Sundancer's Woman

by Judith E. French

  Most women wanted kids of their own, and he could never father them. But Elizabeth had had a son, and once Hunt had committed himself to getting the boy back for her, he’d allowed himself to dream of what the three of them might have together.

  Now there were not one but two kids, and the second was a girl child, hardly more than a weanling. Elizabeth would never risk a little girl on the prairie ... would never consider turning her back on the white settlements to live with the Cheyenne.

  Elizabeth was a good mother. She’d put her kids ahead of him, ahead of herself, and that was right, but it ended any thoughts he might have had about offering Elizabeth something permanent. Trouble was, it did nothing to ease the pain in his loins or the hurt in his chest. He hadn’t been certain if he felt real love for her, but now, considering how the wound in his heart felt, he knew he did.

  First Becca, then Spotted Pony, and now Beth. He had a hell of a record where women were concerned. Some men were born to be loners. He was one and the sooner he got used to it, the better off he’d be.

  The little girl was hugging Elizabeth and giggling. Damn but she was a pretty little thing, cute as a bear cub and a darn sight more trouble. He knew next to nothing about girl children. He had no Indian sisters, and girls were kept separate from boys. They played separate games, wore different clothing, even had their own secrets and medicine dances.

  Elizabeth was staring at him with doe eyes, expecting him to say something to her. He wanted to give her some of the hurt he was feeling, but he couldn’t do it. “She’s worth it,” he said instead. “If Rachel were mine, I’d have done whatever it took to get her loose from Yellow Drum.”

  Rachel pointed at him and whispered something in Elizabeth’s ear. “She wants to know your name,” Elizabeth said.

  “Does she speak English?” he asked.

  “Some, and she understands fine.”

  “Hunt,” he told the child. “Hunter of the Far Mountains.” He repeated the words in Shawnee. “Hunt Campbell.”

  The shy smile lit up her dark eyes. “Hunt,” Rachel said in a clear, sweet tone. Then she stuck her tongue out at him.

  Elizabeth laughed. “Rachel, that’s not—”

  Impulsively, Hunt stuck his tongue out in retaliation, then joined Rachel’s giggle with a chuckle of his own. When Elizabeth began to scold him, he put his thumbs in his ears, stuck out his tongue at the child again, and wiggled his fingers. The little girl crowed with delight and tried to imitate his nonsense.

  “Enough of that,” Elizabeth told them both.

  Fox clicked his tongue again. The bushes rustled, and Fire Talon stepped back onto the deer trail. He made hand signs cautioning quiet, then dropped to one knee and set the boy on his feet.

  Elizabeth held out her arms to her son. “Jamie,” she whispered. She put a finger to her lips. “It’s all right,” she assured him in Seneca. “We’re among friends.”

  The boy’s eyes gleamed with unshed tears. His face was taut, his movements tense. He went to his mother as she bid him, but he didn’t soften at her touch. “Who are these men?” he demanded in his father’s tongue.

  “Speak English,” she said.

  “You!” He pointed at Hunt. “You stole my mother. Now you steal my sister.” Quick as a flash, he drew the knife from the sheath at Elizabeth’s waist.

  Her face turned ashen. “No!” she shouted.

  “You steal my mother. Now you die!” Uttering a Seneca war cry, Jamie ducked away from her embrace and lunged directly at Hunt with the knife poised to draw blood.

  Chapter 19

  Hunt sidestepped the boy’s blow and clamped a hand over his wrist. Jamie twisted in his grasp, refusing to drop the knife. Hunt’s dog leaped forward, growling.

  “Jamie, no!” Elizabeth cried. She tried to grab hold of the child, but Hunt swept him up off the ground and pried the weapon from his clenched fingers. Frightened, little Rachel backed up until she was pressed against a tree trunk and could go no farther. Then she put her hands over her face and crouched down.

  “Badger, down!” Hunt ordered. “Down.” Hackles raised, stiff-legged, the animal obeyed, but his eyes stayed on his master.

  “Let me go! Let me go!” Jamie kicked at Hunt’s midsection with a small moccasined foot and drove a balled fist into the big man’s chin. Hunt’s tooth caught the underside of his lower lip and sliced through skin and flesh, drawing blood.

  “Jamie. Stop it,” Elizabeth insisted as she put an arm around her son’s waist. “Let me have him,” she said to Hunt. “I’m sorry—he didn’t mean it. He’s just a child.”

  “He’s all yours.” Hunt stepped back and wiped the trickle of blood off his chin as the boy turned his fury on her.

  “You went away!” Jamie shouted. “You went away with him! You left me!”

  “No, no,” she soothed, trying to pin his arms and cradle him against her. “Shh, shh, it’s all right, darling. It’s all right.”

  Panting, his eyes dilated with anger and frustration, the boy stopped fighting and glared at her. Tears welled up and ran down his cheeks. “I hate you,” he said in Seneca. “I hate you.”

  It was all Elizabeth could do to keep from weeping herself. She’d known that Jamie loved his father and that he’d be upset when they kidnapped him from the Seneca, but she’d never dreamed he’d turn on her. “I love you,” she whispered. “I love you.”

  “No. You don’t! You went with him! You left us!”

  “Stop,” Talon said. The chief squatted down beside Elizabeth and put a hand on Jamie’s shoulder. “He is not a small girl child,” he said in Seneca. “This is a warrior. Treat him as such, Mother.”

  Fear prickled the back of Elizabeth’s neck. “I’ll keep him quiet,” she promised Fire Talon. “I won’t let him—”

  “This is a matter for men,” Talon said. He glanced at Hunt. “You take James. He is a brave boy. He does not wish to be shamed by a clinging mother.”

  Fox laughed. “Like another boy we once knew, eh?”

  Talon stared into Jamie’s eyes. “You are Seneca, true, but you also carry the blood of your mother.”

  “I’m not afraid of you, Shawnee dog!” Jamie spat. “Torture me. Burn me at the stake. I am Seneca. I will not—”

  “The Seneca and the Shawnee are not at war,” Talon admonished gently. “Do not talk of torture among friendly nations. This is a matter for your mother and father to decide. For now, walk with my friend, Hunter of the Far Mountains. He is an honorable man.”

  Elizabeth looked from Talon to Hunt. “You won’t hurt him?”

  Hunt threw her a disbelieving look, then picked up the knife and handed it to the boy. “Give this back to your mother, Jamie.”

  “She’s not my mother. Raven is my mother. This mama is nothing but a slave.”

  “Is not!” Rachel flew at him with both fists flying.

  “Is too.”

  “Is not!” Rachel ducked under Elizabeth’s arm and kicked Jamie. “Not my mother. I don’t like that old Raven. She’s mean.”

  Elizabeth put herself between her feuding children. “Stop it, both of you,” she declared. “No hitting.”

  “I kick him,” Rachel said in Seneca. “I kick him good.”

  “There’s no good kicking,” Elizabeth said. “I won’t have this.”

  “You’re invisible,” Jamie shouted at Rachel in Iroquoian. “I make you invisible. I can’t see you. I can’t hear you.”

  “No, I’m not!” Rachel retorted. “I’m not!” She tried to find a way around Elizabeth, ready to kick her brother again. “Squirrel penis!”

  “Rachel!” Elizabeth felt her cheeks grow hot. The men’s laughter only made her embarrassment greater. “What a terrible thing to say.”

  “He is,” Rachel chanted. “He is!” She pointed a small finger. “Squirrel penis!”

  “Am not!” Jamie shouted.

  “That’s very rude,” Elizabeth said. “I’m ashamed, Rachel. Big girls don’t say such things.”


  “Raven does,” Jamie informed her. “Raven says my father has a squirrel—”

  “Enough.” Hunt picked up Jamie and lifted him to eye level. “A Seneca warrior does not repeat women’s gossip, and a brave does not argue with small girls.”

  “I hate you, too,” Jamie proclaimed, drawing back a fist. “I bloodied your lip and now—”

  “Now you will be a man,” Hunt said. “You will honor your mother and your sister. You will—”

  “She’s just a slave.”

  Jamie’s words made Elizabeth’s stomach knot. If Jamie turned against her, she wasn’t certain she could go on.

  “Nonsense,” Hunt answered. “You know better than that. You were angry that your mother left you, but if you think back to that night, you know she did not want to go.” He spoke softly to the boy and set his feet on the ground. “Do you remember? Your father hit your mother and sent her away. She did not want to go away, but she had to. Now, she’s come back for you.”

  “I’d never leave you if I could help it,” Elizabeth said.

  Hunt shook his head. “I know how it hurts when someone you love goes away,” he said to Jamie. “I wasn’t much bigger than you are when my sister and I were captured by the Shawnee. I never saw her after that day, and I was angry with her. I thought she didn’t love me anymore.”

  Jamie’s chin quivered. Elizabeth moved to take him in her arms, but Hunt shook his head.

  “Did your sister die?” Jamie asked in heavily accented English.

  “No, she wasn’t dead,” Hunt said.

  “She got lost?” Jamie’s mouth tightened, and for a moment, Elizabeth saw a miniature Yellow Drum standing before her.

  “She was a captive,” Hunt explained.

  Jamie scuffled the leaves with the toe of his quill-worked moccasin. “Are you still mad at her?” he asked.

  “No, I’m not. It wasn’t her fault.”

  Jamie averted his eyes. “I need to think about this,” he said, switching back to Seneca. Folding his arms, he turned his back on Hunt.

  “Raven did say it,” Rachel chimed in. “‘Squirrel penis,’ she said.” Rachel covered her mouth with her fingers and giggled. “Aunt Many Blushes thought it was funny.”

  “I don’t think it’s funny,” Elizabeth assured her. “It’s rude, and neither Seneca girls nor English girls should be rude.”

  Rachel chewed her bottom lip and put her hands behind her back. “You is my mother,” she said in a rush of words.

  Elizabeth’s eyes clouded with tears. “Yes, darling, I am your mother,” she agreed. “And Jamie’s mother.”

  “Good.” Black eyes snapped with mischief as Rachel glanced at her brother. “He not a squirrel penis,” she said. “He a squirrel bottom.”

  The rasping caw of a crow made the men tense and scan the forest for any sign of movement. A few seconds passed. Even the children noticed and were still. Then another crow called, a scolding cry that Elizabeth recognized as one that signaled danger. Instantly, Talon motioned for the group to take cover.

  Elizabeth gathered Rachel in her arms and reached for Jamie’s hand. He shrugged her away and, scowling, followed Hunt into the underbrush. Elizabeth and Rachel walked into the woods and crouched down behind a fallen tree. Hunt waved her farther back into the hemlocks near the spot where he and Jamie were hiding. Badger bellied down beside his master.

  For a long time, Elizabeth heard nothing unusual, then the forest grew unnaturally silent. After several minutes during which she heard only a rustle of dry leaves and the creak of branches in the wind, a murmur of human voices became evident. At first, the sounds were too far away to make out, but gradually footfalls and even laughter drifted up the trail.

  Elizabeth covered Rachel’s mouth with her hand, but there was no need. The child had been well schooled. She nestled next to Elizabeth as tightly as a quail chick under a hen’s wing. Elizabeth held her breath as the scalplock of a Mohawk warrior bobbed into view through the branches.

  Two Frenchmen in blue military uniforms tread close on the Indian’s heels. One of the soldiers boasted loudly about the amount of liquor he’d drunk at a trading post, and the Mohawk in the lead was ridiculing him in Iroquoian. The hair on the back of Elizabeth’s neck rose as nine more hard-faced Mohawk warriors filed past; they wore no war paint, but all were heavily armed with late-model French muskets. Two of the men carried the carcass of a deer slung on a pole between them.

  Elizabeth wondered if Fire Talon would attack the unsuspecting Mohawk, but the Shawnee didn’t move. The Iroquois and Frenchmen continued on down the hill and along the edge of a gully until the rustle of leaves and good-natured chatter became fainter and fainter. She sighed with relief and smiled down at Rachel. The child returned the smile and winked. “Good girl,” Elizabeth mouthed silently as she glanced at Hunt. He held a finger to his lips.

  Elizabeth waited motionless. Time passed and her legs began to cramp. Rachel wiggled a foot, and Elizabeth stilled her with a touch.

  Abruptly, a twig snapped, and the form of a tall Mohawk scout materialized on the far side of the game trail. He was only visible for an instant; then he was gone. She looked at Hunt, wondering if she’d really seen the last Iroquois or if the scout had been a figment of her imagination.

  Hunt nodded, but he didn’t move. The boy was so still in his arms he might have been carved of cedar. Only his huge, liquid-brown eyes showed the anger that seethed within his small chest. “Make no sound,” Hunt had warned the child before the first group of Mohawk passed. “If you cry out, you put a bullet through your mother’s heart.” Jamie hadn’t betrayed them, but his resentment burned with a white-hot flame.

  “Your father would be proud of you,” he whispered to the boy. Still they waited. Perhaps a quarter of an hour passed, and then the birds began to chirp and scratch again. A squirrel peered from his hole in a rotting oak and chattered down at the human invaders.

  Hunt concentrated on the forest around him, listening intently, watching every stirring leaf and branch. His rifle lay, primed and ready, beside him ... the weapon he’d prayed he’d not have occasion to fire.

  From where he knelt, he could see Elizabeth perfectly, and the sight of her sheltering her little girl with her body brought a lump to his throat. God help her, Elizabeth deserved better than she’d gotten. She needed a strong protector, someone who would keep her from ever being hurt again.

  Alone—even without a fat dowry—she’d not go six weeks without having some man offer for her hand in marriage. But how many of the elegant Carolina gentlemen would want her with two half-Seneca children? Hunt couldn’t help but grin at the thought of one of Charles Town’s finest trying to tame this small firebrand here beside him. Any stepfather trying to use harsh methods with the boy would likely be scalped in his bed—by Elizabeth, if not by her son. She’d not stand for anyone mistreating her children.

  Painful memories whirled through his consciousness. Like an aching tooth, it was hard to ignore them, even though he knew they were best forgotten. For an instant, he caught a glimpse of Becca’s laughing face ... and then, something that made a cold shiver run through him. He saw himself crawling on hands and knees through a dirt tunnel ... the hole Simon Brandt had dug as a secret way out of their cabin.

  He shook his head. He could almost taste the sandy dirt... almost... No, he could smell the musty earth scent of the tunnel ... feel the brush of cobwebs against his face.

  He concentrated on Elizabeth, not wanting to remember the day of his capture. It was the boy, he decided. Jamie had made him think of that last day he’d seen his sister. There was no good reason to trouble himself with those memories.

  Then an image of Becca struggling with a Shawnee flashed across his mind. He could see only the man’s back, but he had the oddest feeling that the Indian brave was familiar, almost—

  Jamie’s quick intake of breath jerked Hunt back to reality. Not twenty yards away, another Mohawk brave stepped out into a small clearing and paused to tie a
knot on his belt. Don’t make a sound, Hunt begged the boy wordlessly. One move, one rustle of leaves, and he’d have to shoot the Mohawk. The echo of a rifle firing would bring the main party down on them with a vengeance.

  The Mohawk tugged at his loincloth, relieved himself against a tree, and walked on without ever glancing in their direction.

  It was a good half hour before they dared to assemble on the trail again. “Did you see that last scout?” Hunt asked Talon. “I thought he was going to take a leak on my foot.”

  “I saw him,” the war captain replied. He put his hand on Jamie’s shoulder. “You did well,” he said to the boy.

  Badger whined and thrust his black nose into the palm of Jamie’s hand. Absently, the child patted the dog.

  Badger likes him, Hunt thought, and he’s a good judge of character. The animal had an independent streak, but Hunt reckoned he was as smart as the average man and a hell of a lot braver than most. Usually, Badger was well behaved, but now and then he’d take it into his head to chase a rabbit or run off for a day or two on his own adventures. When he made up his mind to go roaming, neither rope nor command would make him stay.

  Badger thumped his ragged tail against Hunt’s leg and wiggled all over as the boy scratched behind his ears. Jamie bent and laid his face against the animal’s head. “He looks like he’s part wolf,” he ventured.

  “He could be part grizzly for all I know,” Hunt replied. “His mother belonged to my white foster father. She was an Irish wolfhound and mastiff cross. Nobody knew who the daddy was, and she wouldn’t say.”

  Jamie’s dark sloe eyes narrowed to slits as he flashed a scowl and folded his arms over his sturdy chest. “Dogs can’t talk,” he said in passable English. “I’m not a baby to ...” He struggled for the words, then dropped into the familiar Seneca. “To believe such nonsense.”

  “No, you’re not a baby,” Hunt agreed. And he wasn’t. He was tall and husky for six. A man would have to stretch to see any of his mother in him, Hunt reckoned, but the lad was handsome enough, with strong, even features and a proud Seneca nose. His black hair was cropped off at chin level and a lynx claw earring adorned his left ear. Around his neck hung a small leather medicine bag, and his fur-trimmed vest was decorated with magic symbols.