The outcasts bride, p.9
The Outcast's Bride, page 9
After waiting a few seconds, Egan snarled. “You’re playing with me, aren’t you? Tell the waters to obey you.”
Dear Lord, what do I say…what do I do?
“If we keep going, perhaps we’ll find a bridge,” she said with a cool demeanor contrary to her emotions. Her insides felt like the stream—agitated and turbulent. “I doubt we’re the first ones to encounter this situation. There must be a way to cross.”
His stare fell to the ground as he seemed to weigh his options. “A little farther and then we’ll cross. No matter what.”
~*~
Kwi stood outside the cave with Walking Stick. After talking to Luke, they’d decided he should not travel alone. His father insisted on accompanying him. Kwi’s gratitude was heartfelt. Thank You, Lord.
“Her food rations, blankets, and saddlebag are gone.” Kwi had checked the small cave and found nothing.
“But her Bible is still here.” Walking Stick picked up the book from a nearby stone perch that looked over the valley. "She wouldn't leave her Bible."
“Maybe she’s at the stream.” Kwi tried to sound more hopeful than he felt.
“Or maybe…” Walking Stick pointed at a large footprint almost hidden by the autumn leaves and damp earth. “Someone took her.”
Blood rushed from Kwi’s face. He bent his knees, squatting near the footprint. “A large man, wearing boots. Either a rustler or—” He couldn’t bring himself to say the name.
“Rustlers never travel alone and natives don’t wear boots,” Walking Stick said before adding, “Our enemy has bested us.”
~*~
The bridge lay semi-covered with water—partially showing on both ends but the rest hidden by the tumultuous stream. It was uncrossable.
“We’ll cross here,” Egan said.
“What?” Susannah exclaimed. “How?”
“The bridge.”
She couldn’t believe her ears. “You can’t be serious. The entire middle section is covered in water. We’ll wash over the sides.”
“You’re the one who said we should find a bridge.” He pulled the gun from its sheath, pointing it at her. “Well, here we are. You go first.”
Fear returned full force, taking the breath from Susannah’s lungs. A sane person would not pull the trigger, but Egan…Had he already killed his own mother? She wasn’t sure. From the look in his eye, she didn’t doubt he’d kill her or shoot the horse. Nothing would surprise her.
“Cross the bridge, or I’ll bury you right here.”
She looked down at the rope connecting her horse to his. “Can you undo the rope? It’ll be even more dangerous trying to cross tied together.”
“No. I’ll cross behind you, but we’ll stay tied together.” A smugness came across his features. “You should know by now that I’m not stupid.”
Susannah led her horse to the bridge. The mare resisted at first until Egan slammed the butt of his gun into her rump and caused her to leap up onto the planks.
The first few boards were covered with water, but at least she could see them. After that, water surged up to her horse’s belly and hid any sign of the wooden crossing.
Susannah could see the opposite bank and kept her focus forward. “You’re doing good, girl,” she whispered to her horse. “Keep it up. You’re doing real good.”
Her horse lunged and in the next moment the bridge had disappeared—either it had washed away or the waters were so high her horse could no longer reach the wooden planks. Egan’s horse soon followed. She glanced back and noticed him holding the horse’s saddle horn with one hand and the gun over his head with the other.
The currents pushed and tugged, but her horse continued swimming toward the bank. The current shifted, turning them at an awkward angle that meant a harder swim for her mare. The horse fought back, resisting the downstream pull. Susannah held tight to the reins, her teeth clenched and continuous prayers filling her mind. Father God, don’t let me die like this…not with Egan.
Egan’s horse tried to turn and head back to the shore from where they’d come, pulling her already struggling horse farther sideways. The current swept them downstream with the horses frantically swimming in different directions and Egan cussing toward the heavens.
Egan bellowed as strong currents yanked him under. When the horse came back up, its eyes were wide in terror. Egan’s expression looked the same. He no longer held the gun, and the rope connecting the two horses had grown slack from the water.
Susannah slipped the knot off her horse’s saddle horn, separating her from Egan. With the rope gone, the mare righted and lunged forward, her panting loud in the morning air. A surge of strength pushed the animal toward land. Seconds later, her horse’s hooves found the muddy bottom and trudged through the sludge to solid ground.
Shivering from the cold and the rush of pure adrenalin, Susannah looked about for any sign of Egan. Had the stream swallowed him and his horse? Had they drifted downstream? Or maybe his horse had found its way back to the shore from where they started?
“Help!”
The sound came from nearby—the other side of the bend. She pushed past a tangle of vines and brush. Egan’s horse stood on the bank, a few feet away, sides heaving, staring into the waters.
Egan fought against a cross-current, his face pale and his black hair slick about his ears. “Help!” He went under. When he came back up, he cried out again. “Help me!”
Susannah drew the loose end of the rope from his horse, wound it up, and then threw the end out into the raging stream. Egan reached with frantic hands and grabbed the rope. She guided his horse backwards.
Egan let the horse pull him to the bank and then rolled onto all fours. He stood slowly—his knees and hands muddy. Staggering toward the bank, he collapsed on his back.
Susannah could only stare, still semi-shocked by all that had happened in just a few minutes. As the shock lessened, reality settled in. What have I done? Why didn’t I let him drown? But she knew the answer. She could never do such a thing. God was watching out for her soul. The memory of doing nothing while Egan cried out for help would’ve haunted her all the days of her life.
Egan lived, and it was all her fault.
16
“Do not look their way,” Walking Stick whispered.
“It’s too late. One of them is headed toward us.” Kwi stiffened, ready for anything.
The man rode downward from the cliffs. His partner was on foot and stayed behind, almost as if guarding the entrance. A rifle lay cradled in the man’s arms. The rider sat tall and lanky in the saddle, maybe in his early twenties, and not in a hurry. He tipped his hat as he rode up to them. “Hello, there.”
Kwi drew the reins on his horse. Walking Stick did the same. They both bobbed their head in greeting.
Rustlers liked to stake out their territories and caves. They’d ride for days to hit a ranch, alter the brands, take the horses into another city to sell them, and then return to their hideout with their winnings until the time came to do it all over again.
“What’ve you got in your saddlebags?” the young man asked.
Kwi didn’t have time for this. He had to catch up with Susannah. With frustration wound about his limbs, he answered in as calm a voice as he could muster. He hoped the man couldn’t detect the depth of his angst. “Pemmican. A wool blanket. Nothing worth stealing, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“No liquor?”
Walking Stick answered in his monotone voice. “We don’t drink.”
The man pulled his pistol and cocked it. “Leave ’em right there on the ground. Whatever’s in your bags belongs to me now. Your horses, too.”
Kwi held his hands up. “All right. The horses are yours.” He exchanged a knowing glance with his father.
Walking Stick slid off first. As Kwi shifted in his saddle to dismount, Walking Stick slapped the rear of his own horse, sending him romping off into the woods and startling the young rustler. Kwi used the distraction to grab the knife from his boot and slice it through the air, hitting the man’s wrist with a solid thud before the blade landed in the dirt.
The man screamed and dropped his gun. He grabbed his bloodied wrist and fell to the ground. The man from the cliff top pointed his rifle downward.
They’d be easy pickings for him if they didn’t do something fast.
Kwi knelt beside the wounded man, pulling him up to his knees by his hair and putting a blade to his neck. “Drop your gun…Now!”
“Do it!” the wounded man cried out as blood dripped from his wrist. “Before I bleed to death!”
The lookout dropped his gun and a woman appeared beside him. Though she stood higher up the hillside, Kwi could still make out her features—pretty face, dark hair, high cheekbones. Probably native mix.
She shook her head, a grin teasing the edges of her lips. “What’ve I told you boys about robbing people in the daylight?”
“Is she your boss?” Walking Stick asked the man Kwi still held in his grasp.
“My brother is the boss.” He groaned in agony. “She’s his wife.”
“We’re passing through, ma’am,” Kwi said. “We didn’t want any trouble. We still don’t.”
“Is that so?”
“I’m looking for a woman,” he yelled up. “Have you seen anyone else come through here in the last day or two? She may have been disguised in men’s clothes.”
“Maybe…” She maneuvered her way down the rocks with sure steps. She even lifted the edge of her gown as she stepped over a rough place or two, almost as if she were walking down a winding staircase to welcome guests to her mansion. “Tell me why you want to know, and I’ll see if I can help.”
Kwi loosened his hold on the wounded man but did not lower his knife. He didn’t trust the woman, but he also knew the young man would soon grow dizzy and perhaps die if he didn’t tend to his wound.
She stood near them, even prettier in person. Her hands rose to her hips. “We’re losing people right and left. Now you’ve gone and tore up my best gun.”
“Kwihnai can fix him,” Walking Stick said, bobbing his head toward Kwi.
“You can fix him?” Almond-shaped eyes cut toward Kwi as she tilted her chin. She stepped closer toward him without fear. “Tell me, Eagle…are you a medicine man or the spirit of death?”
“Neither.” Kwi stared without blinking. “You speak Comanche?”
“I am Comanche. My Comanche mother married a miner from Spain after my father died, but neither could hold their liquor, so here I am.” She looked about, splaying her hands outward in exaggeration. “The owner of this great forest.” She laughed, though no one else joined her. “Usually, a brave is named more than Eagle. Usually it is Brown Eagle, Fighting Eagle, or even Lone Eagle. Why just Eagle?”
“I am Ekakwihnai for I was born under the red sun.” He stared unflinching, and then said, “Unha hakai nahniaka?”
“You are testing me.” She grinned. “And…you may call me Ramona.”
Kwi sensed a shrewdness about the young woman. He had no intention of letting down his guard. He also thought she might listen to reason. There was a pragmatic aspect to her demeanor as if she’d learned a long time ago to keep her emotions under control.
“Why are you dressed in such a way?” Her gaze raked over him in disapproval. “Trying to fit into the white man’s world?”
He could’ve asked her the same question, but knew better. There could be a dozen or more men in the cave, and he didn’t want to get himself killed—at least not without helping Susannah first. “I’m not trying to do anything except find a woman. She’s about your size with dark hair and brown eyes. If she’s with who I think she’s with, the man is tall, pale, and with black hair. She’s in danger. We know by tracks that they were traveling by horseback, and they came this way.”
She listened without expression. “How did you get your scar?”
When Kwi didn’t answer, Walking Stick spoke up. “His brother gave it to him just before throwing Kwi over a cliff.”
She stepped closer—so close Kwi could smell the coffee upon her breath and the sweetness of honey. “I have a scar, too. Similar to yours. Mine is on my shoulder. “She looked closely at his mark, appearing intrigued. “Mine came from my stepfather. Maybe we are not so different.”
“Maybe not.” Kwi saw no point in arguing about unimportant things. He needed to find Susannah.
She stepped back. “Help my brother-in-law and my husband. Then, we’ll talk about the woman.”
“What is wrong with your husband?”
“He says he’s dying. If you can ease his pain, we’ll be indebted.”
~*~
Susannah warmed herself by the fire—drying her clothes and hair while pushing away the chill biting into her bones.
Egan created a makeshift trap out of twigs and caught a rabbit.
Susannah was so thankful for food, she ate all of her share without a complaint.
By the time they finished, darkness had descended. They’d not spoken two words since she’d saved his life, though Susannah had questioned her own sanity a hundred times over.
“We will sleep here,” Egan said, his voice low with exhaustion. He pulled several limbs over to make a covering for her. He did the same for himself. He fell asleep before she did, snoring loudly into the night. She prayed there were no natives or rustlers nearby. They’d be sure to hear him.
Morning came too early along with a command from Egan. “Get up.”
She rolled over. He had a fire going and heated what looked like a small rat on a stick. Her stomach rolled.
“Breakfast will be ready soon.”
“I’m not hungry.”
He shrugged. “More for me…”
Susannah ventured into the bushes to relieve herself and then found a nearby stream to wash her face. A fish flopped about, not quite able to make it to the next puddle of water. She grabbed it with both hands, winced and then dropped her hold when the scales bit into her flesh. She should’ve known better. Grabbing it by the lip, she returned to the campsite as Egan finished his rat.
He watched with interest as she found a sharp rock, scraped off most of the scales, used the edge of the rock to slice open the belly to gut it, and then tossed the fish onto the heated rocks. She turned it once, blowing on her slightly burnt fingers afterwards. Working without tools made it harder to cook. After several sizzling minutes, she ate the steamed meat, picking out the bones. She offered him a bite.
“Only a witch could make a fish appear in her hands,” he muttered.
She kept her voice monotone. “There was a stream and the fish flopped out.”
“My mother fancied herself a witch.”
She glanced in his direction. A strangeness had come to his features but a calmness to his tone made her feel safe in asking questions. “How do you know?”
“She told me she came from a family of witches. She would cut herself and mix her blood into her food. Said it would keep her immortal.”
Susannah turned her face away. His words made her feel nauseous, and she feared what might happen if he saw her emotions.
“She died on her birthday.”
“How’d she die, Egan?”
“I didn’t kill her,” he blurted out, entirely too loud. “If that’s what you’re thinkin’.”
Susannah remembered the woman. She’d not looked well then, though Susannah had suspected her mental state made her appearance worse. “Was it her heart?”
He stood, kicked dirt onto the fire to smother any embers, and moved to his horse. “More like her mind. It stopped working. She couldn’t move the entire left side of her body. She couldn’t speak, though she tried at first. She couldn’t lift her arm. She couldn’t even wiggle her fingers. I tried to help her. I’d put food and water in her mouth, but it’d roll back out. She couldn’t even swallow. I didn’t know what else to do. And one day, she died.”
“It sounds as if she had a stroke.” Susannah walked over to her mare.
“All I know is she didn’t live forever. Maybe if I’d whipped the devil out of her…”
Susannah’s breath locked in her chest. Did he intend to do that to her? Treat her as he’d treated the old mare? Treat her as he wished he’d treated his mother?
“Instead, I let him stay inside her.” Egan’s gaze shifted downward, staring at the moist ground. “And look what he did. He killed my momma.”
“We all have to die, Egan.” She tried to keep her tone soothing, as if talking to a child. She prayed he didn’t notice the trembling of her fingers. “Maybe it was your momma’s time.”
Darkness settled over his face once more. “You’re trying to make me talk, aren’t you? You’re trying to keep me here. You think they’re coming for you—to take you away from me. You think if you can make me stay a long time, then—”
He was wrong. So very wrong. No one even knew she was missing. But now, the odds had shifted. Egan no longer had a gun.
At the right time, and she prayed there would be another opportunity soon, she’d escape. This time, she wouldn’t turn back. This time, she’d run as far away as her horse would carry her. She pulled herself up into the saddle.
Egan draped the rope about the saddle horn, connecting the two of them with a knot. He got onto his horse.
“Is that really necessary?” she asked. “Did you forget I pulled you from the water?”
He glared and then cinched the rope tighter. “Be silent, witch. You’re the one who put me in the water in the first place.”
17
In a few fleeting seconds, Kwi bandaged the young man’s knife wound. “Keep it tight, but not too tight. It’ll make sure the wound remains closed. It’ll heal quick. You’ll see.”
The young man looked up at Kwi. “Can you teach me to throw a knife like you?”
Walking Stick snorted. “Who do you think taught him? Better to ask the teacher than the student.”
The woman stood nearby. “Now, come see about my husband.”
Kwi maneuvered his way up the rocks, finding a man who looked to be in his early thirties curled into a fetal position upon several quilts. He groaned and held his lower abdomen. “How long has he been like this?”
Dear Lord, what do I say…what do I do?
“If we keep going, perhaps we’ll find a bridge,” she said with a cool demeanor contrary to her emotions. Her insides felt like the stream—agitated and turbulent. “I doubt we’re the first ones to encounter this situation. There must be a way to cross.”
His stare fell to the ground as he seemed to weigh his options. “A little farther and then we’ll cross. No matter what.”
~*~
Kwi stood outside the cave with Walking Stick. After talking to Luke, they’d decided he should not travel alone. His father insisted on accompanying him. Kwi’s gratitude was heartfelt. Thank You, Lord.
“Her food rations, blankets, and saddlebag are gone.” Kwi had checked the small cave and found nothing.
“But her Bible is still here.” Walking Stick picked up the book from a nearby stone perch that looked over the valley. "She wouldn't leave her Bible."
“Maybe she’s at the stream.” Kwi tried to sound more hopeful than he felt.
“Or maybe…” Walking Stick pointed at a large footprint almost hidden by the autumn leaves and damp earth. “Someone took her.”
Blood rushed from Kwi’s face. He bent his knees, squatting near the footprint. “A large man, wearing boots. Either a rustler or—” He couldn’t bring himself to say the name.
“Rustlers never travel alone and natives don’t wear boots,” Walking Stick said before adding, “Our enemy has bested us.”
~*~
The bridge lay semi-covered with water—partially showing on both ends but the rest hidden by the tumultuous stream. It was uncrossable.
“We’ll cross here,” Egan said.
“What?” Susannah exclaimed. “How?”
“The bridge.”
She couldn’t believe her ears. “You can’t be serious. The entire middle section is covered in water. We’ll wash over the sides.”
“You’re the one who said we should find a bridge.” He pulled the gun from its sheath, pointing it at her. “Well, here we are. You go first.”
Fear returned full force, taking the breath from Susannah’s lungs. A sane person would not pull the trigger, but Egan…Had he already killed his own mother? She wasn’t sure. From the look in his eye, she didn’t doubt he’d kill her or shoot the horse. Nothing would surprise her.
“Cross the bridge, or I’ll bury you right here.”
She looked down at the rope connecting her horse to his. “Can you undo the rope? It’ll be even more dangerous trying to cross tied together.”
“No. I’ll cross behind you, but we’ll stay tied together.” A smugness came across his features. “You should know by now that I’m not stupid.”
Susannah led her horse to the bridge. The mare resisted at first until Egan slammed the butt of his gun into her rump and caused her to leap up onto the planks.
The first few boards were covered with water, but at least she could see them. After that, water surged up to her horse’s belly and hid any sign of the wooden crossing.
Susannah could see the opposite bank and kept her focus forward. “You’re doing good, girl,” she whispered to her horse. “Keep it up. You’re doing real good.”
Her horse lunged and in the next moment the bridge had disappeared—either it had washed away or the waters were so high her horse could no longer reach the wooden planks. Egan’s horse soon followed. She glanced back and noticed him holding the horse’s saddle horn with one hand and the gun over his head with the other.
The currents pushed and tugged, but her horse continued swimming toward the bank. The current shifted, turning them at an awkward angle that meant a harder swim for her mare. The horse fought back, resisting the downstream pull. Susannah held tight to the reins, her teeth clenched and continuous prayers filling her mind. Father God, don’t let me die like this…not with Egan.
Egan’s horse tried to turn and head back to the shore from where they’d come, pulling her already struggling horse farther sideways. The current swept them downstream with the horses frantically swimming in different directions and Egan cussing toward the heavens.
Egan bellowed as strong currents yanked him under. When the horse came back up, its eyes were wide in terror. Egan’s expression looked the same. He no longer held the gun, and the rope connecting the two horses had grown slack from the water.
Susannah slipped the knot off her horse’s saddle horn, separating her from Egan. With the rope gone, the mare righted and lunged forward, her panting loud in the morning air. A surge of strength pushed the animal toward land. Seconds later, her horse’s hooves found the muddy bottom and trudged through the sludge to solid ground.
Shivering from the cold and the rush of pure adrenalin, Susannah looked about for any sign of Egan. Had the stream swallowed him and his horse? Had they drifted downstream? Or maybe his horse had found its way back to the shore from where they started?
“Help!”
The sound came from nearby—the other side of the bend. She pushed past a tangle of vines and brush. Egan’s horse stood on the bank, a few feet away, sides heaving, staring into the waters.
Egan fought against a cross-current, his face pale and his black hair slick about his ears. “Help!” He went under. When he came back up, he cried out again. “Help me!”
Susannah drew the loose end of the rope from his horse, wound it up, and then threw the end out into the raging stream. Egan reached with frantic hands and grabbed the rope. She guided his horse backwards.
Egan let the horse pull him to the bank and then rolled onto all fours. He stood slowly—his knees and hands muddy. Staggering toward the bank, he collapsed on his back.
Susannah could only stare, still semi-shocked by all that had happened in just a few minutes. As the shock lessened, reality settled in. What have I done? Why didn’t I let him drown? But she knew the answer. She could never do such a thing. God was watching out for her soul. The memory of doing nothing while Egan cried out for help would’ve haunted her all the days of her life.
Egan lived, and it was all her fault.
16
“Do not look their way,” Walking Stick whispered.
“It’s too late. One of them is headed toward us.” Kwi stiffened, ready for anything.
The man rode downward from the cliffs. His partner was on foot and stayed behind, almost as if guarding the entrance. A rifle lay cradled in the man’s arms. The rider sat tall and lanky in the saddle, maybe in his early twenties, and not in a hurry. He tipped his hat as he rode up to them. “Hello, there.”
Kwi drew the reins on his horse. Walking Stick did the same. They both bobbed their head in greeting.
Rustlers liked to stake out their territories and caves. They’d ride for days to hit a ranch, alter the brands, take the horses into another city to sell them, and then return to their hideout with their winnings until the time came to do it all over again.
“What’ve you got in your saddlebags?” the young man asked.
Kwi didn’t have time for this. He had to catch up with Susannah. With frustration wound about his limbs, he answered in as calm a voice as he could muster. He hoped the man couldn’t detect the depth of his angst. “Pemmican. A wool blanket. Nothing worth stealing, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“No liquor?”
Walking Stick answered in his monotone voice. “We don’t drink.”
The man pulled his pistol and cocked it. “Leave ’em right there on the ground. Whatever’s in your bags belongs to me now. Your horses, too.”
Kwi held his hands up. “All right. The horses are yours.” He exchanged a knowing glance with his father.
Walking Stick slid off first. As Kwi shifted in his saddle to dismount, Walking Stick slapped the rear of his own horse, sending him romping off into the woods and startling the young rustler. Kwi used the distraction to grab the knife from his boot and slice it through the air, hitting the man’s wrist with a solid thud before the blade landed in the dirt.
The man screamed and dropped his gun. He grabbed his bloodied wrist and fell to the ground. The man from the cliff top pointed his rifle downward.
They’d be easy pickings for him if they didn’t do something fast.
Kwi knelt beside the wounded man, pulling him up to his knees by his hair and putting a blade to his neck. “Drop your gun…Now!”
“Do it!” the wounded man cried out as blood dripped from his wrist. “Before I bleed to death!”
The lookout dropped his gun and a woman appeared beside him. Though she stood higher up the hillside, Kwi could still make out her features—pretty face, dark hair, high cheekbones. Probably native mix.
She shook her head, a grin teasing the edges of her lips. “What’ve I told you boys about robbing people in the daylight?”
“Is she your boss?” Walking Stick asked the man Kwi still held in his grasp.
“My brother is the boss.” He groaned in agony. “She’s his wife.”
“We’re passing through, ma’am,” Kwi said. “We didn’t want any trouble. We still don’t.”
“Is that so?”
“I’m looking for a woman,” he yelled up. “Have you seen anyone else come through here in the last day or two? She may have been disguised in men’s clothes.”
“Maybe…” She maneuvered her way down the rocks with sure steps. She even lifted the edge of her gown as she stepped over a rough place or two, almost as if she were walking down a winding staircase to welcome guests to her mansion. “Tell me why you want to know, and I’ll see if I can help.”
Kwi loosened his hold on the wounded man but did not lower his knife. He didn’t trust the woman, but he also knew the young man would soon grow dizzy and perhaps die if he didn’t tend to his wound.
She stood near them, even prettier in person. Her hands rose to her hips. “We’re losing people right and left. Now you’ve gone and tore up my best gun.”
“Kwihnai can fix him,” Walking Stick said, bobbing his head toward Kwi.
“You can fix him?” Almond-shaped eyes cut toward Kwi as she tilted her chin. She stepped closer toward him without fear. “Tell me, Eagle…are you a medicine man or the spirit of death?”
“Neither.” Kwi stared without blinking. “You speak Comanche?”
“I am Comanche. My Comanche mother married a miner from Spain after my father died, but neither could hold their liquor, so here I am.” She looked about, splaying her hands outward in exaggeration. “The owner of this great forest.” She laughed, though no one else joined her. “Usually, a brave is named more than Eagle. Usually it is Brown Eagle, Fighting Eagle, or even Lone Eagle. Why just Eagle?”
“I am Ekakwihnai for I was born under the red sun.” He stared unflinching, and then said, “Unha hakai nahniaka?”
“You are testing me.” She grinned. “And…you may call me Ramona.”
Kwi sensed a shrewdness about the young woman. He had no intention of letting down his guard. He also thought she might listen to reason. There was a pragmatic aspect to her demeanor as if she’d learned a long time ago to keep her emotions under control.
“Why are you dressed in such a way?” Her gaze raked over him in disapproval. “Trying to fit into the white man’s world?”
He could’ve asked her the same question, but knew better. There could be a dozen or more men in the cave, and he didn’t want to get himself killed—at least not without helping Susannah first. “I’m not trying to do anything except find a woman. She’s about your size with dark hair and brown eyes. If she’s with who I think she’s with, the man is tall, pale, and with black hair. She’s in danger. We know by tracks that they were traveling by horseback, and they came this way.”
She listened without expression. “How did you get your scar?”
When Kwi didn’t answer, Walking Stick spoke up. “His brother gave it to him just before throwing Kwi over a cliff.”
She stepped closer—so close Kwi could smell the coffee upon her breath and the sweetness of honey. “I have a scar, too. Similar to yours. Mine is on my shoulder. “She looked closely at his mark, appearing intrigued. “Mine came from my stepfather. Maybe we are not so different.”
“Maybe not.” Kwi saw no point in arguing about unimportant things. He needed to find Susannah.
She stepped back. “Help my brother-in-law and my husband. Then, we’ll talk about the woman.”
“What is wrong with your husband?”
“He says he’s dying. If you can ease his pain, we’ll be indebted.”
~*~
Susannah warmed herself by the fire—drying her clothes and hair while pushing away the chill biting into her bones.
Egan created a makeshift trap out of twigs and caught a rabbit.
Susannah was so thankful for food, she ate all of her share without a complaint.
By the time they finished, darkness had descended. They’d not spoken two words since she’d saved his life, though Susannah had questioned her own sanity a hundred times over.
“We will sleep here,” Egan said, his voice low with exhaustion. He pulled several limbs over to make a covering for her. He did the same for himself. He fell asleep before she did, snoring loudly into the night. She prayed there were no natives or rustlers nearby. They’d be sure to hear him.
Morning came too early along with a command from Egan. “Get up.”
She rolled over. He had a fire going and heated what looked like a small rat on a stick. Her stomach rolled.
“Breakfast will be ready soon.”
“I’m not hungry.”
He shrugged. “More for me…”
Susannah ventured into the bushes to relieve herself and then found a nearby stream to wash her face. A fish flopped about, not quite able to make it to the next puddle of water. She grabbed it with both hands, winced and then dropped her hold when the scales bit into her flesh. She should’ve known better. Grabbing it by the lip, she returned to the campsite as Egan finished his rat.
He watched with interest as she found a sharp rock, scraped off most of the scales, used the edge of the rock to slice open the belly to gut it, and then tossed the fish onto the heated rocks. She turned it once, blowing on her slightly burnt fingers afterwards. Working without tools made it harder to cook. After several sizzling minutes, she ate the steamed meat, picking out the bones. She offered him a bite.
“Only a witch could make a fish appear in her hands,” he muttered.
She kept her voice monotone. “There was a stream and the fish flopped out.”
“My mother fancied herself a witch.”
She glanced in his direction. A strangeness had come to his features but a calmness to his tone made her feel safe in asking questions. “How do you know?”
“She told me she came from a family of witches. She would cut herself and mix her blood into her food. Said it would keep her immortal.”
Susannah turned her face away. His words made her feel nauseous, and she feared what might happen if he saw her emotions.
“She died on her birthday.”
“How’d she die, Egan?”
“I didn’t kill her,” he blurted out, entirely too loud. “If that’s what you’re thinkin’.”
Susannah remembered the woman. She’d not looked well then, though Susannah had suspected her mental state made her appearance worse. “Was it her heart?”
He stood, kicked dirt onto the fire to smother any embers, and moved to his horse. “More like her mind. It stopped working. She couldn’t move the entire left side of her body. She couldn’t speak, though she tried at first. She couldn’t lift her arm. She couldn’t even wiggle her fingers. I tried to help her. I’d put food and water in her mouth, but it’d roll back out. She couldn’t even swallow. I didn’t know what else to do. And one day, she died.”
“It sounds as if she had a stroke.” Susannah walked over to her mare.
“All I know is she didn’t live forever. Maybe if I’d whipped the devil out of her…”
Susannah’s breath locked in her chest. Did he intend to do that to her? Treat her as he’d treated the old mare? Treat her as he wished he’d treated his mother?
“Instead, I let him stay inside her.” Egan’s gaze shifted downward, staring at the moist ground. “And look what he did. He killed my momma.”
“We all have to die, Egan.” She tried to keep her tone soothing, as if talking to a child. She prayed he didn’t notice the trembling of her fingers. “Maybe it was your momma’s time.”
Darkness settled over his face once more. “You’re trying to make me talk, aren’t you? You’re trying to keep me here. You think they’re coming for you—to take you away from me. You think if you can make me stay a long time, then—”
He was wrong. So very wrong. No one even knew she was missing. But now, the odds had shifted. Egan no longer had a gun.
At the right time, and she prayed there would be another opportunity soon, she’d escape. This time, she wouldn’t turn back. This time, she’d run as far away as her horse would carry her. She pulled herself up into the saddle.
Egan draped the rope about the saddle horn, connecting the two of them with a knot. He got onto his horse.
“Is that really necessary?” she asked. “Did you forget I pulled you from the water?”
He glared and then cinched the rope tighter. “Be silent, witch. You’re the one who put me in the water in the first place.”
17
In a few fleeting seconds, Kwi bandaged the young man’s knife wound. “Keep it tight, but not too tight. It’ll make sure the wound remains closed. It’ll heal quick. You’ll see.”
The young man looked up at Kwi. “Can you teach me to throw a knife like you?”
Walking Stick snorted. “Who do you think taught him? Better to ask the teacher than the student.”
The woman stood nearby. “Now, come see about my husband.”
Kwi maneuvered his way up the rocks, finding a man who looked to be in his early thirties curled into a fetal position upon several quilts. He groaned and held his lower abdomen. “How long has he been like this?”
