderness and passion as she deserved.

  He had a bad feeling about Powder Horn, and his hunches were rarely wrong. But thinking a man was trouble and murdering him so that you could enjoy a roll in the blankets with a woman were two different things. He’d been brought up with a code of honor that didn’t permit such thoughts, let alone actions.

  The Iroquois might be exactly what he said he was—a lost hunter. It would be madness to betray the laws of hospitality and take a human life without proof that Powder Horn was an enemy.

  Hunt sucked in a deep breath, savoring the scent of Elizabeth’s hair and skin. She’d offered herself to him earlier when she wanted to make a bargain with him. She was old enough to know her own mind, and she was no virgin. By rights, no one could blame him for seducing her now. She’d come to no harm by a full measure of good loving. She needed someone to teach her the joy a man and woman could find together.

  Damn, but her skin felt soft to his touch. Her mouth trembled when he kissed her, and her breath was sweet. He’d not wanted another woman this badly in a long time. Not since Spotted Pony.

  He tried to think of the Cheyenne girl he’d nearly gotten killed over—the only woman he’d ever asked to marry him. He’d promised her father five horses and a rifle for her, but she’d had a change of heart and married another man. Spotted Pony had been as fresh as a mountain stream and rounded in all the right places. Her face ... He swallowed. At seventeen, he’d been ready to die for love of Spotted Pony, and now he couldn’t remember her face.

  He glanced down at Elizabeth. Firelight played across her red-gold hair. He had the strongest urge to lift it off the nape of her neck and brush his lips there. The pressure in his groin increased and he groaned softly. She made a faint sound that sent a flood of emotion washing over him. If you were mine, he thought, I’d never call you Elizabeth. . . . You’d be my Beth.

  She squirmed in his embrace and again he was enveloped in her fresh scent. The jade was taunting him. He knew it. Yet no amount of reason could hold back the intense desire to possess her warm, willing body. He wanted to claim her as his own—to put his mark on her so that all men would know she belonged to him alone.

  He was sweating in earnest now. Lust flared into a primitive throb as loud and incessant as the beat of a Seneca water drum. He moved one hand, almost without realizing what he was doing. His fingers slid down her side. When she didn’t protest, he dared even more. He pressed his open palm against her warm midriff.

  Her breathing quickened, and he kissed the crown of her head, savoring the tickle of her soft hair against his lips. He knew better. He knew he was imposing self-torture on himself when there was no chance of taking the act to culmination, but she felt so damned good in his arms. She hadn’t said no, and she wasn’t fighting him. He moved his fingertips in slow, lazy circles, not touching her breasts, but moving closer.

  He had meant to see how far she’d go—to give her a taste of the fire without getting burned himself—but he’d overestimated his own self-control. He stretched his arm to reach the hem of her dress and slipped his hand under the garment. The bare flesh above her knee was warm and silken.

  “Don’t,” she said, but the stiffness of her muscles had yielded to a gentle molding against his body.

  He removed his hand. “Are you certain you mean no?” he whispered. As he leaned down to murmur in her ear, the roar of a flintlock pistol nearly deafened him. The bullet meant for his heart struck the far wall and chips of stone sprayed the chamber. He twisted to face the Iroquois and tried to free his tomahawk from the tangle of blankets.

  Shrieking a war cry, Powder Horn charged through the fire pit at them. Elizabeth rolled away, and Hunt leaped up to meet the attack. The Indian’s knife flashed, missing Hunt’s left forearm by less than an inch. Hunt swung his tomahawk.

  Powder Horn sidestepped the blow and grabbed Elizabeth by the hair of her head. Yanking her to her knees, he put his scalping knife against the pulse at her throat. “Move and she dies,” he spat.

  Hunt froze in the act of throwing his weapon. A second later and his tomahawk would have ended the Iroquois’s threats forever.

  “Drop it,” Powder Horn urged. He pressed Elizabeth’s skin with the blade until a single drop of blood welled across the steel surface.

  “No,” Elizabeth protested. “Don’t.”

  Hunt let the tomahawk fall.

  “Better,” Powder Horn said. He stepped back, dragging Elizabeth with him until he could reach his rifle. Then he shoved her to the floor and leveled the flintlock at Hunt’s belly. “I have need of a woman.” He chuckled. “But I have no need of you. I give you a chance at life. Walk out of this cave or stay and die.”

  “Go,” Elizabeth said.

  Hunt looked into the Onondaga’s harsh face. He stood in the shadows, and it was too dark for Hunt to see his eyes. It didn’t matter. Powder Horn had no intention of letting him go. He meant to shoot him.

  “Do as he says,” Elizabeth pleaded. “I remember now! Those tattoos on his wrists—” She glanced at the Iroquois. “You are an outcast,” she accused. “You’ve killed another of your tribesmen. They’ve shunned you, haven’t they?”

  “Quiet, woman,” the Indian growled.

  “He is outlawed,” she cried. “No Iroquois will give him food or shelter.”

  “I said be quiet!” Powder Horn motioned toward Hunt with the rifle barrel. “Leave while you can, half-breed.”

  “Without weapons?” Hunt asked.

  Powder Horn cocked the gun. “Turn and go. Consider the loss of your weapons the penalty for stupidity.”

  Hunt considered the possibilities. If he went for the rifle, the Iroquois would shoot him. If he tried to leave, he’d get the bullet in his back. “If you wanted the woman that badly, you should have said so. I’m a reasonable man. We could have come to some agreement.”

  “We have.” Powder Horn raised the rifle and sighted down the barrel.

  It seemed to Hunt as though his mind was as slow as the lazy curl of smoke drifting up from the scattered coals. “What do you have to gain by killing me?” he asked.

  “What do I have to lose?”

  “I have a cache of trade goods. I can show you—”

  “Liar,” Powder Horn said. “Take a last look at your red-haired woman and think how she will groan with pleasure under the thrust of my man spear.” Then he squeezed the trigger.

  Chapter 8

  As the Onondaga fired his gun, Elizabeth smashed a fist-sized rock into his left kneecap with every ounce of her strength. The rifle spat fire and lead, and she heard Hunt’s cry of anguish and knew he’d been hit. But she didn’t turn to watch him fall—she was too busy trying to dodge the wooden stock of Powder Horn’s gun.

  Powder Horn doubled over in pain, but even with an injured knee he swung the rifle butt like a club to try to crush her skull.

  “Onishonk nainnuk!” she screamed at him in the Iroquoian language as she scooped up a double handful of ash and coals and threw it full in his face.

  The Iroquois howled as hot ashes blinded him. Elizabeth scrambled out of reach and grabbed another rock. But before she could throw it, Hunt launched himself onto Powder Horn, and both men crashed to the stone floor in a tangle of flying arms and legs.

  Elizabeth gave a cry of joy as tears of relief welled up in her eyes. She’d thought Hunt was dead or wounded so badly that he couldn’t rise. For a dead man, he was putting up quite a fi
ght.

  Powder Horn was on top of Hunt, but the Indian’s nose was streaming blood. Hunt’s left fist was pounding the Iroquois’s face, while his right hand gripped his opponent’s right wrist. Powder Horn had managed to draw his knife and was trying to drive it into Hunt.

  Elizabeth ran forward to try to strike Powder Horn in the head with the rock; but before she could reach him, Hunt gave a heave and threw the Iroquois onto his back. Somewhere in the struggle, Powder Horn’s knife went flying.

  Elizabeth retrieved the Iroquois’s rifle, which the two had been lying on. Her first thought was to reload, but everything was happening too fast. In the confusion and semidarkness, she wasn’t certain she could find the Indian’s shot bag. When she looked back, Powder Horn and Hunt were on their knees. Hunt was bending the Indian back over the rocks of the fire pit. Elizabeth dropped the gun, picked up another stone, and struck Powder Horn a glancing blow off his right temple. The Indian gave a groan and went limp.

  “About damn time,” Hunt grumbled as he dragged the Indian out of the hearth and brushed the smoking coals off his head. A knot the size of a chicken’s egg was swelling on Powder Horn’s temple. A thin line of blood trickled down to mingle with the blood on his lower face.

  “Is he dead?” Elizabeth asked.

  “No such luck.” Hunt nudged the unconscious warrior with his foot. “He’s still breathing.” He glanced at Elizabeth. “What were you doing? Waiting to see if he’d finish me off?”

  She added twigs to the coals and blew. As a small flame flared, she looked up into Hunt’s face and gasped in horror. His face was even bloodier than Powder Horn’s. “You’re hurt,” she cried.

  Hunt squatted and rubbed his face with both hands. “Get me some water.”

  “Your head. The blood’s coming from your head.” Suddenly, Elizabeth felt dizzy. She drew in a ragged breath and tried to keep calm. Hunt couldn’t be dying. No man could stand and fight if he were mortally wounded, could he? “Where are you hit? Come here, closer to the light, so I can see.”

  “Damn it, woman, he nearly killed me. What were you doing when I needed help?”

  “But I hit him in the knee. I tried ...” She trailed off, waiting to see if Hunt were truly angry or just grumbling. When he made no move to strike her, she launched into a defense of her actions. “You’re the warrior. I’m a helpless woman; you’re supposed to protect me.”

  “Helpless? You’re about as helpless as a rattlesnake.” He took a few steps toward her, staggered, and fell to one knee. “Elizabeth ...”

  “Oh, my God,” she cried. Icy dread swept over her and her heart plunged. “Don’t you dare die on me now!” She caught him in her arms and lowered him to the buffalo robe. “Lie still,” she crooned. “I didn’t know you were hurt so bad. Lie still, and let me help you.”

  Hunt closed his eyes. “Easy,” he cautioned.

  Elizabeth was shaking all over. She felt as though an icy hand was squeezing the back of her neck. Hunt’s breathing was deep and regular; he felt warm and live in her arms. But if he’d taken the bullet in his head, his wound would be beyond her ability to heal him. “Don’t die on me,” she pleaded. She couldn’t lose him, she couldn’t. Her pulse raced as she cradled his head in her lap. Her eyes filled with moisture so that she could barely see. Dashing away the outward signs of her weakness, she felt through his blood-soaked hair with dread. “The blood is coming from more than one place, but there was only one shot. I don’t understand how ...”

  Hunt groaned and looked up at her. “Tie up the Iroquois first. So long as he’s alive, he’s dangerous.”

  “I want to see how bad you’re hurt. I might be able to—”

  “Damn it!” he exclaimed, breaking from Iroquoian to English. “Can you never do a thing I ask you? Get some thongs from my pack and tie his hands and feet.”

  “You should have killed him,” she whispered. Her hands were covered in blood. They stung and she didn’t know why.

  Hunt caught her arm. “Never mind my head. Do something about Powder Horn. I vow, woman, you’re as bloodthirsty as a Seneca.”

  His accusation was so unfair that she cried out in protest. “How can you say that?” she exclaimed. “I hate the sight of blood. It makes me sick.”

  “Well, don’t get sick on me. I feel bad enough already. See to the Iroquois.”

  “You have one prisoner. What do you want with a second?” She knew Hunt was right. She should tie Powder Horn before he woke up ... if he woke up. She glanced in his direction. He hadn’t moved. Maybe he would die, and they wouldn’t have him to deal with. “I just want to see where the bullet is—There!” Her fingers touched something hard and jagged. Blood was seeping out around the object. His hair was matted with gore.

  “Ouch!” he protested.

  “Be still. Don’t be such a—It’s not a bullet! It’s a a rock.” She pulled the acorn-sized piece of limestone out of the cut and pinched the scalp together.

  “I know it’s not a bullet. The ball missed me. I got hit by some fragments after the bullet hit the cave wall.”

  “You weren’t shot?”

  “I wasn’t shot.”

  “Then hold this!” she ordered. “Keep your hand on it, tight.” She pressed his palm against the flap of skin. “It’s not even that deep.”

  “Sorry to disappoint you.”

  “I thought you were shot in the head.” The realization left her weak-kneed and giddy. She had to concentrate as she rose and walked unsteadily to his pile of belongings along the wall. It was too dark to see there so she brought his hunting bag and a second pack over to the fire.

  “In the fringed bag,” he said. “There’s a coil of leather. Quick now! Tie Powder Horn’s wrists behind his back.”

  With distaste, she tugged at the heavy Iroquois. He moaned as she rolled him onto his stomach. Working swiftly, she made a loop, slipped it over one hand and drew it tight, then knotted the leather around his other wrist. There was still a length of leather, so she drew up his right ankle and tied that to his wrists. Considering how hard she’d hit him with the rock in the left knee, she didn’t think he’d be going far on that leg.

  “Hurry up,” Hunt urged.

  She got to her feet and stood for a moment, staring into the corners of the room. Then she saw what she’d been looking for—Powder Horn’s knife. Retrieving it, she tucked it into her waistband and returned to Hunt’s side.

  “Did you tie it tight?” he demanded.

  “If you weren’t shot, why did you take so long to jump him?” Elizabeth asked, ignoring Hunt’s question. Her stomach still felt queasy, and her hands stung worse than before. Now that she knew Hunt wasn’t going to die from the cut on his head, she was in no mood to take any abuse. At worst, he’d need her to sew up the cuts. Her relief was overwhelming, but she still felt that he’d tricked her by letting her think he was mortally wounded. “You took forever to do anything,” she said. “Were you waiting for me to kill Powder Horn for you?”

  “I probably should have.”

  “You were pretending to be hurt worse than you were, so I’d feel sorry for you.”

  “What? Let a chunk of rock hit you in the head and see if it doesn’t slow you down for a minute.”

  “As hardheaded as you are, I wouldn’t think a rock could hurt you.” She dropped to her knees beside him and looked down at her palms. She needed to wash off the blood. She was going to be sick if she couldn’t get it off. She’d always been a baby about blood. Her own blood didn’t bother her, just other people’s.

  “You’re one to talk about being hardheaded. You’re as contrary as any female I’ve ever known. Would it make you happier if I had been shot?”

  “I have to wash my hands. They’re sticky. I have to wash them.” She kept her voice low, speaking slowly in Iroquoian.

  “There’s water there—in my waterskin.” His tone lost much of its gruffness. “Are you all right, Elizabeth?”

  “I have to wash the blood off.”

&nb
sp; She hadn’t realized he’d moved, but suddenly, his arm was around her shoulders and he was holding out the bag. “Put out your hands,” he said. He poured some of the liquid over her palms. “Rub them together.”

  “They hurt.” She looked up into his face. “Why do they hurt?”

  “Come with me,” he ordered. “Can you walk?”

  “Of course, I can walk.” She didn’t know if her legs would hold her, but she wouldn’t admit that to him.

  “Can you hold a torch?”

  She nodded. Why was he asking her such foolish questions? She still felt numb all over except for her hands, and it was hard to think.

  “Just do as I say, Elizabeth. I’ll take care of you.”

  Would he? He was so big, so strong, and she wanted so badly to be taken care of. The offer was almost more than she could bear. She was too confused to argue; it was easier to trust him and do as he said.

  Almost in a trance, Elizabeth obeyed his orders. She was vaguely aware that he was guiding her down a long series of tunnels. The air became noticeably damper, and she heard the sound of flowing water.

  Hunt let go of her arm and took the smoking brand from her hand and jammed the end into a crack in the rock. Just in front of her, she could see a pool of water.

  “It’s not deep,” he said, “but it is cold. We’ll wash off all the blood, both of us.”

  “Yes,” she agreed woodenly. “We’ll wash it off.” She didn’t protest but stood as helpless as a child when he tugged her clothing off. She stepped out of her moccasins and into the icy water. It rose to mid-thigh. Gratefully, she sank to a sitting position and began to splash water on her face and neck.

  Hunt stripped to his breeches and plunged in beside her. He ducked his head under repeatedly and sputtered and gasped. “Cold enough for you?” he asked.

  The water was cold, but she’d become used to bathing in winter since she’d been with Yellow Drum’s people. Sometimes they had to break an inch or more of ice to wade in. The cold was unpleasant, but familiar. It cleared her head and made the sick feeling go away.

  Hunt touched her shoulder. “I won’t hurt you,” he said. His voice was deep but very tender. He spoke to her as softly as if she were an injured doe. “It’s all right, Elizabeth,” he soothed. “I’m just going to unbraid your hair.”